My interest with butterflies is in their paper copies; an image of something that I never experienced. It’s an interest in a life I never knew of an original being that may never have existed.
My interest with butterflies is in their pinned out little corpses; hunted and collected by Victorian ancestors. It’s a morbid fascination in the delicate nature of a fragile non-existence rather than respecting the solidity of the living.
And what am I doing? I’m searching out answers from an artist who died nearly 30 years ago. I’m chasing answers from her ghost when I should be chasing my own.