There are often undulations in the surface of my artwork due to differences in expansion and contraction in papers and glue. I try to keep this to a minimum by flattening it out in various ways. Whilst the part I’m working on is wet nothing can touch it so I have to pile things up around it in the vain hope of smoothing out any differences and keeping the art looking pretty.
It’s no coincidence that my bookcase is full of appropriate books for my artwork creation. It seemed apt though that my copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein ended up on the top of the pile this morning. All my artworks seem to end up as visually poetic statements on destruction and reconstruction with a delicious slice of the uncanny thrown in for good measure. The content of my bookcase reflects my art just as my art reflects my bookcase. Beneath Frankenstein today lie books on Krasner, the theory of evolution and some stuff on quantum theory. Adjacent lies Hockney and volumes by Nabokov, Conrad, Hoffmann, and Poe.
I have more literature* and science here than I do art books. This is part of my deliberate exploration into a wider artistic universe.
*Mostly 19th century. I have no explanation for this.