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Steven tells me about his grandfather’s house, built by hand in the rainforest. He tells me about twilight rambles in locked-down suburban streets, reading Walden and thinking about solitude and self-sufficiency. With timber pallets and tarpaulins, he builds his own studio in the backyard. Domestic detritus accumulates, dragged back from verge-side scavenging. He envelops it in plaster and cement, smoothing and sponge-finishing, until hard rubbish gains soft edges. The product of his father’s father’s craft, these odd unmonuments embed history. As alien amalgams, they possess an uncanny familiarity; domestic clutter returning like a repressed memory. 

Andrew Purvis, Real Memories, 2022.

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