First of all, this is not one of my works, it's Bernard Meadows. I believe. In a way it could be my work. I spend my days looking for mirrors, stories that could be my stories, I collect, to save memories, mine and others', in pleasant confusion, happy to lose my boundaries between me and my story. I don't remember the titles of the books I read. I don't remember where that pebble or that trinket comes from. But I do remember that everything I collect is there because it's important to me, it informs who I am. I'd like to think that others might be collecting me as part of blurring their own boundaries. Sometimes I feel that it's so hard to be collected, one pebble on a shingle beach. That makes me sad and makes me question my collection and my value. And then I start losing things, moments, creations. Because the round peg doesn't fit in the square hole I feel like giving up to avoid bashing it in. But perhaps the solution is to leave the peg sitting on the box with the holes and let others try to make it fit or not, while I keep on collecting.