A creeping mass of a black lava-like substance swamps a derelict house. The same material clusters high in a medieval cathedral screen like an unkempt insect nest. It is found huddling on chairs and ironing boards. It fills gallery walls and crawls up walls.

This tissue paper has been repeatedly crushed and flattened to near destruction, then seemingly cast aside. This overworking has left it friable and almost formless, yet the massed individual sheets have a collective form; lumpy and awkward.

This has clearly taken hundreds of hours of labour to create, begging the question: why? What are these sheets of screwed-up paper a remnant of? There is some anxious and unrelenting state being played out in this incessant action and a sense of worthlessness in the careless abandonment of these overwrought objects.