It started as an itch. A pull toward something with no view, no place, no reference point. Confusion. Passion. Excitement. Anger. Conflict. A kind of turmoil that needed somewhere to go. So she let it.
There was no plan for where each piece would end up. No sketch of a destination. Two feelings kept surfacing as the work took shape - the lightness of a feather, and the heaviness of a storm.
This isn't the Lucy Pittaway you're used to. It's the one underneath.
