At first it seemed rather an artificial thing- to make a notebook- given that the artist’s notebook is often a private conversation with the self- working out ideas, making a record of the mutation of the initial thought- a by-product or, perhaps, evidence of the artwork in development.

But somehow it might break out beyond the limits of this description, to become a thing of art in itself.

The moths in my notebook are creatures that come skimming out of darkness and into bright light- often injuring themselves-in the process . They act only out of instinct. It is a kind of terrifying innocence.

They might carry associations with dark spaces, unlit corners -the uncontrollable, ungovernable processes of life. All life. Even our own.

In my private mythology, the moth, like all of those tiny wriggling, buzzing, crawling creatures, is part of a grand, undercover machine. I attribute a kind of mystery to it- it is the hidden movement of the clock, whirring, clicking, unfaltering. Its globe eyes, glossy, swivelling, see the world from another angle, from below, or above- and always on a gigantic scale. It does not take us into account. It functions, persists, in a world where sounds are not sounds but vibrations- even shock waves. The moth mutates, from waving grub to winged creature, all robed in patterns that allow it to meld into the background, becoming part of the surface of trees, mosses, leaves. It is a master of disguise in stillness.

I use fabric, tissue, paper, ink, sticky filaments of glue, in an attempt to capture its delicacy, its susceptibility to damage.

It is fragile, mortal, and yet seems eternal- part of the secret, wordless life of things.

Regards,

Siobhan Collins