The rain is a message passed from country to city, stopping only when it has been properly delivered, accepted on the other end like an old friend. When it ends, he feels it: the spark in the pit of his stomach, which flickers like light through to his fingers. The pen quivers, spectral figures, formless, scratchy and illustrated spill out onto the air and move through it with a two dimensional certainty. As if the air were paper, it accepts them, pulls them close, lets them travel. He does not know why the air should be his canvas, nor why his creations should move, undisturbed by wind or breath or weather, but he knows that it has to happen, now, on this street and outwards.
One cold London afternoon, I made a trade. A face for a book for a face in a single image; this one. The image came first, the word later as it sometimes does. It took all of about half an hour to shoot both author images for the (extremely talented) face in question and the face in question for Definition. Another that was only vaguely planned in my head, and fully planned later, and defiant until finally it was finished.