'Brompton road'




 I stop or can’t put words together, then come back to a text after a few hours sleep. 

 There are cracks in the small room at the end of the middle floor corridor and I’ve just been to the dentist and wake up thinking about faultlines or times when things change. The mirror text has some structure and I woke to other structures and retroactive moments.

 Worried faces peer in through the window. I'm just six and lying in a hospital isolation room. They can see me and I can see them, but I can't hear what they are saying. Having to talk and being able to talk comes later. My father died much later and I felt alone in my grief. Psychoanalysis helps and doesn’t help. I talk, but something persists. There's a first metaphor eventually, but I can't be heard despite having a voice.



 A lot has changed and a lot remains the same. I have websites, an analyst and first signs of a new body of work begin with Ruth and dreams now seem symptomatic. I still have something to say and the text comes with plaster cracking at the end of the corridor... and it's a metaphor for talking house(s).

 This work or the work I sometimes describe is partly negotiation and negotiations don't help. A second proposal begins with a reading and a reading follows translation. I have had a lot of practice and new work is slightly overdone. It's translation with a Dutch painting, then a reading with dreams and a baby sitting on a table in a Brompton Road tea room. 




Christopher Sands, still used in video, 2013



Christopher Sands, still, 2014



Christopher Sands, still, 2018



Christopher Sands, Ruth, still, 2014



Christopher Sands, still, 2018



Christopher Sands, still, 2018




Christopher Sands, still, 2012



Christopher Sands, still, 2013



Christopher Sands, Ruth, still, 2011



Christopher Sands, still, 2012



 

Christopher Sands, still, 2017



























































































© Christopher Sands 2017