There is a strange sense of ritual to the life and practice of Princess Pea - one that revolves around the
routine and the other in her fantastical realm. Her practice is not created in the balance of both, but in
their collisions - where parts are played and roles are reprised. Sitting across her as the room filled
with white smoke, I saw her char image after image of her lived worlds - performative photography,
a medium that characterizes the artist’s long engagement with sculpture, painting, performance, text
and poetry.

Why do you create if you are to destroy?
"Perhaps, to create all over again"
Salvaged fragments of these images will go back into an attempt to reconstruct and resurrect, insert
life into the lesions of fragile, fired memories.
The Urn, a container of mortal remains or should we say a metonymy for the soul is to
re-contextualise Keats' asking of “What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and
timbrels? What wild ecstasy?” The ashes remain in her custody, as she continues to burn and then
douse frantically - her otherwise still face demonstrating shades of calm moving into anxiety, and then
with a heavy breath there's the silence of still waters again.

The room is silent again with nothing but little breaths to keep tempo.
Space where our thoughts remain with ourselves - with no malice of ambition, achievement, pain and
regret to a point at which thought leads nowhere, like a meditation on eternity; to Keats lament of
after our generation is gone, we will still be here, a friend to man, telling him that beauty is truth and
truth is beauty.

As Princess Pea clears her eyes pinched by smoke a wall of water glazes her sight.
The room is silent again with nothing but little breaths to keep tempo.