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This week, I’ve spent quite a lot of my time doing a jigsaw.
It’s a calling I get once a year - the urge to spend hours and hours riffling my fingers through the rattling pieces, circling and circling as the image slowly grows. It’s an exercise in negative space, a dialogue with absence. Patches of colour form, bloom, spread across the table until they join.
I am very specific about the kind of jigsaws I’ll tackle. I have to actually like the picture, and it must be detailed. I hate puzzles with huge areas of the same colour, meaning I spend hours and hours on the same, monotonous patch. I love ones with funny little things to find in them. The current one, for example, is a cartoon representation of New York city (with the Statue of Liberty very much in the wrong place, i.e. inland), but when you look closely, everything has a face. Well, not everything, but many things, like water towers and clouds. There are also sentient fruits and ice creams wandering around. It keeps offering me tiny delights that reward my attention.
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