The Abattoir

This project starts with a memory from childhood. We used to set off every year, in the grey mist of a December weekend, along the dirt track, to that strange place, that abattoir. Trees lie in the dust trussed up like lifeless carcasses, in awkward piles. There is no brightness and no optimism here, yet I find a curious appeal in this quiet place, this strange theatre, where we come each year to act out our rituals.

Even childhood excitement seems hushed in this place, as we traipse the lines in search of the perfect specimen, whilst weary men in fluorescent jackets look on with boredom.

Some lie fallen, like great beasts, in a dirty concrete sea.