Finding my voice.
For me, books have a presence—they feel alive. Over time, they may gather dust or become forgotten props, yet their value remains undeniable, both for us as individuals and for future generations. Book lovers might agree that books have a voice. I don’t just mean the author’s voice or Roland Barthes’ idea of autonomous writing, where the text exists independently of its creator.
I mean something simpler: books are objects waiting to be held, to be opened by a willing reader. They want to be read, to share their words and ideas. Some speak with authority, others with poetry or creativity—some even lecture or demand attention.
But how was I supposed to accommodate all these voices pressing in on me? I felt overwhelmed by the sheer weight of their stories, their language, their presence. In the process, I lost sight of my own voice—the one that speaks visually, through images. No wonder I felt lost.
So, for the next few weeks, I spent my evenings making two small hand-drawn and bound artist books: Little Book Without Words and Forgotten Realms.
These books were a breakthrough. They reminded me that my voice—my non-linear, fragile, yet bold visual language—was just as valid as the voices of the books around me. Later, for the exhibition, I placed my artist books on a shelf among the Women of Cornwall collection in the Elisabeth Treffry Room.
Then, one day in the Poetry Room, I picked up a familiar book—The Collected Poems by Kathleen Raine. (My own copy at home is bright yellow.) Her words were a welcome reminder that personal empowerment and strength lie in our own hands.
I love writing, but my voice speaks through images. It had simply been lost in translation.