Between tumult and placidity there is always a point of reflection, always a time for knowing. In knowing there is a realisation. It’s in questioning and feeling a way towards a truth. Personal or Universal a truth that is sought and strived for, in the most natural of Artistic intent.

The creation is only as relevant as the journey taken, the journey becoming the acceptance and experience of the situational context that we find ourselves within.

Somewhere in the haze of the small hours and the daily realisation, there is an intent, a passion towards the most basic instinct of capturing. Of taking those frozen moments and discovering something within the self, taken directly from personal awareness of where you are now. Where what came before acts as ghosts of what is important in the cold light of the day.

There is something natural, though nothing implicitly easy in the mode of capturing our environment. In Jack’s work the beginning isn’t necessarily the location, but the narrative of that location. This narrative, not pointedly historical, begins and ends in the sensation of place. Weather has been used for the depiction of emotion through time from the season exaltations of Keats’ Fancy to the rain beaten epilogue of Withnail and I, but here the storytellers resolve is to make the divide between depiction and affect as an ambiguity. We are invited into his landscape, not thelandscape.

“In pitch dark, I go walking in your landscape,”

-Thom Yorke, There There

This body of work, fluctuating in scale and palette, ranges from the pictorial to the abstract, each piece lending itself to

the cinematic in the sense of arresting moments. Figures that are engulfed by an inexorable brume, crushed and only in false ennoblement, and lights that fray and drown like stars. The diversity of content displayed here in no way contains any ire or longing, but instead a voracity toward experience and bravura of limn. The tarrying

moon burns through a deliquescent scene to which we are banished to an enclave, a corner, an anchoring bulwark warding this

vista. Moments of halcyon sunlight are earnestly offered up before the precipitous and colossal face assembled of grids, grids that convoke the weeping rain.

In as comparatively short a timescale this work has been created from inception to present, is arguably the same time as my friendship with Jack. It’s my feeling that during that time, a matter of months, that he has displayed and tested his own aptitude. Proving his own potency of affect, and making determined gestures towards his future progression. It is a rare pleasure and delight to be able to procure such insight into such an adept practise as this.

Rhys Morgan