meg erridge
you wake up this morning
...
You wake up this morning and you’re not the same as you were before. I don’t mean you’re different to how you were yesterday, I just mean something has changed. You can’t remember when you were last not like this.
9am – you make coffee. It’s sweeter than usual, although I can’t see why. You think about waking the woman you went to bed with but you shower instead. There’s danger in this new life that no one else seems to understand. Except me.
As you wash the soap from your hair your eyes sting – this change isn’t progress but a return. You wonder what it is you’re returning to as you watch the water swirl down the plughole – scum caught in hair.
You feel no different as you go about your day – a subtle ache perhaps. More physical than longing. And now it’s time to go to sleep. The night comes slowly but it will be over before you know it. I tell you there is nothing to be done except what you did yesterday but I see the disbelief in your smile.
...
I roll around a bit and pick things up. It’s hard to believe the world is round when things feel so flat – I imagine a landscape, uninterrupted, and wonder if I roll for long enough whether I’ll fall off the edge. I can’t see what I’m doing or where I’m going, but the longer I roll the more I collect and things might start to make sense.
Meg Erridge likes to make things. Sometimes these ‘things’ become devices for performances, events, or films, and sometimes they exist as they are. Her work often involves elaborate costumes which restrict or alter the body, and she is interested in the interplay between viewer/participant and artist. She likes to play with expectations, suspense, and disappointment, promising rewards which never quite arrive. Meg likes to think of herself as a modern-day court-jester.