Meg Erridge

I watch as the walls fold outwards – surfaces smoothed, imperfections flattened. It’s strange but this room feels smaller than it used to. Walking the boundaries of what, just days before, was my studio, I step instinctively around the piles of stuff that I’ve accumulated, stuff that’s always in the way – that might one-day be useful – that’s now in the skip outside. I think of all the work that began in this place, that’s just now taking its first tottering steps into the world outside, and the bits that dried up and dropped off before they ever really began. I find the scuff made by my chair – three years of rocking, scraping, fidgeting – day in day out. Now it’s barely visible beneath its first coat of white paint. A face I don’t recognise is watching me through walls that are no longer there. I think it’s time to move. 

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