Sara Bowen

Twenty-three years ago my flatmate took his own life in the garage where he parked his car and I parked my motorbike. My anger has gone, but it burned away most of the good memories of our friendship and left me with fragments. Blue sky, hot sun, dead weeds in the gravel, choking petrol fumes, fumbling for a pulse, running out into the street and flagging down a police car. I feel as if part of myself stayed in that place, unwilling to let him go. I can’t remember his face or hear his voice. I have just one happy memory, of us on a late summer evening, drinking beer and talking.

Somerset paper with trace monotype drawings, pastel, hand-typesetting, graphite, stamping, relief printing, cut paper