Ten to four in the morning.

That was the title of my daughter's graduation final exhibition a number of years ago, of which this statue, a self-portrait, was the centrepiece. It is made from resin held together with leather thongs lacing the individually moulded parts together. The process was somewhat hazardous! 

The completed statue was originally suspended from the ceiling by a chain around one ankle. The jointed hands, skeletal, veiny and angular, cast in bronze, are now missing. The left hand was severed (the arm clutched to the chest), and was a few feet away pulling an exquisite metal carriage (she learned to weld three weeks before the deadline) across the floor, steered by strange little pixie-like clay figures. The index and first fingers of the right hand were on the white floor, below the outstretched mutilated right hand, lying in a pool of red drawing ink, alongside a overturned (borrowed) antique glass inkwell and a feather quill pen. In other parts of the room were three strange and rather nightmarish sculpted creatures, a cat, dog and rabbit, made from various media including plaster cast bandage, leather, animal skeletons and shark's teeth, and a peculiar little dirigible made from metal wire and latex hanging in the air.

I was her 'helper', and we'd finished all the pieces ready to exhibit at ten to four in the morning after a week of long days, hence the title. She'd asked me, "what do I call it?" and that was the first thing that came into my head. Her artist's statement was a disturbing piece of free-writing about the glass eyes of taxidermy animals coming alive and shedding tears at night.

The set up was completed the following day, moments after the janitor had tried to eject us on the deadline (Bea calmly said to him, "one more knot to go, please" whilst trying to undo a tangled knot in the fishing line for the dirigible, with her hands trembling). As we were leaving, I said, "I don't suppose your personal tutor will take this as a metaphor for your experience at college do you?" Her response, slightly aghast at the revelation, was probably unprintable, as it had been a destructive and unsupportive relationship. Her tutor's verdict: too theatrical. I think it was brilliant, but then, what do I know about art?

Fortunately, my daughter sought out the head of the department for a tutorial (he was a little surprised), and he was far more upbeat and encouraging.

I am not sure how the mannequin ended up a tree in my garden, where it is gradually coming undone as the leather decays, turning green with algae, and forever reaching out towards successive sunsets.