JH
An image of Kissingtree, the house in which Jacquetta Hawkes spent the final years of her life. In it boarders of trees and plants obscure the home – this outermost film of private life, somehow stilled and peacefully interior. I imagine the archeologist, her knees rested on a flat, old-fashioned, cushion formed like two plastic circles squeezed tight together, carefully positioning seeds to grow in the damp earth. I imagine a bird overhead, time momentarily caught up in a childish delight – how quickly it all seems to change, and how slow it all is. I think of her own film of Barbara Hepworth’s sculptures, pictures cut from their surroundings and placed in a montage of drama and hills – the archeologist brings deep time to surface structures, with Priaulx Rainier’s strange compositions sweeping through.