‘Wendy Lewis could be the Madame Tussaud of the inconsequential. Taking something perfectly ephemeral – a scrap of paper, a chip of wood, a small ornament – she makes a balsawood and paint facsimile of it; perfectly, so you can’t tell unless you look really closely, and then why would you want to, unless you knew already? This curious circuit of not knowing, already knowing and not needing to know creates an odd disturbance in your sense of what makes things worth doing. They’re not even obsessive or ultra-detailed to the point where you’d think the artist was intensely committed to all things tiny in a crazy way. They’re just so well made they disappear even though you can still see them.’

[LESS]
‘Wendy Lewis could be the Madame Tussaud of the inconsequential. Taking something perfectly ephemeral – a scrap of paper, a chip of wood, a small ornament – she makes a balsawood and paint facsimile of it; perfectly, so you can’t tell unless you look really closely, and then why would you want to, unless you knew already? This curious circuit of not knowing, already knowing and not needing to know creates an odd disturbance in your sense of what makes things worth doing. They’re not even obsessive or ultra-detailed to the point where you’d think the artist was intensely committed to all things tiny in a crazy way. They’re just so well made they disappear even though you can still see them.’