I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve captured and hidden behind the piano, well not exactly hidden more stored than hidden. Occasionally they come out for air, faces from the past, most nameless, all strangers. Each expression is a story never to be told. I wonder what people will make when they’re finally released from their hideaway, dust covered, faces drained of pigment . They are the body of work which is me, myself and I, a solitary journey made from choice yet always doomed to end in the dark behind the piano. Is that the police knocking at the door?