“We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.” - Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking, 2005

Two years on from the unexpected death of a dear friend I look back at the year of grief following her passing. A year of turning in on one's self, of altered realities, of escapism and bed-rotting.

Entering the gallery there is a nest perched high on a branch, observed by CCTV cameras. The TV displays the footage of what's inside. There's an intimacy in the act of peering into the private and precarious home of a bird. It is a voyeuristic infringement on the private life of an animal. It's a world within our own. A home made to the dimensions of one's own body, a secret and a refuge.

Over the course of 30 minutes a slow transition from day to night takes place, spread across several dates in a year. The film's timestamps mark the important anniversaries our relationship, including the day we met and the date of her passing. Dates I relived constantly in the ensuing year. After her death my perception of reality changed, almost blindingly. In processing the loss I disconnected from the world. Inhabiting my inner self in stillness, grief and memory. The making of the nest is an act of self-soothing, finding comfort through cocooning and hiding away.

Despite this feeling of stagnation, there is a slow, ongoing transformation taking place. The nest is only a temporary sanctuary, made to serve its nurturing purpose until it is no longer be needed.