Four years ago, I walked up to a large staircase outside of a huge building which was soon to become a vessel through which I grew and learned and changed and in many ways understood.
Four years ago, I was a young, naïve boy about to start something new.
A young, naïve boy on the cusp of something.
A young, naive boy who would soon no longer be a young, naïve boy.

Four years on and soon I’ll stand on those steps again, outside of that huge building, on the cusp of something new once more. And so for now, until that day, I’m in a space of in between. In between finishing that thing and starting something new. Between this point and the next. Between what has been and what is to come. Between being a student and being a graduate. And it’s only now looking back that I realise my practice has been rooted in the in betweens all along.

In the distance between Fife and Glasgow, between my hometown and my new home, between me and those I love and cherish the most.
In the liminal space between being blood related and truly being family.
In the differences and similarities between who I was then and who I am now, between my childhood self and the reflective me looking back.
In the gaps between what the audience know and what I choose to keep from them.
In the coming together of people. Of family and me, of young people and me, of prisoners and me, and the role that I take in attempting to smash down the walls, whether physical or social, that try to keep things as us and them, try to keep us from even attempting to inhabit that space in between.

And this middle ground, this in between, feels like the best place to be. It feels exciting and it feels full of potential, for in between we are neither here nor there, we are not us and them, we are not separated from each other. In between offers a space where we are bound, and only in the gaps that separate us can we truly come together.