The eye of the star: its searching rays captured in glass rods and lenses, a permitting surface. Our place, this wall, doesn't shine like it used to. The camera's object lies indistinct, mounted and lit in blue in my museum of bright editions. This is a durational performance with the light — the distance from the star to the camera to your eye is the artwork. Emissions glow their disadvantage and fog what might still exist between light and dark, growing and shrinking, rising and setting. What is left is nearly nothing. I cut out a perfect circle from the star and lay it out across the landscape. You cast a different shadow now, like a chemical bruise or a retinal stain, an optical shock in a new postion. We practise a different embrace and the archival lines fizz — but physics makes longing and starlight makes motion. Could we use this image to play back the beginning of the universe? An emulsion of stars coated onto celestial film. The public are invited to participate by joining me in looking up at dawn. Everything the light touches is a part of the performance. The star in your eye is the artwork. I am a blinding soul, haloing outwards, like a wet dog jumping into a pool of liquid glass. I surface in a dazzling mantle of dripping afterimages. The light peels up at the edges of the circle and pierces my hand in prismatic release. Could we use this image to capture the prehistory of our burnt childhood? Could we use this image to measure the mortal approach of the star? Could we use this image to speed along the ending? You are a dark silhouette in the brilliant atmosphere of morning. Soon, I’ll capture you reaching up to touch the blue light of something distant — the form of the familiar, its permitting surface.