The stretched canvases are up in the long room at the Refuge. Big orange diamond fields high on the grey plaster, a line of small squares running beneath them, chandeliers overhead and the first diners underneath.
The last seams went through the 1953 Singer two nights ago, an electric machine I picked up for £20 in a charity shop in Halifax, and it goes through everything. Today the work is hanging in a listed dining room. Fabric moves fast when it has a deadline.
Doors open today. Everything printed, sewn, pasted and hung made it in time, more or less gracefully.
Part of The Palace Is a Refuge.