There is a grandiosity in our endeavours. To maintain our illusions, we need sewers underground, to carry away the stinking products of our bodies. Sewers allow us to pretend we are not animals. Beneath our feet, our homes, our cars and carpets, our phones, socks, wine glasses and exercise machines, beneath the walls bearing our art, are cavernous, interlinked palaces of shit.

There is no man in this painting, just a manhole. Leftover evidence of an overreach, it is drowned in water and drained of purpose. Reflected in its depths, the moon persists. Rats go about their business, as they always have, amongst further human remnants, a crushed milk bottle, a shoe. A rooster stares quizzically out, as if to say, did you really believe your concerns mattered that much?

Beauty is everywhere, lying about in abundance. What gifts we continue to squander.

-Deborah Poynton