A woman (I know to be Barbara Campbell) is lying on a blue carpet extending the length of the studio next to which I work. She is wearing a short, macramé dress, through which her skin and the contours of her body are visible. Her legs sometimes cross, forwards and back. From the shoulders up she is obscured by a large wicker construction, as tall as her body is long on the floor. This construction is sinuous, shapely: a bottle, or an archetypal female form, swelling and nipped in at the waist, hooped with lateral bands. At standing eye-level, the vertical lengths of wicker sprout freely—the basket, whatever it is, appears unfinished. The woman—I know to be Barbara—is lying with her head inside it.
(From the essay by Ian Maxwell in Flesh Winnow)
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