ABSTRACT
Chris comes into the small white room. The security guard accompanying him catches my eye, gives me a short nod and leaves us. Chris makes the briefest of eye contact, and then carefully sets down a rolled-up poster. I quietly ask after him as I unpack his paints and lay out a few basic tools including a plastic cup of water. Chris is, as ever, very quiet, gentle and slow in his responses. An ethereal looking man of about 25, he gives the impression of being younger – and of having left, or leaving, or never having quite arrived.
