It's been years since I saw you last. What happened? You just upped & went! You were ubiquitous 3 to 4 years ago: exhibitions, awards, funding, curators' tongues, envy. And then… I miss you. Well not “you” exactly, your work, which is you, not you & everybody else I guess. When I noticed you gone I began to piece together the absences into a cavity that bit down on the memory. Sorry, it took 3 to 4 years to bite down. Who knows if I'll miss you in another 3 to 4 years. I hope so. See, your work existed in relation to the work of the moment. It's like this: without them there was no you; without you a part of them is now missing. I really don't think artists realise how important one tree is to the forest until that one tree falls from view. Some of your peers have disappeared too. You hear later they took up teaching jobs or hooked up International. New forests I suppose. I can't find you on Instagram either, which compounds things, questions, desire. I Googled you the other day — nothing. Last year, surprised by absence, I Googled an artist I was silly about for 3 to 4 years, one of the lucky few to get gallery representation by one of the most desired galleries (you know the one!) & found a biography with no mention of the life before. Nothing. Seems nihilistic don't you think? Or do you understand the absolute erasure? Most artist's make a point to list their institutional parts in savant detail — the empty Instagram bio is just posturing. Artists talk about career suicide in the choices they make but career suicide is the absolute rubbing out of everything, the good & the bad, to start again, forget. I think we ought to miss artists and not tolerate their visibility. We should wish for another exhibition while believing it's the end. Desire is something that's missed & whispered. Visibility threatens seeing. If I reminded you when in the process of forgetting — sorry.

I hope your new forest is evergreen, knowing that art is always deciduous.

Best.

—James Merrigan