There are catacombs in Birmingham. The doors are sealed with lead and the stone facings bearing the inscriptions have mostly crumbled away. Two tiers are arranged as a three quarters circle enclosing a flat arena. On one side, steel pilings push against the stone, holding back time. The show is roots and growth: the audience and the actors are silent.
This was a sketch of a few minutes, a quick run with a pen, a few strokes of chalk.
“A heap of broken images where the sun beats”