Three words used by my friend Rob to describe the work of sculptor Stephen Dilworth. I first saw Dilworth's work in a gallery in the comfy, leafy fox-hunting county of Rutland, far from where Dilworth lives and works. Which is right at the narrow north-westerly edge of Britain, on the Isle of Harris, a world of rock, machair, weather and sea. In Rutland his sculptures played hell with distance, felt like relics from impossibly remote and distant places. Like narwhal tusks, or tiny, threadbare scraps of silk torn from one of Scott's expedition tents and framed behind glass.
Dilworth's sculptures are magical. I'm not being flippant. He seals phials of mountain air inside stone. He encloses the found corpses of birds in hand-built caskets of wood, metal or rock. Each is unsettling as hell and yet at the same time as right as rain, as natural and uncomplicated as a pebble is.
I can't imagine what it would do to a house to own a Dilworth Sculpture, but I'd like to find out.
You can see more of his work here