When I began exploring anatomical collections, I was interested in emulating them – making work that was as beautiful, as informative, and as disturbing. I came to realise that nothing I could make had as much affective power as the subjects and specimens already extant. This isn’t to say that this process was without interesting outcomes: I did get to put my own head in a jar, after all. My sketchbooks are my museums – collections of bodies and parts, whose taxonomies are dictated by chance, by glance, by aesthetics or idle curiosity. Working in situ carries with it a range of impressions: the presence of other visitors, their conversations, the smell of the room, the feel of the materials I use or the chair that I’m sitting upon – all this information is embedded in the work made in that space, and recalled when revisiting that work. That secondary sensory information is often is what inspires other lines of thought or research. The time spent in front of an object while drawing creates a heterotopical space in which to consider both the object and its context, alongside one’s sense of self. The exploratory sketches themselves that began to develop into something else: not just a record of a bone or an organ, but a process that blurred the line between it and I. In the anatomy museum I found a place for my body, so troublingly other, and its constituent parts. A Locard principal of immaterial things, shimmering between the brittle glass of the cabinet or pot: something intagible is taken away – and something, perhaps, left behind.