As I look at the artist’s brain, slowly pulsating, they begin to describe it to me. “Wrinkly foreskin” they say at one point. “A Picasso”. Minutes pass, and the MRI of the brain recedes into a smaller and smaller image.

At the point of implosion, where it becomes less an object and more a vaporous cloud, the artist’s whispery voiceover characterises the moment of sublimation as “a rock into the wind / big bang.” This description is imaginatively precise but removed from its context it becomes less a description than a kind of parable…