Photographs stuck to the plasterboard wall via a gallery of forage. Drawing pins and drywall nails and screws hammered down through the threads and glue from rendered fat.
The photographs were of snowboarding trips, lines of youth warded against the cold and smiling and gesturing before a lens. Others of spectacled men standing aside a neighbourhood of bee hives and gloved fingers nudging the hairy drones. A martial arts exhibition of men in their angry white pyjamas pretending to break one another’s arms in gentle choreography. Graduations and flower festoons and some the swart flies alive on a dead man’s face.
After Jimson cleared a house of its occupants he would mix their collections with the pictures he carried. It was the assemblage that he enjoyed. The story that would come out of his interjection among unrelated objects. He lay down on the bare wire bed-frame and closed his eyes to see them come to life.