OSKA LAPPIN

I’ve stolen ‘it’ from everything. All the starring roles in the most important movies. Every main character in Zola’s novels, the pretence, rôle play, caught in the act, The Hitchcock Blonde, The Bukowski Babe and Updike’s ladies that tickle my post feminist funny bone. Stopping to smell the roses and knowing, as they wilt and die, David Lynch lurks below teaching me that behind the beauty there’s something rotten in the woodshed but the robins will return. Delighted by the Adriatic legends and myths and revelling in dystopian futures. Feasting in the saturation of 21st Century media from the profound to the banal, in the eye of my mental storm. It’s the reblending of stories with me as protagonist, antagonist, the egoist, shy expressionist, the risks arrive in my work, the graphic super cliché, my song writing heroes, Jacques Brel, Lou Reed, Tom Waits – masters of the three-minute epic. As a draughtswoman it is this visual shorthand, as a story teller, I want my audience to walk away feeling just a little uncomfortable but not really
knowing why.