As a kid, I had a neighbor that hung a copy of The Pioneer by Frederick McCubbin in her living room. When we'd visit, I would sneak into the room to steal chewing gum, but I would often pause to consider the way each painted panel could be read both individually, and as a cohesive narrative overall - it was like watching TV, I thought.
Mapped on the inside of a collapsed medicine box, black and blue inks well in the cardboard joints that separate each section like a polyptych. Soaked with rain and ink, each wing can be read as a single, self-contained canvas, or as a united narrative documenting the trajectory of the day's weather behaviour. This is no McCubbin, but the properties of the canvas unites and divides, and simple folds become fixed pauses or foundations on which the act of mark-making relies.