The warm umber of the raw linen remains visible across much of the surface. Over it are layers of white, off-white, very pale lilac and faint pink. The strongest concentration of paint sits slightly left of centre, where loose white marks gather into the suggestion of a standing figure.
There is no firm outline. The body seems to emerge through overlapping brushstrokes, scrapes and cloudy passages of paint, and then dissolve again. Broad pale strokes move across the upper canvas, while long drips descend through the lower half. Some areas are densely worked; elsewhere the linen remains almost untouched.
That instability is close to the way I experience sight. I might catch a colour or a shape very briefly, but I can't always hold onto it.
I painted this during the recording of the BBC World Service documentary about my practice, and it became the starting point for the exhibition. The title began to mean more to me during the final weeks of pregnancy. There were moments when everything seemed to depend on the next movement, or the next heartbeat. A few seconds of waiting could feel enormous.
For me, this painting sits in that space - after something has been sensed, but before you know what it means.