For Those Who Came in Late

My work centers on reconstructed compositions drawn from memories and experiences of places I have inhabited or visited. These images evoke nostalgia and build a world marked by familiarity, unease, and tension that quietly alludes to uncertain events.Shadows of people, animals, and objects in seemingly abandoned spaces create an open narrative and allow the audience to participate in the work. Through sentimentality, foreboding, and transformation, my work invites viewers to reflect on their memories and engage with psychological spaces that feel both personal and familiar. Lucy Ray, Artist Statement 2026

For those who came in late, a catalogue essay 
by Andrew Stephens

It does not really matter if you arrive when the story is apparently already underway. After all, you can always imagine those earlier scenes, now phantoms. This is life and it is the world; true, complete histories can only ever be partially reconstructed, and it is rare for human narratives to be tied up neatly with bows. A clear beginning, a well-plotted middle, a satisfying closure – that sort of trajectory is entirely a fantasy. Each sentient being visits this life briefly, charges through untidily, and then departs, usually having cast an uncertain shadow.

Lucy Ray has a rich inner world she explores and continues to expand with great curiosity and delicacy, glimpses of which she is able to translate and share. The intricately detailed images she produces are not parts of a jigsaw that can be re-assembled. There are no chapters, episodes or boxed sets. Rather, there are fragments, whole in themselves and somewhat literary, yet intriguingly open-ended. 

Ray is a dedicated practitioner who moves between the rigours and physical marathons of drawing, the generous fluidity of paint and, more recently, the velvety intensities of pastel. The scenes she delivers register as enigmatic enchantments hinting at what may have just happened. If this was photography, her images might be interpreted as stills from a film, a David Lynch or a Stanley Kubrick. Possibly, one of Ray’s scenes might interconnect with another, forming part of an overarching story; or maybe not. Therein lies the unique adventure for the person standing before them, contemplating them separately or as groupings.

Look over here and see a picture in which a 1970s station wagon is parked. There are the accommodation signs, the power lines, the lights in the distance and, quietly, the bulky scaled reptile that, usually, would be a locus of tropical terror, with its powerful jaws and hooded, calculating eyes. Yet, the disconcerting context of this scene destabilises any instinctual fears: this is a holiday resort, but apparently in a cool misty climate. Watching that animal quietly crossing through the setting might excite less anxiety than the mysteries presented and hinted at, an onlooker wondering what has happened here, trying to fill in all those intriguing blanks.

Gaze upon another of Ray’s works and there are more signs of recent human occupation (empty seating, vehicles, rooms) and further evidence of animal interlopers. For example: two garden chairs facing each other in a clearing, the inky blackness of a forest edge behind them, a human shadow facing from the opposite side. What has occurred? There may have been an ensnarement, or a disappearance, or a visitation. Whose shadow is that? What lurks under the foliage? No one can know the rest of these stories, but everyone can superimpose an imprint or allow their psyche to respond.

Wherever the gaze is held before the work of Lucy Ray, viewers are guests who are graciously welcomed for some unsettling sightseeing. It is a sort of counter-tourism where pretty scenery and human comforts are exchanged for a deeper, darker sense of the untold and the unexpected. Becoming deliciously lost in these enchanted woods is a gift.