Who is Eva Hipsey?
In the fields that keep the Thames from blurting out and flooding the whole flat land of Essex, was where Eva felt at her best. With the river coursing its grey way so nearby, she was always ready to escape.
Most often she chose not to, and would instead listen to the voices on the radio or tend to the weeds which bind everything together down in those parts.
An escaper, but often with nothing to escape from, she was unsure if it was really wise to keep leaving and returning the way everyone of her time was getting used to. Sound was to become her path, and I often caught her listening with her eyes closed in the garden. Leaving and coming back, with watery eyes. She asked me if I could find her a tape machine, with a record button.
Seeing her thick garden fingers playing with the little metal buttons, and trying to press record and play at the same time, I realised I had not asked her what this was all for.
"I want to keep things, so I can remember them later"
I would bring fresh packets of C60s for her and she would fill them with noise. Sometimes, just the sound of the house when no one was there, so she could listen to it when she got back. Sometimes I would find her with bundles of dried buds and flowers from the garden which she would gently roll between her thumb and finger over the tiny in-built microphone, until the buds would crumble into dust and she would have it all on tape. Oddly she never wrote down what was on any of these tapes.
"I wouldn't know what to write" she would say and resisted all my offers to help her keep track of this growing library.