Small, quiet paintings, each a scene that doesn't fully explain itself.

The Small Narratives are the most intimate things I make – card-sized watercolours, each a self-contained little world. A figure casting a beam of light she made herself. A bowl broken and mended in gold. A solitary watcher under a full moon. A footprint made entirely of coloured dots. They borrow from folklore and from the logic of dreams, and they quote each other, the way memories do.

I made them when I had something to say and no words for it – the brush carried what I couldn't. I won't tell you what they mean. Each one is finished by whoever looks at it. I set the scene and leave the rest open, the way a feeling is open before you find the word for it.

I let other people name them. I carried each painting around and asked whoever saw it first what they would call it, so the titles belong to the first people who looked. There are nine, each original roughly ten by six centimetres – small enough to hold.

The rest is yours.