On first meeting Bradley, one is struck by the geometry of his skull: heart-shaped – a favorable descriptor when applied to the front elevation of a human face. In Bradley’s case, the likeness is literal: a three-dimensional replica of that convulsive mass of bloodied muscle tirelessly circulating oxygen and metabolic wastes, the good with the bad. Funny that the existence of Bradley’s actual heart, its nervous valves perpetually flickering open, shut, open, should be advertised by its nemesis, the head. The impulsive and irrational mistaken for the premeditated and planned. Bradley’s head is both paradigm and paradox – an accidental cipher crowned by limp but prolific strands of hair the colour of unbleached canvas when seen by daylight, in their natural state; conditions which have become increasingly unlikely, thanks to Bradley’s heart. Deflect. Delay. Disguise. Disappear.