I have a deep love for anything beautiful, yet subtly repulsive. Kate MccGwire is a master at creating works that you could look at forever, but for some reason you wouldn't really want to be in the same room with for to long. Maybe it's the sense of movement created by the pattern in the feathers, the feeling of oozing and seeping in the installations and the writhing of the stand alone sculptures. Maybe it's the material itself, the oily discarded feathers of creatures that a few years ago were feared for their disease spreading capabilities. Or it's the thought of what came before the creation of the work. What happened to all those birds who lost all those feathers?