A pair of anglerfish, drawn with rather more curiosity than menace, hold the centre of Nautilus. Around them the design builds an underwater garden of fronds, tendrils and small drifting forms, so the fish read less as subject than as inhabitants of a place. The conceit is the one the shell it is named for suggests: a world folded inside another world, given up by degrees.
The drawing is fine and slightly dreamlike, closer to an illustrated plate than to a naturalist's study, and the plants are given as much attention as the creatures. Depth comes from layering rather than from shading. Across a wall the 64 cm repeat sets a slow, unhurried rhythm, and the half-drop match staggers each length against the last so the eye finds no vertical seam to follow. The effect is of continuous water rather than of paper hung in strips.
Rooms that can take a little strangeness suit it best: a cloakroom, a child's room that will be grown out of slowly, a bedroom in a house near water. It hangs 0.52 m wide on a 10 m roll. Against painted joinery and plain linen it stays where it belongs, decorative without becoming the whole conversation.
