Hannah Green’s words are written to be spoken softly in dimly lit rooms into the minds of wistful thinkers. Her delicacy in writing and character is rather hypnotic and it is as if the words she speaks are mere exhalations of her essence. She is one of those writers who has good shit to say but will only ever grace the ears who truly listen, which means that when she opens her art up to you its something very special, like getting an invite into Smith and Mapplethorpe’s room at the Chelsea. She is an old soul who has imprinted her marks onto this earth many times before, but she is thoughtfully and elegantly growing as an artist once more, and I must say it is a very exciting thing to watch. 

This work of hers delves into the depths of the beauty and horror plastered across the cityscape of seventies New York. The chaos and the calm of the death, fame and artistry that saturated so many bruised lives fascinates Green. She holds the legacies of these masters cupped in her hands as she rushes through the hot sweaty city grit and prominent veins and smoke and painful chord progressions and sex and so on. She peers into that world where the smoke still rises despite the fire burning out bright and quick within moments of it setting alight.