I visit Jared Ginsburg at his studio on a spring morning. There is a clean-edged crispness to the day: everything bright and clearly defined – the light, yes, but also sound. I notice the last in particular, the hum of heavy industry in the area beyond Atlantic House and the passing traffic on the nearby main road shifting into sharp clarity. Above this, a syncopated improvisation plays: car horns, an inconstant jackhammer, the repetitive cymbal of metal on metal. When I ask if I can record our conversation, Jared agrees only reluctantly. That the legibility of language sits uncomfortably with him is perhaps unsurprising to those familiar with his works on canvas – Jared has long made a practice of redacting or otherwise concealing the words he inscribes in paint. “I’ve found a way to make my utterances that is always ambiguous,” he offers in explanation. The space is largely empty of artworks when I visit, which seems to me further revealing of the artist’s effacing impulse. It isn’t – a body of work has recently left the studio for a show in New York.