Excerpt:
A taxi driver in Gainsville knew where to take me. ‘Those windmills are in Rabbittown,’ he said, ‘some old preacher that you folks with cameras go see.’ It was the late eighties and I had travelled from London, with a tape recorder and sketch-book, in search of R. A. Miller. I had seen him in an early REM video, a shadowy figure standing amongst flickering silhouettes of whirligigs. He was the first self-taught artist I had encountered and to see his work in reality was life-changing.

The first things I glimpsed from the road were a few dilapidated whirligigs. They looked like they’d been there for years: rusty bicycle wheels with fan blades attached and pigs, sheep, dogs and dinosaurs for rudders, cut into beautiful bold shapes. Legs turned into tails in one circular cut, heads into backs.