‍There was no Ink: Having some business on a neighbouring farm, I asked for a pen and some ink. The lady of the house brought me a pen, but there was no ink, but she asked me to wait a little and she would make some. She sent for some fresh cattle dung, and putting it into a rag milked her own breast into it and, squeezing the contents through the rag into some fine gunpowder, produced ink and gave it to me without the least concern, while I was amazed.
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From the diary entry of James Chapman, in The wind makes dust - Four centuries of travel in Southern Africa by Ben MacLennan, Tafelberg 2003, p245.

The work was also inspired by the poem Ink by Therese Bartman.