THE EDGE December 13 by VANDA_project

Published by VANDA_project 2013 London

International ÂŠ remains with individual artists and writers. All rights reserved collective ÂŠ VANDA_project/ABSC_ND 2013 No reproduction in part or whole without prior permission from the publisher. vandaproject@yahoo.com Editor Victoria Coster Design/Layout Victoria Coster Covers Victoria Coster Theme Tracey Duncan Richardson www.vandaproject.com

ABSC_ND

An independent publishing platform dedicated to the diverse practices of artists, writers and multi- disciplinarians ... All pushing the boundaries of theme.

VANDA_project initiative

Get_Covered

ABSC_ND Still in it’s infant stages, still finding it’s feet,cutting teeth and bravely taking steps into its initial trimester. The Edge, the third theme to be presented for response ... once again opening up a myriad of possibilities, creating dark alleyways for some, stirring confusion in others, while equally laying out a lush green field of potential for either. Like any fledgling surveying the grasses from a height, a period of metamorphosis is only to be expected, which is exactly where ABSC_ND finds itself as 2013 nears it’s end. And with the Mayan prophecy of Cataclysm far behind us, i’m sure i’m not the only one asking why, what for and what’s next? Ponderings which seem perfectly fitting for a theme such as ‘The Edge’, not necessarily to be viewed as the harbingers syllables of doom. For anything that reaches that point of pinnacle will ultimately, inevitably be confronted with the prospects of change. Often times the only thing that we can do is simply jump, into the unknown...the cliché...but where else is left when The Edge has stepped up to greet us?

The Edge 1 : the outside limit of an object, area, or surface I’d like to say I know where this project is going, and what direction the magazine will take, but that wouldn’t be true, I simply don’t ... I have ideas on where I would like things to go, but ideas are simply projections into an unlived future, of course our ideas help us to shape and create that future ... but it isn’t so until it is so ... so all it can be is process orientated, ever evolving into something that it will become, hinged together by a theme, both it’s backbone and blood. One thing’s for certain though, however far on the horizon it looms, a printed tangible version of the magazine and an exhibition bringing together the contributing artists ... that would be two certain things! A big thank you to all who have helped breathe life into the initial stages of ABSC_ND, for giving it shape with thought provoking images and words, for pathing the way to dialogue and debate, for sharing your work with an ever growing audience and for bringing a language with multi-layerd meanings to be read on multi-layered levels, by multiples of minds ... The Edge 2 : move or cause to move gradually or furtively in a particular direction

See you in 2014

Victoria Coster

CONTRIBUTORS

PROSE

Tracey Duncan Richardson

Row Walker

Stuart Bull

Philip Weiner

Twitch

Jacqui Orly

DECEMBER 2013

WORDS

Anonymous

Victoria Coster

POETRY

The Eloquence

PROSE

Andy Gashe

Submissions open for

PROSE

POETRY

Neil Burgess

Robert FitchPomeroy

Violetta Liszka

Collage ‘What’s Necessary’ Flux!

O’ria Green

e-mail

vandaproject@ yahoo.com

ABSC_ND_The Edge_December 2013

ABSC ND

‘We live at The Edge of the miraculous’ Henry Miller

THE EDGE

www.vandaproject.com

Tracey Duncan Richardson The Edge Q. How did you arrive at Scanography? A. I began experimenting with the scanner in 2007, using the object as medium to explore ideas around mortality and loss. My father had not long died, the first scans were made around that time. Q. You’re credited for this months theme, how does the concept of The Edge relate to your practice? A. It’s about an inner state of being, it has a full life cycle, in a process it starts with the way I feel, which is symbiotic with thought, but the image itself can’t exist until it’s transferred physically via the object, which in this case is the scanner, which is a record of the action, recording the intention which only exists in my head, the crossing over of the boundary, the edge between what’s going on outside and what i’m processing physically inside of myself....the images ultimately become metaphors for change.

1. Scream 2. City

cont...take The Crossing for example, it’s about the space between dying and.....what’s next ... Is there a next? The space between having to make a decision and taking action in life, changing ways...dying of the past, even ideas and thoughts die, when something unexpected happens in life we have to stop our daily patterns, that’s where the idea 1 entropy of patterns came from.

The Crossing

1.Entropy of Patterns was Tracey Duncan Richardson’s response to last months theme Opposition.

ABSC_ND_The Edge

Q. Aurora is the start of a new series of images, where did the idea come from? A. Before I made Aurora I was thinking about Scotland and how this can be seen there. When I used to visit family I always wanted to see it ... even this year but I never did. I was also thinking about the oral tradition of story telling, the myths and legends that are natural to that culture. But again its a life changing event that the aurora reminds me of...one wave of emotion replacing another ....

Aurora

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Tracey Duncan Richardson

Row Walker To d a y at 6 : 4 6 p m

The void, the thoughtless abyss where nothing exists. No resonance of emotion disturbs the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s surface, no fire to cook ideas into an edible meal for others to taste. The void, empty, still and quiet. Unquestioning and all knowing. The place where all creations are born and inevitably return but at this time fleeting thoughts are nowhere to be found, not a seed, seedling or tree to work upon just primordial soil waiting aeons to be fertilised. Nothing arrives and nothing departs just the presence of space like that of an atom between the nuclei and the electrons. The hunger of pleasure is nowhere to be found, for the void is all that exists. Its destination is beyond the edge of reason, past that of the linear logic, it is married with intuition. Positive and negative, good and bad, they are like binary code to the abyss, no feelings for or against, just neutrality. On off, on off, alive dead, here there, in out makes no difference, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just data to be collected and lost for that is the nature of the void.

The void a place where two opposing forces can occupy the same space, only to become a paradox when perceived by a finite mind running on a single set of train tracks. But at this very second no train of thought is willing to pull into a station to become bound by form and disturb the place where complete darkness and blinding light exist within each other. No desire, feeling or urge can make it so. No intention or motive can move the unmovable, it flows as it always has by its own intelligence, commanded by no one but its silent and invisible self. In existence and out of it.

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Row Walker

Stuart Bull : It’s Christmas An original contemporary Christmas song set to become a classic

I recently contacted Stuart Bull to find out more about his latest single.

Q: How did the single come about? “The genesis of the song "It´s Christmas" goes back to a project I was working on a few months ago. I had come across a female guitar player and drummer who I thought could make a great all female band, playing instrumental Rock/Metal music, my original plan was just to put them in touch and nothing more. A friend of mine suggested I write some music for the girls and possibly manage the project ourselves. I wrote one piece and really enjoyed doing it, I started negotiating with the girls but one was unsure and the other one had a manager that was hard for me to deal with, so I decided not to pursue the project but carried on writing the music which then turned into an album. On completion of ten tracks I decided to write a couple more tunes just in case. I started writing one piece and as I was singing along to the music the words “It´s Christmas” literally dropped out of my mouth, at first I was apprehensive to write a Christmas song but it felt right”.

http://bit.ly/Its_Xmas_US

STUART BULL

Known for his guitar virtuosity, ‘It’s Christmas’ sparked debate amongst fans and followers. But being true to the spirit of the season I can’t help wonder, has the message somehow been missed?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W49tqxKj6nQ https://www.facebook.com/StuartBullMusic

Stuart Bull : A professional singer, songwriter and session guitarist who has worked with East 17, The Rubettes and Michael Angelo Batio, is also co-founder of the world renowned www.LickLibrary.com. He was working on a new instrumental rock album when the words and tune just came to him. Celebrated producer Martin Hayles, who has produced acts like Light House Family, Will Young and Gareth Gates, worked with Stuart in his studio in Las Vegas where the main vocal was recorded. The gorgeous voice of Carol Lyn provided the backing and additional lead vocals. The video was shot in the stunning St Andrews Church, Hornchurch, Essex with the Bowfiddle String Quartet. Cameos in the video include Steve Harris (Iron Maiden), Neal Schon (Journey) Danny ‘The Count’ Koker from hit US TV show ‘Counting Cars’, Paul Marshall (Marshall Amps) and good friend and partner in LickLibrary, Kim Waller. Available for download from i tunes http://bit.ly/Its_Xmas_US From every download of ‘It´s Christmas’ a Donation will be made to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund.

ABSC_ND_The Edge

“Christmas is my favourite time of the year ... I get to spend quality time with the people I love and this song is about the sense of well being this brings.” Stuart Bull ‘It’s Christmas’ 2013

THE ELOQUENCE

Responding to The Edge

THIS ENERGY’S FRAGMENT

Broken up and away into the atmosphere: That rove shard due having went spare At the symbol of being so refracted and frail; And so it’s to be a bid along this drunken pale As a breed sucked into its own exterior; As if it’s empty shell works through a debris’ posterior, Where life is close-knit within this scalp; Written in the crack bade the stitch fount, Signs of your fortune led in the make ink Graphite to paper-plane states edge yin.

Andy Gashe

The notion of the chewed up city, viewed from the edge, in parts. These works are a regurgitation of photography, collage and mark making. Finally displayed as Digital prints on Somerset Satin Paper (95cmx135cm)

ABSC_ND

My work is made as a reaction to my urban environment. A response to how light and shadow can break up the ordinary view, transforming solid forms into flickering fragments, but also the darker grittier side to this city.

A response not only to the energy that courses through the streets of London but also attempting to show this strange paradox between fragility and brutality, which in turn leads to the recreation of both real and imagined landscapes.

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Andy Gashe

R o b e r t F i t c h - Po m e ro y Reflections

ABSC_ND

Arriving late one wet Autumnal evening, having endured another chaotic rail and bus journey home, she pushed her shoulder against the rain swollen wooden door of her sixth floor flat then stooped to pick up the letters lying on the door mat – pizza flyers, broadband offers, handyman services. Kicking the door shut behind her, she took four steps forward while sorting through the mail and a shiver went down her spine. Fearful to open yet another letter from the bank, it was thrown to the top of the growing pile of unopened mail, mainly consisting of red disconnection threats, resting on the kitchen worktop, as she glanced at the three days worth of dirty washing up in the sink. The sleepy eyed cat, stretched his back then his hind legs he slowly traced her footsteps and began circling her feet, anxious to be fed as she began to make herself a warming cup of tea…. …later, slumped in a chair, the two bar electric fire heating the vicinity, but little else, having eaten the meal heated in the microwave, she was aimlessly watching the television, the cat curled up in her lap. She was finally relaxed and her thoughts began to aimlessly drift….… ... now working with owner Maryal in her hair dressing and beauty therapies boutique - they’d met at St Dunstan in the West in Fleet Street - a smile curled her lips as she reflected upon the “expansion plans” which were spoken of earlier that day. A new shop - would she be offered the chance to manage it by herself ? It would be less mentally demanding than some of the energy sapping jobs she previously had, as her thoughts

recounted her last office job, relentlessly busy with the dull, repetitive monotonous tasks, under informed about what she needed to know, uninspired and mind numbingly bored with it all. Her opportunities for progression there were virtually zero unless someone died suddenly, she’d felt like a crab caught in a bucket, desperately trying to climb its side, but always being pulled back down… …sometime after 01.30, she’d glimpsed, one eyed, at the radio alarm clocks bright display earlier, almost in the foetal position, one cold foot on top of the other, attempting to warm them; the heavy cotton nightdress nearly kept the rest of her warm were assisted by the leggings she wore. She unclenched a cold fist and placed her outstretched hand under her head, between the pillow and the woollen hat she was wearing. Having earlier gone through the nightly ritual of reading a few pages of a battered, second hand, romantic paperback, attempting to live vicariously through its pages, her eyes were closed, enhancing the slight smell of damp in the air, which seemed to cling to the sheets and duvet cover, but not the two blankets covering her. Stephanos, her black and white cat, companion of twelve years did not notice as he circled on her thigh and hip. He kneaded her waist, moved higher up her frame then stabbed her last rib, which made her flinch slightly, finally circled curling up upon her, as only a cat could. After a minute or two the warmth from his body permeated the blankets and she wished he’d have settled over her feet - but he wasn’t that type of cat, he was after affection and some heat exchange, which her feet could not offer. Her mind still alert, her thoughts began to meander, where had she gone wrong to end up here ? 52 months, had past, almost to the day, since she’d last shared her bed with a man, some fleeting moments of physical contact; when had she become that

unattractive ? Her hair, was it becoming like the feared combed through Brillo Pad, having been coloured and treated too many times ? The crows feet at the corners of her eyes, which had now become definite lines… her slight mummy tummy… the ever darkening bags beneath her eyes… … the loveless marriage of convenience, forced upon her by her parents, to appease other relatives and could boast or appear ‘normal’ to their friends. The acrimonious divorce - her father’s words still rang in her head “…there is no divorce in our family and it will not start with you…”; …the family ostracism that followed. She had never grown to love him, as her parents had promised never supplying a date when this would actually happen… all her prayers seemed to go unanswered – was all her life preordained or did she have some control over it ? … what was she supposed to learn, where had the descent started ? ... Though not taught by her parents, struggling to remember being hugged or receiving any praise from either of them - they were too authoritarian, too rational – but she had known love in her life. Big Michael, a little older than she was, he was tall, around one metre eighty five, handsome, a little shy at first, but having spent so much time together, both blossomed. He was the first person to show her any ‘real’ affection – in fact he finally grew to adore her – for three years, until her usual self-destructive personality finally found a method of rejection of him. He made that one final unforgivable mistake, but she had learned to avoid alcohol when thoughts of him surfaced, if she consumed too much, she’s be left feeling angry, and helpless, full of regret and wondering where he was now … … vague male faces passed through her mind recalling the three meaningless one night stands, although they punctuated the months of loneliness and isolation, they were not an answer

either… when desperation began to grip, she’d tried to contact some men she knew, even vaguely; fleeting, almost phantom friendships… …Steve and Chris, both finally unmasked as a married man, complete with all the guilt, secrets and lies that come with it. All that wasted time, all her hopes dashed. Why was she such a bad judge of people – why did she always get it wrong ? … finally, there was Little Michael – or Saint Michael when they were shopping in Marks and Spencer’s - with him she discovered new, heightened emotions. She knew, intrinsically, that he loved her, as she loved him, unconditionally. He had such a cute face and was always pleased to see her, he was always hugging her, he seemed to cherish every moment they shared. Her parents had never met him and they never could. The hours they had just spent walking and talking, the stillness and peace they shared when just sat in their chairs, sharing their passion for reading, or just laying shoulder to shoulder to one another. She could not recall any bad times with him but was aware that she was, probably subconsciously, filtering these memories out – nobody was perfect. A tear slowly trickled across the bridge of her nose and dropped onto the pillow… … was it so wrong to be attracted to Maryal ? She was a striking woman, with her flashing, expressive, dark eyes. Woman can show their emotions so much easier than men, can’t they ? It was like being a young girl again always being hugged by her friend. She was kind – and funny. She seemed to understand the world better and a good listener to people’s problems. Socialising with her was always memorable – she was so entertaining… she had so many different things to talk about, a varied life well lived…the initial kisses on her cheek only developed into more in the early hours of the morning, large

quantities of alcohol playing it’s part… she apologised the morning after, hadn’t she ? She didn’t wish to frighten or offend or to have her actions to be misunderstood… but her touch was more sensual than any man’s she’d ever known… …then one sultry late summers evening, August twentieth that long, an almost ceaseless night in the hospital, holding his hand, after all those unanswered prayers and silent promises… he was gone… she felt her stomach pull up into her ribcage as tears flowed much more readily… why was he taken from her – it did not make any sense ? … what had she done so wrong to be punished so severely ? … why had she had to endure having her heart ripped out again ? … that early morning removing the cross from over her bed and placing the Saints icon face down, in a drawer. It remains there still… ..she remembered the unused diazepam in the bathroom cabinet…

ABSC_ND_Robert Fitch-Pomeroy_Reflections

Philip Weiner PROPOSITION 47 AND A BIT : parts 1 and 2.

I had been thinking about the Babylonians and Egyptians, drawing geometric forms in the sand, and it led me to ponder how the marvellous chaos of our world is underpinned by an imperfect and precariously balanced structure. Somehow it is the imperfection that is the key to everything, life, progress and beauty.

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Philip Weiner

Tw i t c h

ABSC_ND_The Edge

"I felt like I was standing on the edge of the earth, the Atlantic water and winds shaping the cliffs over time, the sheer scale of them, amazing and intimidating"

Twitch_Photographer_Videographer

Jacqui Orly

"Is Love? All i want is love All i need is love All i greed is love All that is agreed is love"

ABSC_ND_The Edge

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The aim of the piece, if there could be said to be an aim, is to come out of the chaos of whatever was, more challenged, more aware. The work itself is a catalyst to creativity rather than creativity itself. It hopes to debunk theories of enlightenment or art for art's sake and add to the world what was already there only in a way not before seenâ&#x20AC;?.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Object and subject have no relevance, there only just "Is Love" in all its guisesâ&#x20AC;?.

ABSC_ND_The Edge

Jacqui Orly’s performance piece ‘Is Love’ took place at Back Lane West earlier this year. She has another venture planned for early 2014. Back Lane West is an artist-led residency and project space in Redruth, Cornwall. Its aims are to support and encourage critically engaged visual art practice and artists’ professional development while contributing to the growth of a connected, critical, cultural community. http://backlanewest.org

ABSC_ND_Jacqui Orly_’Is Love’

N e i l B u rge s s E m e rge n c y E x i t

ABSC_ND_The Edge

The bottles of pills are neatly displayed

Like suspects lined up in an identity Parade. One, a possible accomplice to an impending crime Not yet committed and biding itsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time. The future offender that feasibly kills Is the legitimate bottle of sleeping pills. The seal on the bottle remains intact Like a virgin awaiting the inevitable act. Viewed by the perpetrator in a different light An emergency exit when the time is right. A body so old and wracked with pain With nothing to lose, and all to gain. But the will to survive is the enemy within Inbuilt protection from the ultimate sin. Fear of purgatory makes me survive Scares me so much and postpones suicide. My quandary postponed at the end of the day Praying for death in a more natural way. The sleeping pills are a tempting token But the seal of the bottle is still unbroken.

Violetta Liszka

1. The Medussa After Caravagio 2. Mind Charity/Mental Health awareness

www.celesteprize.com/violetta

ABSC_ND_The Edge

O ’ r i a G re e n I f n o t n o w, W h e n ?

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Fiction

The Early Hours: It wasn't the first time i'd woken into the blackness of night, unable to breathe, my heart racing with the growing sense of disorientation, the palpitations, suffocating. In the effort to place myself, eyes searched for something recognisable, catching sight of a yellow flicker in the corner of the room, it's the early hour projection from the broken street sign outside the window ... yes ... I know where I am, I vaguely recall a conversation Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d had with the new keeper about fixing it ... and the woman beside me, a mass of black hair tumbling over the pillow like a cascading waterfall, I recognised her too. Momentarily disturbed by the sudden movement on the surface of our dishevelled Mere, her soft sleep whimpers, like the gentle stir of an infant creature ... I try to sit but can barely lift my body, or support myself when I manage to stand, my foot catches in the hem of fallen pyjamas, stumbling from the bed as I reach for the wall, trying not to knock brushes and bottles from the dresser, Cass always said I should throw them, that they were good for gone ... that the garbage would give them grace. Feeling my way to the bathroom, the wallpaper damp beneath my fingertips, walking but not awake, with the sense that this body and I still didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t belong.

Leaning against the basin, I hold on for a moment, white ceramic knuckles on white ceramic sink, the cold surface, it seems to have more flesh and life than I do, the deafening sound of my own inner chatter, drowns the dripping from the broken washer, the one I keep forgetting to repair, my mouth is dry, I force a swallow but no amount of water satiates. Something in me wants to yell, to make a noise, any noise, but Manni, I can't wake Manni ... my legs give way and I drop to my knees, with head thrown back and mouth wide open, a silent release given through the madness of imitation, or madness working its way through the imitation that had become my life ... Breakfast: "Honey I was thinking about the extension ... oh and Dad wants us to holiday with them at Christmas, he said he thought it would be nice for Manni to see snow ... what do you think? ... ... ... ... Jack" "Yes ... do we have any coffee?" "Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrong?" "Nothing ... It's nothing, I just have to leave ... I'm late ... I have a meeting with Harris first thing... " 19:30 P.M. "Tina came by for lunch, she bought the fabric sample for the curtains ... and I told Dad we'd give him a definite answer in the morning"

I hadn't even put my briefcase down before I heard her voice, at first I thought she was on the phone, there was no hello, no how's the day been or how was the meeting, no time to catch a breathe, or to sit for a moment, sometimes all I wanted was five minutes, time to collect myself from the day ... yes it was my house too but I didn't care about the curtains, the chintz that had become the subject of our communication, she had no idea that we were on the brink of losing everything, it was just assumed that the job would always be there, that because i'd help create it, we would always be safe ... but she knew all along it was Harris's money, he'd been planning the take-over for months and this morning it was finalised, there were no guarantees I would move on with the new company, 'think of it as integration' he would say, but he'd given over any control ... my best friend had sold me out ... and we were broke and I never ... well every time I tried to tell her ... the constant talk about Manni's college fund, the savings plan, the extension, Christmas, the curtains! ... Constant muffled speech played as background noise to the perpetuous rhythm of my own thinking ... every meal time since June i'd been trying to tell her, the food just stuck in my throat, I consumed chunks in big ugly mouthfuls, I couldn't swallow, I wanted to vomit back onto the plate all that she'd fed me ... "so what do you think?, we could get them matching, the same all the way through...." Her words tapered off as if in an ever extending tunnel, a distant echo and I didn’t know what to think about anything anymore, all they would see is that i’d let them down, there’d be no reasoning, no understanding, I could see her father’s smug face with his ‘I told you so expression’ painted all over it,

he always wanted me to screw up just so he could be right, I was never what he wanted for Cass, he'd made that clear from the start ... the thoughts invoked nausea, the suffocating sense of claustrophobia, forcing me away from the table, turning my stomach ... I could feel myself begin to retch ... Bathroom "Daddy, Daddy" ... as I silenced my gasping I could hear Manni whisper on the other side of the door, the sense of unending panic tightened my chest and the pressure in my head, it didn't let up, all of it, relentless... "Daddy" ... it wasn't the first time i'd woken her this way ... I never got to see her when I came home from work, Cass insisted that she had to be in bed early, or rather her mother did, which meant I only got to see her at the weekends ... "Daddy" she whispered a little louder and gave a tap on the door ... grabbing my breathe I tried to stand, splashing my face to calm the red around my eyes, I knew she would want to say goodnight, on Saturday she'd told me that she listened for me to come home from work, that sometimes she wanted me to read her a bedtime story ... she tapped again ... "ok Sweetie, just a minute" ... For the last six months these interactions had become more frequent, she was always so pleased to see me, her eyes would light up and all I could muster was a half smile back, a vain attempt at reassuring her that everything was alright ... sometimes just to look at her tore a hole in my gut ... “Daddy did you hurt yourself again” she would ask when I finally opened the door to let her in ... “yes Manni, but it’s ok now” ... “shall we get Mummy” ... “no it’s ok sweetie, I promise you it’s fine” ... She wasn’t too young to understand that something was

wrong, that it wasn’t ok or fine and that i’d lied to her again. On the way to the office I often thought about how she might recall these moments, the empty promises i'd made, the lies I told ... would she only remember me this way, the waiting, wanting, her father in fragments, perched on the side of the bath like a broken china bird ... she handed me a piece of tissue paper, folding it the way I would before wiping her tears after she'd been crying from a fall ... the pain in my throat rendered me speechless, I wanted to hold onto her, to preserve her innocence, for it to permeate the fabric of my being ... "can you read me a story Daddy" ... "not tonight Manni, Daddy doesn't feel well" ... I kissed her on the forehead ... told her I would see her soon ...but... that was the last time I saw her face. Southside That was December 1976, my daughter would be thirty years old now, maybe with a family of her own, it was her I missed, her I thought about almost every day since I left, I still had the little picture she'd drawn for me, now nothing more than a faded crumpled scrap, with faint crown lines barely visible where a house used to be. I'd tucked it into my coat pocket the morning I left, leaving my empty briefcase in the bottom of the closet, I took nothing with me other than the clothes I was wearing. I couldn't bear to look back when I walked out of the door, the shop sign still flickered, only less harsh in the light of day and the dog next door barked the way it always barked when anybody passed by. For the first year I would see the missing posters pasted up all around, clean shaven, looking ‘decent and respectable’, that’s how Cass described the suit I was wearing.

She'd picked it out for my first day at Milfordâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, I never did like it, or get used to it, but I wanted to please her, to make her happy. My hair grew so quickly that I was unrecognisable within a matter of months, even to myself the person on the posters had become a stranger, my less respectable suit became dirty and shabby from sleeping in the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Hutâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, passersby would never venture off the main street into the unknown under the bridge, so I easily went unnoticed. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be, there were plenty with a reason for being there and none of them wanted to talk about it either, we were all trying to get away from something or someone, so it made sense simply not to mention where we'd come from, or why, it was like an unspoken agreement, we knew the deal before we even knew the deal and that's how we lived side by side, most of us nameless, on the edge of no man's land, exiled from lives that had once held us hostage. I would've still been there if I hadn't got sick, i'd been coughing up for a week or so and was taken over by fever, it was an early November morning when walking across to the Outreach van, they came by twice a week to distribute handouts, clothes, shoes, sometimes food and soap ...but it was then that I collapsed in the middle of the road. Pneumonia had got me and I ended up in hospital, it's strange to say that I got lucky getting sick but the charity took me in and sponsored me, paying for my medical bills, and to get me back on my feet again ... but as was often remarked, a rafter set adrift has no port to anchor, and they knew I could never really settle, even when they arranged an apartment in a tenement I would often spend nights on the streets ...

the day I left Manni behind was the day I left myself, and now my memory is fading fast, every day another year becomes nothing more than smudge stained shadow, the window to a former world, the struggling to connect the moments in time, to remember people, places and names, the straining to see as they flash by for their final farewell, leaving me alone with confusion, as link after link is severed ... i'm afraid ... and they don't really know how long it will be before it fully takes hold ... i'm not even certain anymore if what I remember is real, I can only write down what is here, now ... and maybe they will find Manni ... I want to tell her i'm sorry ... before it's too late.

ABSC_ND_Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ria Green_If not now, When?

Anonymous

ABSC_ND_The Edge

CULTURE DIVA

“This Love is a selfish pursuit”

Victoria Coster The Philosophy of Grids

Four lines as edge assembled and constructed, to create four corners, in turn multiplied by many of itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own form, enclosing place, absence to be filled with substance of choice, substancless in choicelessness, giving structure, to the de-constructed, holding in that which dissolves, that which appears soild, that which is soft.

ABSC_ND_December 2013

My fascination with grids spans back more than a decade, my obsession with paper decidedly longer ... I remember being handed sheets of my grandmothers dressmaking paper, but only vaguely remember the time of her and my mother making my clothes. The beautiful fine paper, like the type found in books of antiquity, skin thin with red ink grids printed on the surface. The paper said all that an object could ever say about anything ... I saw no reason to spoil the perfect sheets, to cut into them or make a mark on them ... and yet I did, not because I felt compelled to, but because I had to, as an artist wasn't I supposed to? As an art student wasn't I expected to? to change the paradigm of the Grid paradigm ... to make this object into something fresh, unseen, wonderfully thought provoking and exciting ... Obviously I failed, the only thing to be done was to leave the paper as it was. But Duchampian ethics hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t yet permeated deeply enough into the fabric of my mind and so against my better judgement, I took a thick black marker pen to the surface of the Grid,

then drew de-constructing, collapsing electric pylons, reminiscent of a folding Eiffel Tower ... at least that said something about my thought process, even if I was the only one to bear witness to it ... Looking back historically, the grid in some ways suggests itself to be the painters talisman and I feel like i've never earned the right to use it in that sense ... It was the likes of Sol Lewitt, Donald Judd, Eva Hesse and Bruce Nauman that strangely gave me the permission to think about the grid in different terms, as something tangible, as a form in contradiction of itself, giving order to its own chaos ... a structure on which to shape policies, philosophies, methods and models, a Maxim in itself, containing and representational of its own idea, I wonder how can something so square be so metaphorically round? ... and yet, The Grid is nothing more than empty space defined by Edge ... line to space is as skin is to body ... The series of digital collages made in response to the theme use personal photographs as an initial starting point to explore the idea 'The Philosophy of Grids'.

An Aristotelian List applied to self

Substance

= Woman

Quantity

= Multiplicatous

Quality

= Black/White/Red/Blue

Place

= Landscape

Time

= Past - 1990â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Relation

= Half/Double/Triple

Position

= Seated/Standing

State

= Clothed

Action

= To Grid

Affection

= To be Grided

ABSC_ND_The Edge_Victoria Coster

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ABSC_ND_The Edge