Issue 20 Mar 2010
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[EXHIBITIONS]
CONTENTS
Credit: Adam Booth
GET IN TOUCH WELCOME... COVER ARTIST BLANKVERSE SPOTLIGHT FICTION THIS MONTH’S MP3 BLANKPICKS OBITUARY BLANK MEDIA RECCOMMENDS CREDITS
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So, dear reader, blankpages is 20 issues old; and we continue bounding from one benchmark issue to the next. Issue 20 is no different. This month we have some brilliant video content from sixty_six_events, and how could we let the death of another literary legend, JD Salinger, pass by without due note? His greatest exponent on the blankpages team, Poetry Editor Baiba Auria, writes on the impact of his life, works and recent passing. If you haven’t been to Nexus Art Cafe in the Manchester’s Northern Quarter for Blank Media Collective’s ‘Neck of the Woods’ exhibition, then you should get down there this month. In April’s blankpages we’ll be bringing you a review of the exhibition. I also attended the launch of ‘Seeing and Being Seen’ at Manchester’s greenroom, an excellent exhibition again curated by the Blank Media Exhibitions Team, of new photographic works, some of which feature in this month’s cover art. If that teases your lids then head down there and have a look at that as well! On the subject of exciting future content, watch out over the next couple of months for some really amazing exclusive stuff from novelist Naomi Alderman (winner of the 2006 Orange New Writers Award for her novel Disobedience) and keep those ears pricked for news of a blankpages showcase event we’ve got in the pipeline for later this year. Exciting times! Enjoy!
John Leyland, blankpages Editor 5
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Adam Booth
wants to unearth the hidden beauty in the most banal and mundane objects and landscapes. Shape, space and symmetry are all elements of the artistic image which have always been considered important in the construction of the aesthetically beautiful image, however Booth challenges more traditional imagery and style by finding this beauty in the most unlikely of places - a deserted supermarket, an empty car park and a midnight industrial estate. Mostly working with long exposure photography he studies the fall and the feeling of unnatural, man made lighting, and how this affects the way we view these landscapes, and the feeling that light can evoke within us. He uses night to demonstrate man’s impact on our world, both in terms of light and architecture, but without positive or negative comment - he simply shows us what we have created, devoid of natural light or wild nature.
The landscapes he captures are usually bustling with human activity, centres of commerce, business and pleasure, but he shows them in a way we have not seen before; lonely, empty, bare. He does not comment on whether our impact on the world is good or bad, he simply shows us what is around us, but in a way we may not have considered our habitat before - stark, eerie, isolated, but also clean, geometric and beautiful. Adam Booth is a photographer living and working in the North West of England. He has recently completed a degree at Leeds Metropolitan University in Photography and Digital Imaging. Adam Booth is currently exibiting his work alongside Lee Deaville and Richard Turner in “Seeing and Being Seen” curated by Blank Media Collective at Manchester’s greenroom, until 10th April. 7
Adam Hyde Adam Hyde is an artist living and working in Dudley. After completing a Fine Art degree in Manchester, 2009, he moved back to his home town of Dudley to pursue a life dedicated to art. Although he is primarily a painter his creative output is broad, encompassing film, poetry, sculpture and installation.
This is the ballad of the flaming fox, Hot on the trail of the love he’d lost, Searching every inch of the dark wood floor, For the Vixen was worth every boil and sore. This is the ballad of the flaming fox, His soul was afire but the passion did cost, Consuming his life, for his body was rife, Each paw moved forth took him further from the light. This is the ballad of the flaming fox, His shell combusted by a loveless frost, His empty gaze fixed, the seductive flames licked, And his eyes paled over in a suffocating mist. This is the ballad of the flaming fox. Hot on the trail of the love he’d lost, The jealousy spread so his lover quickly fled, Aware the being she adored was consumed, dead. 8
Everything is precious, Every fibre of skin that splits is rich. Nails, dusted germs declare themselves lost from you, Praised and exiled, so do I. Stolen shards of glass, that once were used here, I like how it feels here. Lee picked up the coffee pot, it smashed, pouring blood and boiled water across the floor and over your dress. The three strip colour floods the room, I want to copy. Right there, there’s a spot, but you cant see it. In the small of your back I sit. A smell which overwhelms the scene, clouds of it, rotting sking iced in perfume and makeup. The soft skin peeling off in my hands, A loveliness dirtied in memories
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Take a picture of all the empty spaces, For the future peoples, for the Generations of special children, all who Worship the ground, and we live underneath, Like dry leaves and scented smog, With fingers counting fifteen sheets of dry clothes, like And then if we get there, the floor Boards has rise, risen poking up gently through the carpet, Saying hello to the little boys and girls and offering them, One as a sacrifice for the floor monsters.
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How does it in the lost time, Keep catching me up so fast, Curling itself about my ankle, tripping, Tripping down the road I go. “hello” I say, aware, that maybe my faces flares, My eyebrows like a warm fever, cursing them unnoticed. And they say “goodbye”, and never come back. But they say, they say we’re alike, I cant figure it out.
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SPOTLIGHT Lisa Denyer
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My paintings show uncultivated, perfectly preserved landscapes. I use images of deep, dark forests and vast mountain vistas to create a fairytale element, in order to evoke the vibrancy, possibilities and intrigue which are synonymous with the natural settings in fantasy stories. My ecological concerns, the strain that the ever increasing population is putting upon the Earth, amongst others, have also played a part in m y desire to make idyllic images of landscapes; meshing fairytale ideals with my dubious hopes of an environmentally Utopian future. Surface texture is an important aspect of my work, for example having sections of matt emulsion paint next to acrylic coated with varnish gives a contrast which creates an other worldly luminescence. This gives the impression of light being reflected. There is a sense of balance in fairytales, and also in nature. I try to reflect this visually in my art through the use of subtle symmetry and framing devices. I have begun to think of my work in terms of a backdrop for an imaginary voyage. That the images are seemingly void of activity is important, allowing room for the viewer to create their own narrative. Making this kind of work is a form of escapism for me. Although I don’t believe that nature can ever be replicated in all its intricacy and intensity in art works, I want to convey something of its power and majesty, to pay homage to the Romantic landscape artists of the eighteenth century and what they experienced before the sublimity of the natural world. During my research, I have drawn inspiration from the traditional Chinese art form Shan Shui; a way of painting that celebrates the link between the spiritual and natural worlds, with particular emphasis on mountains and water. 13
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Lisa Denyer was born in Watford in 1984. She studied for her Fine Art degree at Coventry University from 2006 2009. After graduating, she moved to Manchester where she set up her studio in the city centre. Since then she has exhibited her contemporary landscape paintings around the country. She has recently shown work at the Rebecca Hossack Gallery in London, where she won second prize in the Gilchrist Fisher Award.
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A Norfolk Selkie
by Anna Percy Illustrations by Michael Thorp She lumbered out of the sea. Feeling the sand on her fur, in her fur getting close to the tough skin. The sensation of using her muscles in a different way is odd, having to curve and flex the spine to move her bulk on the ground. Her flippers were pretty much useless like stabilisers on a child’s bike, extra security on the sand. The moon was full and high. She had chosen this night partly because of the moon, she didn’t want to be blind as well. With great difficulty she rolled over, she was willing it to happen, the change, there was none. She lay in the sand feeling the indent her body made trying not to move in case it stopped the change. In frustration she rolled back over and stared at the moon, it had moved lower down in the sky, that much time had passed. She very nearly gave up but didn’t dare lumber back over to the water and slide in, as tempting as it was. To slide back in, where it was relatively safe and she could glide with ease, would prove the others right, that she wasn’t ready. So she wriggled the ache out of body and glanced up at the lights in the sky, looking for her favourite patterns. Again she rolled over and calmly concentrated, the wind changed directions several times before it happened, she felt her surface quiver. Her skin broke open and slid off, her tail broke apart, her bones lengthened, the pain was excruciating. She could feel the sand on her raw flesh though that was a small feeling compared to the pain in her body. Her snout retracted, the muscles in her flippers separated allowing those bones to lengthen and change shape. She was paralysed while her body writhed into its new formation, muscles and bones
and tendons contracted and stretched. Finally the painful reconstruction of her body ceased, she felt new skin creeping over the reshaped flesh like fast growing algae. Her eyes were still closed but she could feel they were both facing forwards, her face towards the sky. When all the pain stopped, she opened her eyes. The searing pain had stopped she felt the wind on her now bare skin. She had seen how they moved about, but couldn’t work out how to make her new body do it. When the pain had gone her senses could take in other details. She blinked still motionless, her familiar surroundings seemed changed. The depth of tones has changed, she doesn’t know how to understand this, there was another layer to her sight. Her nose couldn’t pick up the scents it could before, her ears seemed weaker. This skin seemed unbearably sensitive, the sand so raw on it, the wind so cold. Despite the over sensitivity of her skin, she wanted to sleep but knew she couldn’t. She had to hide her old skin and find a new one. She had seen them, and the bits they leave behind. They had to make a skin because theirs wasn’t thick enough and they didn’t have the comfort and water resistance of fur. Their skins were all different textures, they seemed to be able to peel them off without pain. They didn’t cover all parts. She wriggled in the sand to feel her new body more, to feel where it began and ended. The bones seemed too close to the surface. She hadn’t realised how fragile they were. She moved the hands that replaced the flippers, felt the sand, grains fell through her fingers. Before she had considered it a surface, she had not seen how it could be moved and separated.
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She found her spine more flexible, bending and twisting easily, awkwardly using her hands as supports she raised herself up, still sitting on her old skin. In the pale light of the moon she considered the contrast between old and new, clumsily stroking the grey fur and seeing the whiteness of her new skin. She clasped the fur tightly aware of its preciousness, her return ticket to the sea. She scanned the horizon for possible hiding places and spotted some rumpled clothes night swimmers had fortuitously left behind, but first she had to work out how to reach them and put them on. She considered her legs, flexed them, they seemed sturdy enough even though the construction seemed odd to her. She felt it would be too ambitious to attempt their upright manner of movement straight away so managed a fairly successful crawl towards the pile of material heaped on the sand not too far away. Her desire for comfort from the cold wind urged her along. She kept low to the ground as she heard voices coming from the sea. As she reached the clothes she rejoiced in her triumph for a moment before realising the difficulty of the next task, what exactly to do with them now she has found them. She jerkily spread out the clothes on the ground and consulted her new form. One part seemed to echo the top half of her body, in that it allowed for a head and arms to come out of it but it was far too large, she weighed the item in her hand and figured it was not important. Her arms flailed as she struggled into the garment, she smiled again at her next minor triumph. The other piece of fabric is a towel, she thought it would do to sleep under if nothing else and took it in one hand firmly still unsure of the strength of her grip. She raised her eye line to the top of the dunes and sees a small wooden structure that would provide some shelter.
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She woke on the sealskin; she held the towel close to her body and peered out of the bird hide. It was very early in the day so the only people on the beach were locals walking their dogs. On waking she felt hunger gnawing at her stomach, she wanted to replenish the energy last nights activities took out of her. In the early morning sunlight she looked despairingly at her hands and wondered how she could catch food with them. She hadn’t mastered walking, last nights crawl was serviceable enough and even preferable as it aided her invisibility, in the sunlight however, she knew it would attract attention. She turned her attention to the sealskin and cursed her sloth for preventing her from hiding it in the darkness. Instead of allowing her panic to seep over her entirely she reined herself in and tried to concentrate on walking. In order to do this without attracting stares she rolled down behind a sand dune and looked at her legs again. Trying to remember the easy movements she had seen them make. She struggled to move her body up the slope of sand, she clutched the towel, used her free hand to support her weight on the shifting, uneven surface. Her feet were flat at the base of the slope, still supporting no weight. Eventually she took the leap of faith and with one hand on the slope allowed her feet to support her, her legs didn’t buckle. She removed the hand and stood, feeling cocky, moved one foot and promptly fell over. After several attempts she could walk, the gait was slightly awkward but not too unusual. She scanned the horizon for a moment when the beach was clear, she walked to the waters edge and looked for fish, she saw them darting and made wild grabs in the water she felt their sinuous bodies slip through her fingers every time. She was now very hungry
and exhausted by the difficulties she had faced in completing the simplest task. She was tempted, seeing that the beach was still pretty deserted, to hide behind a dune, slide back into her comfortable skin, and go back to the water. She could deal with the humiliation, the inferences that she was a coward, too young and foolhardy to have lasted more than five minutes out of the water. That would fade with time, her curiosity would not, if she had gone back now she would have been forever bobbing up facing the shore, wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t wasted her one chance to see what it was like to be one of them. She had another idea, she staggered over to an outcrop of rocks, hoped to find some recently dead fish washed ashore. She sniffed the collection starting to dry in the sun, picked out the ones that smelt the least. In relief she sank into the sand and attempted to take a bite, her jaw hinged differently, she had to make a strange set of movements to even get the fish into her mouth. Once she figured out the mechanism she found her new teeth worked quite well, front for tearing, back part for chewing it up. She didn’t find the taste as pleasant as she used to and once finished, her human stomach rejected the raw, slightly off, fish. The unaccustomed action of vomiting set her off balance and the last sensation she felt was the trickle of blood over her scalp before she passed out. She came round, sensory information filtered in, she could feel a strange internal ache in her arm, she stretched out the other arm, she was surrounded by cold hard tubes, the air was still and warm, she was lying on smooth stiff material. They were several faces peering at her, they were looking at her like they were trying to communicate something of meaning, but all she saw was their mouths opening and closing like fish, and incomprehensible noises.
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She thinks they trapped her, that they found her when she was passed out and went and stole the skin from its useless hiding place. If she was going to have any chance of returning to the sea she had to get back to the beach immediately, a glimmer of hope remained that the skin would still be where she left it. She had heard from others that sometimes they found damaged creatures on the shore, fed them patched them up and returned them to the sea. So logic suggested they would have a similar place for their own kind. She looked at source of the strange internal ache, they had attached something to her arm, something was flowing in, panic rose as she yanked it out, she gritted her teeth to cope with the pain. Whatever they had put on her in place of the patches of skins she’d found was itchy and didn’t cover enough of her. She had taken note of that, before leaving the water, that specific parts of them were nearly always covered. To avoid being conspicuous she had to blend in. They had left her found skins next to the platform she was lying on, they had dragged material round it so she could slip out of the itchy skin and into the relative comfort of the ones she had found last night. Only a small amount of her own blood had leaked onto it. She poked her head out of the material and saw how many of them were around, although she was terrified, of violence on their part, or being forever trapped in this strange place, she waited till most of them appeared distracted and stumbled out. The ground was odd, smooth and totally flat, cold as well, she couldn’t see the sky, outside wasn’t far, and as she moved away from the others lying down she could smell the air wafting in. She wasn’t noticed as she slipped away. At first she felt all hope drain away, the outside was even stranger, there was no smell of the sea, no dunes in the distance, any indication she
near to the habitat she knew. The ground was very dark, a different kind of textured smooth, warmed by the sun, and there were all kinds of odd objects. She had only seen one or two of the things they used to travel on land before, they didn’t often make it onto the beach, she supposed they made sense on this surface. On the beach they had to be pushed to move again. In large groups they were terrifying; noisy and too fast and smelling awful, the same smell emitted by the odd constructions they used to move on water. The impossibility of finding the sea, her skin, anything she had ever seen before almost made her sink down and give up her control over her own fate, then she heard a familiar sound. The gulls were circling overhead. That made her think it couldn’t be far, she headed in the direction of the gulls. The smooth dark surface changed became paler, more like sand but not quite. There were more of them, milling about going in and out the boxlike things, so many strange noises and smells wafting around, the colours alone were made her head spin. She resolved to return at night, so she could find out more about it. Here many of them like her were barefoot. The pale ground started to have trickles of sand mixed in. She reached a strange mound, it was darker than what she had been walking on and looked as if it had been made by them, the surface was pitted and very hard, but sand was strewn all over it. She could start to hear the sea; wind was rolling in from it. At the top, the dunes started, she was safe. She raced to the shelter she had slept in last night, a wild hope rose up in her, maybe they hadn’t noticed it, apparently not many believed in the existence of her kind anymore, and though it looked like an ordinary seal skin, it seemed not many of them were interested in those either. They could
make their own skins now, they didn’t have to steal them like they used to. She reached the shelter, it only contained sand, she scrabbled frantically, wind could have covered it with sand. The sun had reached its full height and started its descent by the time she gave up. She was stuck she would have to find a means to survive. The shelter she had found last night wasn’t going to be useful when it got cold; it was just a windbreak. While it was still light she decided to at least find a more permanent residence, there were some they used on the beach, made of wood where they would stay for a short while. She traipsed down the dune and onto the beach. She had to find one that hadn’t been used in a long while, broken in some way. At the end of the row she found it, the colour was flaking off and the door was hanging open. It had holes in it and all kinds of small creatures she knew they wouldn’t tolerate scurried about. Feeling she was at last in relative safety she sunk to the floor and fell into a deep sleep. Her eyes flicked open in the dark, she scrabbled at the splintery door she saw the waning moon hanging low in the sky. As unused to her new mode of sight as she was, it was becoming easier to see in the dark, it appeared to be a matter of practice. The momentary lack of recollection when she woke soon went, leaving her painfully aware of two things: that her skin had disappeared and unless she managed to work out how they got food she was more likely to die than have any chance of finding it. Now the panic had faded the lack of adrenaline allowed her to think of her walk to the beach, she had seen them eating things, she was sure. In the haze of her distress last night and today she had forgotten any of the information she was offered before she left.
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The older ones had rambled on about how easy it used to be, it was known what they were and largely they had a sort of respect for you, as long as you kept hold of your skin, they would feed you and keep you warm for as long as you wanted. Others being younger had told her what to expect these days, she already knew they threw a lot of things away; it was obvious from the state of the sea. She remembered someone describing where she could find all the food they threw away, assembling that picture in her mind she decided to return to the place she passed through earlier today. It was dark so it was safe. She marked her route with handfuls of pebbles as she scaled the dunes and wandered down the dark pitted hill. She searched behind the boxlike structures, in the darkness the bright colours didn’t bother her so much and it was blissfully silent apart from strange humming sounds. She recognised some things, she had seen them floating in the water, they had no smell as such. Everything else didn’t look or smell like anything she’d ever eaten, but certain smells were eliciting saliva unwillingly from her new mouth. She located the source of the smell, checked it wasn’t diseased or rotten and gobbled it. Waiting a short while, she realised that her stomach was not protesting, she continued to follow her nose and carried the food back to her shelter, attempting to either pick up the pebbles or disrupt her trail of pebbles on her way back. The next few phases of the moon passed in the same way, she dozed and watched them pottering about on the beach by day and at night scurried to find sustenance and slip back unseen. She had attempted to attract the others attention, she swam up to them, but before she could communicate even a meaningful glance they had swam away, scared. She recognised the markings on her mother’s tail just before she faded from view.
It got colder and her scavenging raids were not as fruitful, during the day it became clear that even they thought it was getting cold as their numbers dwindled. At night she wandered along the sand, looking for more patches of skins to stop her shivering. Only the vain hope of seeing her skin again kept her going through the hardships of her new existence. One day, in twilight huddled in her shelter, she saw her skin, the wind was whistling through the holes of the wood as she peered out. The markings were still etched into her memory. It could not belong to anyone else. Her initial joy seeped away as she saw the state of it. Not only had it been stolen, but mutilated. Bits were missing and the creature that wore had fashioned it to their own proportions. Even in the fading light she could see they were old and weak, she looked like seaweed dried in the sun, wrinkled and wizened. Anger rose up, the will to live that had been kept alive all this time was gone. The skin, which could have restored her to her former body and the comfort of the sea, was broken. Her desire to own it remained. As it was darkening quickly and the age of the creature she knew would mean her senses were dulled, she decided to follow her. Creeping out of shelter, trying to quiet the creak of the door she padded on the sand, she clasped a large rock, prepared to dash out the brains of the thief. The wind, which covered most sounds, allowed her to catch up. Hanging back a few paces she realised despite her anger, she couldn’t kill the old creature wearing her skin. Maybe it wasn’t even her who stole it and she doubted very much that she knew that the creature that owned it was still alive. Despite this change of heart, the closer she came to the familiar markings, the more she knew she must possess it. In front of the old creature a small furry creature on a string
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trundled along, she was panting heavily to catch up. She had to act now or the small creature would make a noise and alert the old one. She could stun the old creature; the small furry thing would bring help. She raised the rock in her hand and struck the old creature’s skull. She made a strange noise and sank to the ground. As the small furry creature got tangled and without success tried to bite her she struggled to free her skin from the creatures back. As she hugged her altered skin to her chest she wondered what to do with it. She thought again of the others in the sea, she often thought she had seen a familiar snout bobbing up before it disappeared just as suddenly. She had thought about walking into the sea before, letting the water fill her nostrils and lungs knowing her body would float to the surface and be found by her kin. But they wouldn’t have known it was she. There would have been no familiar smell or sign to show that although dead, she had returned. Now she had her marker. She held her skin out and put it on, surprised by the strange surface added to the inside. Then she found the pockets, she had come across them before in the skins stolen from the beach, but had no use for them. Quickly before the groaning creature woke entirely she filled them with small stones, wanting to sink to the seabed. She walked slowly with her weighted skin, until she reached the water’s edge. She hesitated for only a moment as she strode in slowly till the water covered her head. Her victim woke just in time to see her attacker walking into the sea wearing her new coat.It got colder and her scavenging raids were not as fruitful, during the day it became clear that even they thought it was getting cold as their numbers dwindled. At night she wandered along the sand, looking for more patches of skins to stop her shivering. Only the vain hope of seeing her skin again kept her going through the hardships of her new existence.
One day, in twilight huddled in her shelter, she saw her skin, the wind was whistling through the holes of the wood as she peered out. The markings were still etched into her memory. It could not belong to anyone else. Her initial joy seeped away as she saw the state of it. Not only had it been stolen, but mutilated. Bits were missing and the creature that wore had fashioned it to their own proportions. Even in the fading light she could see they were old and weak, she looked like seaweed dried in the sun, wrinkled and wizened. Anger rose up, the will to live that had been kept alive all this time was gone. The skin, which could have restored her to her former body and the comfort of the sea, was broken. Her desire to own it remained. As it was darkening quickly and the age of the creature she knew would mean her senses were dulled, she decided to follow her. Creeping out of shelter, trying to quiet the creak of the door she padded on the sand, she clasped a large rock, prepared to dash out the brains of the thief. The wind, which covered most sounds, allowed her to catch up. Hanging back a few paces she realised despite her anger, she couldn’t kill the old creature wearing her skin. Maybe it wasn’t even her who stole it and she doubted very much that she knew that the creature that owned it was still alive. Despite this change of heart, the closer she came to the familiar markings, the more she knew she must possess it. In front of the old creature a small furry creature on a string trundled along, she was panting heavily to catch up. She had to act now or the small creature would make a noise and alert the old one. She could stun the old creature; the small furry thing would bring help. She raised the rock in her hand and struck the old creature’s skull. She made a strange noise and sank to the ground. As the small furry creature got tangled and without success tried to bite her she struggled to free her skin from the creatures back.
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As she hugged her altered skin to her chest she wondered what to do with it. She thought again of the others in the sea, she often thought she had seen a familiar snout bobbing up before it disappeared just as suddenly. She had thought about walking into the sea before, letting the water fill her nostrils and lungs knowing her body would float to the surface and be found by her kin. But they wouldn’t have known it was she. There would have been no familiar smell or sign to show that although dead, she had returned. Now she had her marker. She held her skin out and put it on, surprised by the strange surface added to the inside. Then she found the pockets, she had come across them before in the skins stolen from the beach, but had no use for them. Quickly before the groaning creature woke entirely she filled them with small stones, wanting to sink to the seabed. She walked slowly with her weighted skin, until she reached the water’s edge. She hesitated for only a moment as she strode in slowly till the water covered her head. Her victim woke just in time to see her attacker walking into the sea wearing her new coat.
Anna Percy was born in Norfolk, obtained a joint hons BA in Creative Writing and Contemporary Culture from the now defunct Cumbria Institute of the Arts and an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Manchester. Her work mostly focuses on Poetry, she has been performing poetry around the country for over five years, and takes in nature, love, losing your mind, loss and the strangeness of perception.
“When Jazz and a kazoo join forces, Starved Dog,
(THIS MONTH’S MP3)
Levenshulme Bicycle Orchestra are a four piece musical outfit with a difference. As their name suggests they don’t necessarily use the instruments you would expect from a band. Experimenting with the sounds inanimate objects make, particularly bikes, LBO have produced an album that jars against the norm, and defies classification. At times Zeke Clough sounds like he’s reciting poetry or telling an anecdote. Other times he’s making animal noises. Nine Doors is to be released on 25th February by Concrete Moniker, an innovative record label that promotes new and experimental electronic music. As part of their not-for-profit ethos, all of their musician’s music is available for free download, enabling them maximise the number of listeners, which in turn helps them maintain a platform for new music and artists. The option of donation is available and it supports Concrete Moniker in doing what they do.
is the product”
muscles and your eyeballs, ‘til you shrivel like a raisin, and relax… and relax like a corpse.’ When Jazz and a kazoo join forces, Starved Dog (this month's mp3) is the product. Zeke sings about the raw, maddened edge of unrequited love, ‘Like a starved dog in a butcher’s shop, is how I feel when I see you.’ It goes beyond romance and longing, to a place where other love songs fear to tread, a place where the lovelorn is literally barking. Marlon Brando, an ode to the late actor, depicts the decline of his final years. We hear about false teeth and calloused gums, legions of sycophants and bloated flesh, a rowing boat made from his own coffin, and a parental love for mosquitoes and their simple life. ‘He knows he can never be as easily sated as a mosquito, his emptiness is far too extreme.’ It asks the question of Brando, ‘you’re a famous film star, why aren’t you happy with your existence?’ to which Brando replies, ‘well, that’s the question isn’t it?’ We don’t get that feeling LBO are making a social commentary on the nature of happiness as such, they are too irreverent for that, but they give an impression of the embarrassing tragedy that is the world of celebrity, that we have all learned to ignore and accept.
Nine Doors is an album that offers an insight into the bizarre, the nature of happiness, the profane, insanity and the downright weird, all with a strange beauty and sense of humour. If a scrap yard came to life and started dancing around, it would be dancing to LBO. Loose and Limber brings to mind a zombified aerobics teacher, ‘Shake your liver and relax, breathe in, breathe out…tense your 22
Primate Engineer combines industrial sounds with the earthy beats of African tribal music. If this music exists hundreds of years in the future and is played by robots trying to simulate the sounds of jungle creatures, then you can come close to understanding what this track sounds like. With the combination of technology and human evolution, it’s like 2001: A Space Odyssey condensed into three minutes of song. Bandage Eyes pleads for memories, freedom, free will and threatens self harm if escape isn’t possible. This could be the voice of a mentally ill person locked up and sectioned. But it’s less of a commentary on what it is to be locked up, trapped in a dark room but more on what happens when the doors are finally opened. ‘Close the door,
put the bandages back over my eyes…. I’ve seen to much and it scares me.’ The theme of being institutionalised is only one element of this song. It seems that the character speaking is afraid of the world, beautiful as it is, and wants to remain with his head buried in the sand, despite the fact it was previously driving him mad. You could apply that sentiment to this album, if you want to stay in a comfortable, mundane, locked world then this album isn’t for you, but if you’re willing to break free from the trap of the familiar, even though it scares you, and this album probably will disturb you on some level, then you should definitely give it a listen. Nine Doors will challenge any preconceptions you have about music. If you are looking for something you want to ignore, then listen to Michael Bublé. Levenshulme Bicycle Orchestra may not be Easy Listening, but they do make for some interesting listening and could even inspire you to get out the pots and pans and make some experimental music of your own. Nine Doors by Levenshulme Bicycle Orchestra is available now for download or purchase from Concrete Moniker. 23
Words: Elaine Wilson
sixty_six_events On January 21st 2010, sixty_six_events occurred internationally, inspiring people to perform mysterious and apparently simple activities and then documenting
their experiences in any way they thought appropriate. Matthew Lee Knowles and Andy Ingamells are responsible for this innovative and challenging project.
blankpages Editor John Leyland speaks to them exclusively about their motivation and the results.
"Collapse"
“Change the sun’s light bulb”
Pérez Pérez
Richard Thomas 24
Why "66"? And why the particular date? In the middle of 2007 I decided I wanted to do something with event scores, which turned into six_events, performed in 29 countries across the globe over six days in January 2008. The 21st January to the 27th January, with the 26th as a rest date. The idea (if there had to be one) was to turn ordinary events into performances. Six simple activities, getting on a bus and not thinking about the duration of the journey, walking down a road and clapping, entering a building and closing your eyes, buying an item in a supermarket and giving it away, ordering water in a pub but not drinking it and standing in a park looking up at the sky, were to be presented or performed, at a rate of one per day. Each event contained internal tasks, which allowed the performer to look and listen for the art and music constantly surrounding them. I had wanted to repeat six_events the following year, but put it off as I wasn’t happy with simply repeating. Near the beginning of 2009 I decided to simply add a ‘6’ to the event, creating sixty_six_ events with the decision that every subsequent two years another ’6’ would be added. So, in 2012 six_hundred_sixty_six_events and in 2014 six_thousand_six_hundred_sixty_six_events. There was no special reasoning for choosing the dates, as there was no particular special reason for choosing a ‘6’ to begin with.
What made you come up with the idea?
In terms of evidence, did you see any trends in what you got back from the public?
As a composer, trying to define what music is, I often came back to the conclusion that music occurs when an instruction is given and followed through, giving a result however conceptual or minimal. Everything is music, instructional or non-instructional.
Generally speaking, most of the events were interpreted literally, with small differences coming from the person performing the event. There were several cases of group performances, which of course was great to hear about and see. More elaborate and detailed interpretations inevitably came but the majority seemed to be performed with ease. By that, I mean I got the impression that people looked at the events, quickly identifying which ones they liked and which they think their own ideas could be applied to. A few hardcore eventers performed the whole set of sixty six events. In total at the time of writing we have close to a thousand items of evidence (videos, photos, texts, recordings, found items etc)
Living a life full of John Cage, dada, Fluxus, experimental music/writing and happenings led me to start thinking about a global event. Doing six_events brought me close to a number of amazing minds and ideas of people across the world, leading to many conversations and collaborations. Having the opportunity to work with Andy on the 66 has being an incredible collaboration which I hope will last for much longer.
Here are some favourites that are in my head at the moment, from hundreds of performances! (PTO)
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Magenta: questions answered by Matthew Cyan: questions answered by Andy
• Shake hands: Near a Theremin. • Display a ticket: laying out train tickets from a London A-Z to a Birmingham A-Z and following with the camera. • Strip a newspaper: Making a burlesque outfit of newspaper and removing it slowly. • Buy something and wear it: A necklace of meat. • Fix an unbroken thing/object: Plasters, medical tape and bandages around a picture frame. • Teach a cat a language you do not know: Hindi, Ancient Sumerian, Japanese… • Press any Key: ironing a door key. • Draw an arrow pointing to a page: Jimmy Page. • Change the sun’s light bulb: Flowers in an old light bulb. • Make contact with Aliens: “Hello” written in white tape on a window.
When I first read the list of "events", I was struck by how poetic it was. Seemingly innocuous tasks or actions were placed next to cosmic meanderings. Was that intentional? To challenge the things people perhaps take for granted? To inspire wonder in the apparently mundane? We hoped that the events would generate any kind of response from the reader, be it wonder, disgust, excitement, surprise, or anything else. However we didn't want to dictate how people should react, and were very interested to see in what ways our ideas would be approached by different people who had often not experienced us or our work before. The list was intended to be interesting enough to encourage lots of participation. If all the events were mundane then it would perhaps have been difficult to get a lot of performers. On the other hand had all the events been too bizarre it may have alienated would-be participants! So you could say that there was poetry in the practicality. Left: Josh Kaye, Make contact with aliens Right, clockwise: David Menezes, strip a newspaper, William Evertson, Press any key, Jane Wang, Shout the first and last pages of a book
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There's something wonderfully subversive about it, anarchic even - "shout the first and last pages of a book" for example where does that sense come from? We wrote events that we thought we would enjoy performing ourselves. So when you read the list you see actions that are a reflection of our own personalities and sense of humour. Perhaps we are really a pair of young anarchists? Or maybe we just enjoy being noisy and making a mess!
“Eat a Cloud” Julio Tafoya
For more information, and links to all the images and videos visit www.sixtysixevents.com 27
JD Salinger
45 Years of Things Unsaid The Death of Holden Caulfield by Baiba Auria, illustration by Michael Thorp Yes, the great and mysterious JD Salinger has died. At 91 it is not an uncommon thing to do, yet I am sure there are other people besides me who wish that he’d refrained. Now all that is left is his comparatively small body of work and expected publications of any scrap of unpublished writing - from shopping lists and doodles to the alleged 15 unpublished novels that he wrote for himself. I await the purging in mild disgust at the literary vultures waiting to strike and suppressed excitement. Salinger’s work consists of The Catcher in the Rye (1951), Nine Stories (1953), Franny and Zooey (1961), Raise High the Roof Beams, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (1963) and his last published work Hapworth 16 (1924) which appeared in the New Yorker in 1965. His first novel has remained the most popular - Catcher has been loved or hated by millions although at the time of its publication Franny was met with greater excitement. By his own acknowledgment Catcher was based on his own upbringing and many righteous peoples
have scowled at the constant bad language and attitude of the outsider anti-hero he had unleashed unto their outraged consciousness - surely teenagers like that should not, could not exist? But they did, and they do and they raise Catcher as the flag against adult hypocrisy. His themes are still relevant today - the sensitivity of youth to the world around them, rootlessness, hypocrisy, materialism, false ideals of the adults (as in the stories featuring the Glass family i.e. Catcher, Franny), the search for redemption through some kind of love, religion or honesty. He also presented the effects of war on the psyche of young soldiers - he depicted post-traumatic stress disorder before it had a name in short stories like ‘A Perfect Day for Banana Fish’ and ‘For Esme - With Love and Squalor’. I could go into his early years; his time in the army, his study of Buddhism and his women - all of which are reflected at various points in his writing - but I get the 28
feeling that he would not have liked me to do so as he was intensively reclusive. As he wrote in Catcher; “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” Personally (and whether for better or for worse, I can not say) I have grown up with Salinger and loved him as a teenager for different reasons than I love him for as an adult - rebellion then, hypocrisy now? His language and stories mesmerise me with their certainty and uniqueness; the raw humanity emerges from the pages and stabs you with a recognition of yourself. This is not the time or place for an essay on everything JD Salinger meant to me. All I am going to say is; the world is goddam lousier with Salinger dead.
“Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around - nobody big, I mean except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they’re running and they don’t look where they’re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye, and all.”
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Living Positive Living Positive is a unique project, which explores living with or being affected by HIV, through Photography. The project is run by artists Charlotte Barnes and Maya Harding and will see images being presented in venues all across Manchester.
We are thrilled to announce that Annie Lennox has donated a photograph, with accompanying text, for the exhibition. It will be revealed as part of the city wide exhibition.
If you need any more information please don't hesitate to contact Charlotte at charlotte@livingpositive.co.uk
It’s great to get along with my life, business as usual. But I hear, see and very occasionally witness the checks that people undertake to see that they’re safe with those people… like me. People’s defences can be social or political. “We’d rather not mix with those people…” “Those people shouldn’t be allowed to enter the country…” Anyway, I prefer to keep to my own kind. Humankind. 30
Photographs created by Martin, age 51
Exhibition The exhibition is city wide in Manchester starting the week of the 22nd of March 2010. Prints will be displayed through windows and on the walls of shops, bars etc so that you view the exhibition while going about your everyday life. Images will
also be displayed on the City Gateway giant screen at Manchester Piccadilly Train Station. There will also be books containing a selection of the images left around Manchester to be found.
“I am HIV positive. In some parts of the world that would inspire fear, anger and violence. In some parts of the United Kingdom it inspires fear, anger and violence. This project was, in part, inspired by many conversations about HIV and invisibility; how some of us who live with HIV were made to feel invisible; how we made ourselves feel invisible. Photography involves exposure and everyone involved in this project has allowed themselves to expose their relationship with HIV – as those who live with or those who are affected by it.
Annie Lennox has, through involvement with Red Hot and Blue in the 80’s; the creation the HIV charity, SING, working to support women and children in Africa; her involvement with TAC; her support of the Stigma Index in December 2009; her ongoing work to promote HIV education, is recognised as a long term supporter of those who, like me, live with and are affected by HIV regardless of where in the world we live.” Sam de Croy Development & Well Being Manager BPNW 31
You can also view all the images on the Living Positive website gallery page: www.livingpositive.co.uk/gallery (live from Monday 22nd March)
Blank Media Collective Team: Director: Mark Devereux Financial Administrator: Martin Dale Development: Dwight Clarke Information Manager: Sylvia Coates Web Manager: Simon Mills Exhibitions Coordinators: Jamie Hyde, Marcelle Holt & Claire Curtin Special Projects Coordinator: Petra Hoschtitzky Blank Media Presents... Manager: Iain Goodyear Blank Media Presents... Steve Goossens Official Photographer: Gareth Hacking
blankpages Team: Editor: John Leyland Fiction Editor: Phil Craggs Poetry Editor: Baiba Auria Music Editor: Dan Bridgwood-Hill Visual Editors / Designers: Henry Roberts & Michael Thorp
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