blankpages Issue 33 by Blank Media Collective

Issue 33 Apr 2011

Michael Vincent Manalo & Shona Harrison

Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Laughing Now? 21 April - 18 June 2011

greenroom, Manchester

Public Preview: 20 April [6-9pm]

www.blankmediacollective.org/whoslaughingnow

Fragility, Shona Harrison ÂŠ Shona Harrison

Free entry

CONTENTS GET IN TOUCH 4 WELCOME... 5 COVER ARTIST - SYLVIA JEFFRIESS 6 FICTION - VIRGINIA MOFFATT 14 BLANKVERSE - DARREN THOMAS 24 THIS MONTH’S MP3 32 FEATURE - CREATURE MAG 34 BLANKPICKS 38 BLANK MEDIA RECCOMMENDS 40 THIS MONTH IN BLANK MEDIA COLLECTIVE 43 CREDITS 44

YOU ARE LISTENING TO... Phantom Limb by birdengine

COVER ART HEADCASE#1000 by Sylvia Jeffriess (detail)

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Welcome...

This month’s blankpages is a buffet of literary and artistic delicacies to tantalise, stimulate and whet your appetite. The pages are brimming over with new hand-picked features, interviews, poetry, stunning visuals and recommendations for the latest cultural happenings in Manchester right now. It has been another successful and busy month at BLANKSPACE, with the opening of No Offence Intended, our first exhibition by an external group. And we’ve an exciting month ahead of us with the forthcoming new exhibition, PERCEPTION/DECEPTION (8 April – 17 April) - a collaborative project showcasing artists from West Midlands-based No Such Thing. Our BLANKSPACE In_Tuition discussion workshops continue each Tuesday throughout the month including fine art, literature, creative writing, moving image and freestyle workshops. Just check out our website for more information, everyone’s welcome. And finally, is there anything else? We hear you ask. Well, there’s always cake...

Catherine Teague blankpages Editorial Assistant

Sylvia Jeffriess Sylvia Jeffriess is an Australian based fine artist working within the realms of illustration, painting, graphic design and installation. Having completed a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Painting) at RMIT University in 2006, she has exhibited extensively in Australia (National Gallery of Victoria - Ian Potter Gallery, Gertrude Contemporary Art Space, TCB Art Inc) and participated in various national and international artist-in-residence programs. She is currently working on a graphic novel based on the seminal 1950’s magic realism novel “A Palm Wine Drinkard and His Dead Palm-Wine Tapster In the Dead’s Town” written by Nigerian author Amos Tutuola.

Taking the notion of character through her own personal psychedelic mincer, her paintings and painted installations re-interpret notions of identity and self understanding through a self perpetuating mythology based on illogical insecurities, hilarious fears and fantastic embodiments of the monstrous. Through the four years she has been practicing she has been building an extensive database of grotesque cartoon inspired characters that that inhabit the various incarnations of this mythological world that she builds within her works. The first incarnation of these worlds was “Boulimos” - a world built around the constant cycle of the human digestive system and the Freudian Desire/Lack relationship. The more recent world of HEADCASE shifted the gaze more intensely onto the the personal natures of these characters, and attempted to excavate them from within the subjects as opposed to looking on at them from the outside. These characters are a way of interacting with and reflecting on the artist’s own fears, insecurities, unrealized desires and paranoias in a liminally based environment that is constructed with a strong ooze of self-deprecating humor running though it.

Sylvia Jeffriess' new series of paintings takes the notion of character through the psychedelic meat mincer of the artists personal subconscious, pulsing out a pop infused inner slime of cartoon inspired fears, desires, repulsions and anxieties. The works writhe internally through a candy colored landscape, informed by and fabricated on a self-perpetuating mythological mess of reoccurring symbols and characters, situating themselves within the arena of schizophrenic paranoid seduction. www.society6.com/sylviajeffriess

At Home with the Wilsons By Virginia Moffatt Illustration by Michael Thorp

6.45am - Heather. “Dipsy hat.” Laila’s face is pressed almost against the screen, as she repeats, “Dipsy hat.” She turns to Heather, and says again, “Dipsy hat”, just in case her mother has missed the point. Heather manages a fake Mummy smile. It is enough for the two year old who turns round to watch the television, whilst Heather slumps further on the sofa. She has been here forever; locked perpetually in Cbeebies with its brightly-coloured, inarticulate animatronics. The baby inside her enormous bump shifts position as if to remind her – she’ll be here for another four years at least. It is only quarter to seven, but the morning is already warm, even with the French windows open. In a minute, the gentle, dancing Teletubbies will be replaced by the maniacal Tweenies, and soon after the rest of the house will wake. She closes her eyes for a moment. “Time for tubby bye-bye.” Laila giggles with pleasure; Heather doesn’t need to open her eyes to know that the Teletubbies are hiding. “No-oh,” says the announcer. “No-oh,” roars Laila with delight. How many times, thinks Heather, how many times? With children and the childminding it’s gone on for years and years. Endless Teletubbies, Rosie and Jim, Mr Tumble. It’s enough to

make a woman weep. The music fades out. The announcers sing a silly song, and then right on cue, the Tweenies roar across the set. Laila jumps up and runs around the room, singing "Ready to play. Ready to play”. Heather reluctantly pulls herself off the sofa, ready for another day. 7am – Paul. “…in Afghanistan, a roadside bomb has gone off, killing three soldiers, the Ministry of Defence has yet to release their names…” Paul rolls over and groans. Heather is no longer in bed. He feels vaguely guilty that she must have got up with Laila again, but even more irritated that she didn’t switch the alarm off before she went. She knows he hates waking up to the news. He reaches towards her side of the bed, and switches it onto snooze. He lies back and drifts off to sleep troubled with images of tanks, and guns, and a vague sense that he has abandoned Heather and their new baby somewhere in a desert. “…Minister, can we really believe that?” The presenter’s sneer breaks through his dozing. Paul bashes on snooze again. He really must get up now, but the bed is comfortable and he sinks down again. Now Heather is giving birth, but the head is huge, and the baby that finally emerges is monstrous. He wants to cry out, that’s not my child, that’s not my child, but he is struck dumb. He wants to go and comfort his weeping wife, but his arms are frozen by his side. And now the enormous baby is crawling towards him, larger, and larger, and he is paralysed

and powerless. “The public could do with less of this cynicism…” says the minister. Paul fights to wake up, trying to move his arm, “…we would be less cynical minister, if you proved more trustworthy…” Paul’s fingers wiggle, his arm un-stiffens. He shakes it and at last he is able to switch the discussion off. Time to get up. 7.15am – Sophie. Having breakfast, strawberries and muesli. 7.15am April 23rd from mobile Hannah’s tweet beeps onto Sophie’s mobile. She puts down her straightening tongs, and swiftly fingers a response: Hair and dressing. 7.16am April 23rd from mobile She sends it quickly and then a private text. PS Andrew Pike’s started following me!!! She looks back in the mirror; Andrew Pike, a follower. It’s the best thing that has happened all year. Downstairs she can hear Mum moving around the kitchen and Laila watching TV. It won’t be long till, “Sophie, get a move on.” Predictable as ever. Next will be Laila’s wail as she is taken from the living room to eat her breakfast. Right on cue, her little sister screams, “No!” Sophie’s phone beeps again. Andrew Pike, squeeeeeeeeeeee.

She taps back. I know!!! Mum’s voice interrupts her texting. Must go, mum’s yelling. C u later Sx She takes one more look at her hair, long, brown smooth as a princess. She adjusts her outfit, yellow tanktop over white low cut blouse, short blue skirt over black tights. Mum will moan about her looking too grown up or something, but it’s a look to entrance a year ten boy. “Sophie!!!!” “Coming,” she picks up her phone and meanders downstairs. 7.30am – Jake. “We’ve got incoming, we’ve got incoming…” Voices from the battlefield scream in Jake’s ears, in conflict with the voice of his mother calling, “Jake. Jake.” He raises his head off the desk; the earphones have slipped half off. Shit. He must have fallen asleep in the middle of the game again. He’s tempted to get back in, but he needs a shower badly, and Mum will be up if he leaves it any longer. He doesn’t want her knowing about this, she’ll only moan. Regretfully, he presses exit, and heads for the shower room. 7.45am – Heather. Heather’s family dance around her as she puts food in Laila’s mouth in between barking instructions. Have you got your lunch, where’s your homework, is it PE today? Sometimes it seems that all she ever does is ask

questions. Paul finishes his slice of toast, picks up his briefcase, passes the slightest of pecks on the top of her head and is gone. A few years ago, she’d have felt it a slight, but today she barely notices his departure. Sophie is texting in between buttering sandwiches; Heather knows she should say something about it, and the outfit that Sophie has got on. But the day is so hot, her bump is so heavy, and she is so tired. All she can manage is, “are you sure you can wear that to school?” Sophie rolls her eyes, gathers belongings, kisses Laila and waves a vague goodbye. “Bye-bye, Sophie”, says Laila, hoping for more big sisterly communication, but the kiss is all she is getting this morning, and so she returns to the business of eating breakfast. Jake sits at the counter, on a bar stool, headphones on, listening to his iPod as he shovels down his cereal. Heather shouts above the tinny music, to remind him he has a guitar class tonight. He grunts, finishes his cereal and he too leaves. The house is suddenly quiet, except for Laila who is clamouring to get out of her high chair. Heather unclasps the buckles and places her back in front of the television. Then she returns to the sofa, and sinks slowly into it. She’ll get up and clean the dishes in a minute. But now, with the house empty, and Laila entranced by the animals on Big Barn Farm, she can afford, five minutes sleep. Just five minutes…

8.35am – Laila. “At the check-out…,” the presenters sing. Laila turns away. This is boring. She wants a cuddle. Mummy is lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. Laila climbs up. Mummy grunts and squeezes her back. She doesn’t seem to want to play. Laila slips down and wanders into the kitchen. She opens a cupboard. Nothing but pans. She drops them on the floor. They make a satisfying clang. She tries another cupboard. It won’t open. She pulls it. It still won’t open. She pulls it as hard as she can. It swings open to reveal a treasure trove of biscuits and chocolate. She picks up a chocolate bar and begins to eat. 9am – Heather. Heather wakes with a start. She was dreaming of lambs being born and now the television seems to be baaing at her. She looks up at the screen. Timmy the sheep is collecting blue toys and bringing them into a barn. Laila is not there. Heather rises from the couch, and turns off the television. “Laila.” No answer. Then a muffled giggle. Heather looks in the kitchen and finds the pans on the floor, the broken cupboard lock and a chocolate trail that leads to the hall. Laila is sitting on the floor, covered in chocolate from head to toe, eating what looks to be her third Mars bar. The coffee-coloured carpet is ingrained with melted chocolate. There are finger-marks all over the wall. “Laila!” Heather takes the remaining sweet from her

daughter’s mouth. The little girl begins to wail and throw herself on the floor, grinding the mess further into the carpet. Heather picks her up, groaning at the weight of the struggling child as she drags her upstairs the bath. It is only nine o’clock she thinks, only nine o’clock. ************************************ 5pm - Heather. The day has passed because it always does. And in the usual fashion. The tasks don’t change, only the order. Cleaning/washing/ducks in the park/cooking/feeding/ shopping/ironing/tantrums/telling off. Washing/cleaning/ feeding/shopping/telling off/tantrums/ducks in the park/ cooking/ironing. Cooking/tantrums/telling off/ironing/ cleaning/ducks in the park/shopping/feeding/washing. Like a washing machine on perpetual cycle, rinse , lather, repeat. The only thing different about today is the unseasonal heat. Eighty by nine o’clock, ninety by lunch. A day of melting tarmac, sticky thighs and a thumping head. There has been no relief – her thermostat is broken and her body is at boiling point. Is it any wonder - with so much to do, and being as pregnant as this, and the heat, and Laila’s behaviour - that she completed only half the chores? That the one tidy room is the dining room, the ironing hasn’t been done, and she has only just started supper. Is it any wonder at all?

5pm – Sophie. Sophie throws open the front door and marches into the kitchen. “What’s for tea?” she asks her mother. “Lasagne. Where have you been?” “Hannah’s” “You could have let me know.” “Soorrreee, “ Sophie drags the word out. “Call me when tea’s ready.” She strides off upstairs, missing her mother’s muttered, “Call me, please.” In her bedroom, Sophie pulls out her lap-top and signs in to Twitter. No messages from Andrew. He didn’t seem too interested in her when she came up to him today either. Acted like she was just a stupid little year eight. It’s a puzzle that she and Hannah haven’t been able to solve. She searches for his Twitter page. The entries are no more illuminating. Back from school. Listening to nDubz. 5pm April 23rd from web Been for a dump. Off to school. 7.45am April 23rd from web Just got up. Time for breakfast. 7.15am April 23rd from web The other entries are all similar, nothing about her at all. Why on earth is he following her? She stares at the computer, willing a message to arrive on her screen. Why won’t he tweet her, why?

5.15pm – Jake. Jake slinks in from his guitar lesson, announces his presence and disappears upstairs to his computer. Headphones on; he waits for the game to load up. The screen shifts to a familiar scene, the roof-top above Hussein Street. His virtual self enters and joins the band of snipers. “…Wilson reporting for duty, sah,” he barks into the microphone. The sergeant’s avatar turns to him. “Welcome back Wilson. We’ve had a report of an enemy incursion into the square. Take Stewart and check it out.” “Yes, sah.” Jake is delighted, he likes Stewart and is ready for anything. They slip down the dark staircase into the narrow street below. “I’ll cover your back,” says Stewart. “Thanks mate.” Jake is cautious, the enemy could come from any direction. In the distance he hears gunshots and a voice over the headphones. “Fucking towel-heads. They got Jimmy.” They turn the corner into the square. It seems to be empty. Then: “What the fuck’s that?” Stewart’s avatar points to the far corner. A flash of…“Shit”…it’s gunfire. Jake ducks, and pulls his friend down. They both start shooting in the direction of the gun. Two insurgents come towards them with automatic weapons blazing. Jake fires, and fires, and fires. Their attackers are blown backwards; one’s head is shot completely off. The other lies bleeding on the floor. Jake’s avatar looks at Stewart’s and grins. This is real life.

5.30pm – Laila. Laila is watching the children on the TV screen. She likes the pretty colours they wear. They are running round. Now they are making themselves into a picture of a cake. Laila runs round “Cake, cake.” Next they make a butterfly. “Fly,” says Laila, “Fly.” Mummy walks in. “Tea-time, Laila.” “Fly,” says Laila, flapping her arms. “It’s time for tea.” “No,” says Laila. Mummy ignores her and turns off the television. “NO,” shouts Laila. Why can’t Mummy see she is flying? She throws herself on the floor sobbing. 6pm – Heather. Heather serves up the lasagne, leaving a plate for Paul in the microwave. She passes food to the teenagers, chops up Laila’s and puts it on the tray on her high chair. Laila’s face is still red and blotchy from the tantrum. She throws her food on the floor. Heather picks it up. She throws it again. Heather picks it up. The third time, Heather pulls a bread stick from the cupboard. Laila chomps on it, and Heather is able to eat. “How was school?” she asks the others. “All right. Nothing much,” says Jake. “Miss Hutchinson is getting married,” says Sophie. They have little else to say. They eat rapidly, and are

back in their bedrooms, she hopes to do homework. She hasn’t the energy to investigate further. She leaves Laila in front of Bedtime TV and clears away the debris. The evening is heavy, the sky look thunderous. She wishes it was bed-time. 7pm – Laila. “Silly old fox, doesn’t he know?” says Mummy. “There’s no such thing as a Gruffalo,” cries Laila snuggling up against Mummy. She follows the Mouse’s progress with delight, loving the arrival of the Gruffalo arrives. Mummy turns the last page. “The Mouse had a nut…” “And the nut was good! Again, again, Mummy.” But Mummy says “no” and gives her a cuddle and some milk. Laila realises she is too tired to protest. Mummy lies down with her. She is warm and comfortable. Laila drifts off to sleep. 7.30pm – Sophie. Sophie takes out her memory stick and loads her homework onto the computer. She hates Science. She doesn’t get it. Determine the momentum of a ... a. 60-kg man moving eastward at 9 m/s. b. 1000-kg car moving northward at 20 m/s. c. 40-kg teenager moving southward at 2 m/s. There’s no way she can do this alone. She thinks for a minute and goes to her Twitter page.

Trying to do homework. Anyone understand momentum equations? 7.30pm April 23rd from web. She knows it’s insane to think that Andrew might respond. The air in her room is hot, even with the window open. She wishes it would rain. 7.45pm – Jake. The sortie in the square was so successful, Jake’s been given a Humvee to take the next town. He’s got a crowd of squaddies in the back. They are load and raucous, and the language is rough. Jake is keeping alert for road-side booby traps, suicide bombers. A truck ahead suddenly bursts into flames. He swerves to avoid it, and the gunfire that is coming from left and right. His pulse is racing, his senses fixed on reaching the walls of the town ahead. 8pm – Heather. Heather tiptoes out of Laila’s room. She’s missed the start of “Friends” but arrives in time to see Rachel and Ross arrive at the maternity ward. Ross gets his legs stuck in the stirrups as another couple enters. Heather laughs even though she’s seen this as often as the Teletubbies. She’s always glad stirrups aren’t used in British labour wards. When she’s not pregnant, she watches with a glass of wine, and some peanuts. Tonight, she settles for a coke, and some chocolate, as Rachel becomes increasingly

frustrated with all the women having babies before her. Though Heather can repeat every word, the dénouement still makes her cry with laughter, “Oh… My… God,” it’s the irritating Janice, going into a very noisy labour. 8.30pm – Paul. Paul walks up the drive. He smells of tube trains and wine-bars. He should have come straight back from the office, but James suggested a drink, and it was better than sitting in his guilt-soaked home. He hopes the alcohol isn’t too obvious on his breath and sucks a mint just to be sure. Shit, it’s like being an eighteen year old again. He enters the hallway and trips over one of Leah’s toys. Doesn’t Heather ever tidy up? Then he scolds himself, she’s about to have a baby, give her a break. Heather is watching “Friends” as usual. He comes in to the lounge and gives her a kiss. “Don’t you ever get bored of it?” “It’s still so funny,” she giggles as Rachel knocks Ross on the floor. “You can’t believe how much this hurts,” Ross says. Heather is helpless on the sofa. Paul smiles and then when she recovers asks, “Dinner?” “In the microwave. Bring it in here.” “I’ve got some work to do, I’m afraid…” She shrugs her shoulders and returns to the television. Outside the sky is darkening. 8.45pm – Sophie. Thank God for Hannah who has emailed her the

homework answers. And now, she’s sent a text too. Why not follow him? Great idea. Thanx S Sophie returns to Andrew’s Twitter page. He hasn’t updated it all evening. Heart racing, she adds herself to his followers and sits back. Come on, she thinks, get in touch. Mum knocks and pokes her head in. “Night, Sophie. Done your homework?” “All done,” she says, and for once it’s true. 9pm – Jake. Jake is interrupted by Mum’s knock. He shouts that he’s taking a break, to curses from his mates. The assault on the terrorist stronghold is not going well. The enemy have more weapons than they expected, and they’ve lost several of their men. He pauses the game and takes his headphones off. “Goodnight Jake,” Mum says. “Night, Mum.” “What are you doing?” “Just playing a game.” “Is your homework finished?” “Yes,” the usual lie, but it satisfies her. She leaves the room and he re-enters to Iraq in time to see a mortar bomb explode in front of him. He has able to throw himself down but Stewart is too slow to respond. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He watches as his friend is blown apart. For a moment, he feels as if his world has ended. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

9.15pm – Paul. Paul sits in the study with a glass of wine, looking at spreadsheets. He waits until he is sure that Heather is really in bed, and is not coming down again. Then he switches to his email and clicks on an attachment. A picture opens up. She is a brunette. She is topless and wearing skimpy knickers. Under the picture, she has written To Big Paul xxxx. He salivates and sends his message. Hey Jude, Take a sad dick and make it better. xxxxxxx The thunder rumbles again. It is getting closer. 9.30pm – Sophie. Sophie checks her Twitter for the hundredth time. At last, Andrew has responded. She scrolls down eagerly. How long till a yr 8 girl follows? 24 hrs! 9.25pm April 23rd from web She sends him a direct message. You bastard And lies down on her bed and cries. Drops of rain trickle down her window. 9.45pm – Jake. Jake can feel his time is running out. He is tired and sweaty and he can’t stay focussed. Suddenly an insurgent bursts out of the shadows, and it’s over. He slumps in front of the screen for a minute, and then slips the

headset off, and presses exit. There is a flash of lightening outside. He blinks. For a moment he is relieved. Then he creates a new avatar and rejoins the game. 10pm – Heather. At first Heather thinks it is the lightening that has woken her. Then she realises it is something more. A familiar pain. It is time. 10.05pm – Paul. Paul has reached his usual point of self-disgust, when Jude sends him a surprising email. I am ready and waiting in the real world, any time you want, big boy. 07969-567890. Call me xxx He stares at it for a moment. Above him the storm breaks overhead with a huge crash of thunder. But it is the door opening that makes him start. He turns round to see Heather standing there. She is not saying anything but he recognises that strained look. It is enough to drag him away from the computer screen. He doesn’t even think to close the email down. “Is it time?” “Think so.” “Have you got your bag?” “It’s in the hall.” He knows how to do this part. He jumps to his feet and grabs her hand. “Come on then, let’s get you to the car,” and then,

as the rain begins to belt down, “It’s going to be quite a night.” “Laila,” she says, “We need to get the kids to look after Laila.” Her grip tightens on his hand. “I’ll call them” He yells up the stairs. 10.10pm – Sophie. Sophie has been lying miserable on the bed, since she saw Andrew’s Twitter. She doesn’t dare go back, and she hasn’t the energy to text Hannah. She is suddenly aware of her dad’s voice in the hall. What now? She leaves the room to investigate. The bag and her mum’s crumpled face tell her all she needs to know. She bangs on Jake’s door. He doesn’t answer. She marches in, ignores his outraged “Oi”, and drags him downstairs. “Mum’s in labour you prat. We’ve got to help.” Dad is brief: Don’t stay up late. Listen out for Laila in the night. Get her up in the morning. I’ll call when I can. “Yes, Dad.” They watch their parents shuffle out of the house Mum half hunched in pain, Dad holding an umbrella over her. It crosses Sophie’s mind that it’s been a while since they looked that intimate. “Right,” she says to Jake, “Who’s getting up with Laila in the morning?” “I’m all tied up…new game… you know…” She looks at him pityingly, boys. Then observing his flushed cheeks and slightly too-bright eyes she decides that he’d be a liability anyway.

“All right, but you owe me.” He wanders back upstairs. She turns off the lights and follows him. In the study, the computer has reverted to the screensaver – Paul, Heather, Jake, and Sophie crowded ‘round the new born Laila Behind it, Jude’s email lays waiting for an answer.

Virginia Moffatt was born in London in 1965, one of eight children. Her father was an English teacher who inspired her love of literature and writing. She is a regular participant in an online community called #fridayflash, and has had stories published in several on-line journals. Her twin sister writes commercial fiction and her older sister is a poet. Virginia works with people with learning disabilities and lives in Oxford with her husband, Chris, a peace activist, and their three children. She is currently training for the London Marathon.

Last Night During an evening spent without shoes, and smoking duty paid cigarettes, I offered my conscience a handsome chair Just so that we could sit a while, or as long as it would take - as much as we could tolerate, Listening to the words of each other without feeling tearful and ugly.

We inhaled the detail of expression from a memory of The Lady of Shallot, and we knew from its existence that there had to be a sacrifice on which to fasten a streaming ribbon of fate. Yet later still when the morning bled through sores of indulgence and conscience bowed its dutiful head, pressing itself into the flesh of a hapless lap and the sight of love shone once more through the seam of two lifetimes, and toward the beating sound of existence.

So it sat with me, listening to the haunting of Gregorian chants and staring at the reflections of over three hundred days. We spoke about loneliness, about Bukowski and Oscar and even greater men, and why opinions are often simply quotes taken from hand-me-down books. Then we spoke about the oceans, and how they've become a cellophane of see-through clichés the dull lids of winter skies and how they look like Tupperware. We imagined and spoke about riding the bare backs of two white Camarillo before walking through the resonance of Northern Galleries containing Waterhouse, Rossetti and Millais.

Sleeping I never did tell you in that moment now dissolved how much I would cherish the heat of our mornings, how I wanted to trace the letters from the Greek alphabet into the intimate depths of your blood.

I never did tell you, for just that searched for, single moment, when darkness concealed its reasoned limit how I wanted to gift you the emptiness of religion’s ultimate destiny.

How I would watch you sleep, imagining death, your allies, your lovers, untouchable tomorrows.

And how you would wait a short while, standing next to your chosen devil, gathering those pieces of love's impatience until that perfect morning when I will follow you there.

And I never did tell you, in that moment now among time’s own healing how I would whisper the names of ancient Grecian towns, Roman Gods and Philosophers while touching the freedom inside your hair. Or how I would sense each day of your life’s longing, the hurt of rotting love reluctantly worn around a heart, a wrist and the bone of an ankle.

Darren Thomas is a final year English Language student at The University of Manchester. He has been published in The Best of the Manchester Poets, various magazines and local press, and websites such as Rainy City Stories. His reviews have been featured in Simon Rennie’s Little Machines, Wirral’s Winter Words and more recently Steve Garside’s A Million Ways to Measure the Sun.

“Allow your mind to wander, explore your dark side, let

(THIS MONTH’S MP3)

creep under your skin”

birdengine

Interview by Baz Wilkinson There’s a song by The Doors that tackles the feelings and situations you find yourself experiencing when, for one or another reason, be that a heady night out or just the way you see the world, things become strange. Yes, you’ve got it...the said song is “People Are Strange”. The crux of it is that if you see the world as strange, or are strange, all things are strange. It also seems to suggest that by being an outsider, you naturally attract the strangeness that makes up the underbelly of the world, in general. I think it’s fair to say then, that professed outsider birdengine to his parents, Lawry Joseph Tilbury - former resident of Brighton, and now living in Toulouse, has a weird ol’ life almost every day. It’s probably these aspects that provide the fuel for lyrics such as “I spent the summer cutting heads off dogs/I spent the winter trying to sew them back on”. Considering this, it seems natural to meet up with birdengine in an old and dusty, former vicarage in Wigan which, word has it, is haunted by a drummer boy who died in the infamous Battle of Wigan Lane. He’s here to play at Imploding Acoustic Inevitable, the Wigan based psychfreak-folk night held regularly throughout the year. Sat in the backroom of the vicarage as the evening sun goes down, surrounded by weird and lovely artwork from an exhibition currently being held there, we begin speaking of his recent album The Crooked Mile, out soon on Bleeding Heart Recordings, and what makes him tick musically.

“birdengine’ is what we used to call aeroplanes!”

Well, one of the most unusual names ‘birdengine’ begs the questions...What? Where? How?

And how did these shape what you began to write and produce when you moved to Brighton?

I took this from my childhood, actually. Myself and my older brother Thomas invented our own secret language and way of communicating and ‘birdengine’ is what we used to call aeroplanes! It was a long time ago and I can’t quite remember it, but it was my mother who told me about it and I just decided it was quite a cool name and that I was going to call myself birdengine.

When I moved to Brighton I picked up a four track tape recorder and, as I said, I had these tapes from Dorset I’d made as a kid and then the ones from Brighton too, and I ended up messing about with them and combining them into these sound pieces. Then my girlfriend at the time, secretly sent some off to an electronica label called Benbecula Records [based in Scotland]. They must have connected with the experimentation of it in some way, I think, and in 2005 they released an EP of mine. It didn’t have any singing on but wasn’t exactly just experimental noise collages. I mean, every track had a melody, it wasn’t just pure noise, and I found that I gelled more with approaching instruments from a different angle and being more inventive with it. Parts of the noise pieces, for example, were done using old, battery powered keyboards and I discovered that if you used a battery that was on its last legs, you could get some freaky sounds out of them; a kind of weird, eerie effect due to it struggling to make the sound it was supposed to. It got to the point that I actually bought a battery meter so that I could run a battery down to the right level that would create the particular sound I was after. I then started to write songs ‘properly’ and to do some singing. From this point, I released a second EP, on Benbecula Records, based on the same sort of experimental

Tell us a background?

little

about

your

musical

Well, I started making music as a kid because there was nothing much to do in this tiny, little village in Dorset, where I grew up. It had a population of under a hundred or so. So to keep myself entertained I’d go to the woods and smash stuff up, or sing to myself quite a bit, you know…I was one of the only kids in the village and there were only a few houses, so it was quite isolated. Regards instruments, I had a guitar with, like, two strings for years and years and I just used to make up stupid songs on that and I’d go out into the town with a cassette recorder to record traffic and stuff which, when I moved to Brighton, I carried on doing - like crowds and cashier announcements, stuff like, “Please go to cashier number 3!” or whatever. By 2004, I’d amassed a kind of archive of all these noises.

approach, underpinned by meandering melodies created from some weird use of an instrument/s. From there you released another minialbum, I Fed Thee Rabbit Water, on Drift Records in 2007. How did that come about? Yeah, Drift signed me towards the end of 2006, which was run by two guys called Jonny and Rupert who got together and wanted to start releasing music that they liked. Rupert had, and still does actually, a record shop in Totnes in Devon called Drift Records, whilst Jonny was based over in Brighton. So it was a kind of BrightonDevon based set-up and they began to release a whole mixture of different stuff and were quite eclectic in taste. And Jonny came up to me in Brighton after a gig once - I didn’t know him or anything – and said that my music terrified him but that he loved it and asked if I’d like to do an album with them. At the time, I only had about seven songs that I’d done on four-track but I said I’d do those and they put it out in February, 2007. It came in a kind of wax-sealed envelope and attracted some good press from all over the place really and in the big papers: The Independent loved it; Word Magazine picked up on it too; along with a few online magazines; as well as Americana UK, and all wrote very pleasingly about it.

Your music seems to attract quite an extreme collection of adjectives and, from the reviews I’ve read also, tends to inspire people to explore their darker side a little. For instance, The Independent said I Fed Thee Rabbit Water was ‘like visiting a museum of curiosities packed with shelves of malformed foetuses and two-headed dogs pickled in jars’, whilst others have been just as inspired. It seems to bring out the eccentricities of people a little… what do you think it is about your music that seems to do this? I think the way I used to write, and still write actually, is through use of imagery, imagined stories and characters and I sort of write a little song about them, I guess, to celebrate them a little. Along with that I have a vivid imagination and quite a dark sense of humour and I put a lot of focus and effort into trying to write good lyrics. I think that’s where most of those descriptions have their roots really. I mean, when I sing about taking the heads off dogs during the summer and spending the winter trying to sew them back on, what can I expect? I get quite a mixed reaction when I sing that song though, you know! Some people are quite shocked whilst some laugh and some people, weirdly, connect to it and think it’s great, whilst others are quite upset but, obviously, I don’t actually cut the heads off dogs you know; I’m a bit scared of dogs but I wouldn’t cut their heads off.

But yeah, I think those kind of descriptions come a lot from the lyrics and, musically, through my singing style which is fairly unique. I’m a bit partial to a wail now and again, too.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;...I sing about taking the heads off dogs during the summer and spending the winter trying to sew them back on...â&#x20AC;?

“I met this Slovakian guy...he was telling me that the all the pigeons, everywhere, have got a radio receiver inside them...”

You sing about ‘beast-folk’, ‘feral children’ and other weird and twisted characters, and you seem to enjoy using these as a vehicle for the narrative… The ‘beast-folk’ thing is from my song ‘Alone With The Beast-Folk’ from my last mini-album and is a reference to one of my favourite books by H.G. Wells called The Island of Dr Moreau. It’s about a doctor that crossbreeds humans and animals and one of the chapters is called ‘Alone With The Beast-Folk’. I think my music takes the stance of an outsider in many ways and I suppose I’ve never really felt fully a part of society as such…I mean, I guess society is people really, isn’t it? And I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider. It’s interesting and I really admire people that live on the fringe. My favourite kind of people are the people I meet on the street who are absolutely bonkers. I met this Slovakian guy the other day, in Bristol, during the earlier part of the tour and he just came up to me and saw that I had a guitar, and he was telling me that the all the pigeons, everywhere, have got a radio receiver inside them. It found it really interesting! I’m not a religious man at all, but I was thinking about it and thought that’s probably more plausible than the idea of a god creating everything, and the guy seemed pretty pleased with that when I mentioned it! We had a real connection, you know! Whilst I’m pretty sure that birds don’t have radio receivers inside them, I think he was a nice guy and,

generally, I like people like that who are out there and free thinking.

You’ve been living in Toulouse for six months, now. How’s that suiting you? Toulouse is a beautiful city with lots of long and narrow, winding streets and French shutters and things and I’d only ever been to France before with the school as a kid, which doesn’t really count. I wake up every morning and I go and buy a baguette, you know, or a bottle of wine for the afternoon or evening. But there’s not much of a music scene out there or anything. I played two gigs whilst I was out there and I don’t think the locals really knew where I was coming from...I think they thought there was something wrong with me, like I was emotionally challenged or something. And your new album The Crooked Mile is being released through Bleeding Heart Recordings, based in Brighton, on both vinyl and CD... It certainly is, yeah. It was done on a half-inch, sixteen track machine, whereas previously, I’d used a four track, so that meant a lot more instruments could be used with a bit more control, too. It was recorded in Hove, at Well Studios, by my good friend David Ringland, and

is also the first time that anyone else has produced my music other than myself as I’m a bit of a control freak. I actually play every single instrument on the album apart from the drums which, because I can’t play them, were done by Daniel Green and Thomas Marsh. So it’s a much bigger sounding album compared to the earlier ones and has more of your standard instruments on it from organs and bass to accordion. Initially, I released it for free as a download but then, after a while, I thought maybe I should charge a little to recoup some of the costs a bit and then Bleeding Heart stepped forward and offered to put it out on vinyl as well as CD which is great. I’m lucky, too, as I’ve had quite a lot of my stuff released on vinyl and I’m really happy with this one.

birdengine’s The Crooked Mile is due for release through Bleeding Heart Records later this year on vinyl and CD. birdengine is the musical project of Lawry Joseph Tilbury. He has previously played with the likes of Josephine Foster and Herman Dune and has also played Green Man Festival, as well as End Of The Road and Glastonbury. He has released numerous EP’s on various labels and is currently awaiting release of his first fulllength album, the magnificent The Crooked Mile through Bleeding Heart Records. A former Dorset and Brighton resident, Lawry now resides in Toulouse, France. www.birdengine.com www.myspace.com/birdengine

Are there plans for a tour with a few more band members then? Yeah, it looks like that’s going to happen. Around September, I’m planning on moving back to Brighton, from Toulouse, with my girlfriend and I’m hoping to get a little band together and sort out a short little tour of five or six dates. But before that, after this current tour, I’ll be going back to France for a short while and then myself and my girlfriend are going to Vietnam for six months, to live with a little tribe there, teaching them English. You see, they’re rice farmers and they want to sell rice to Americans...they sound cool...and then we’ll see what happens!

Creaturemag

Interview by Michael Thorp Creaturemag is an online arts magazine that has become a resource for illustrators across the nation. With it’s vast array of visual styles and the constant flow of competitions and opportunities, it’s a great place for emerging illustrators to showcase their work and become part of a wide creative community. We caught up with Creaturemag founder Matt Witt to find out more. How would you describe creature mag? It’s an arts and illustration blog publishing inspiring illustrations and resources for creative people. It's a platform for experimentation, collaboration and the exposure of emerging talent. How did it all start? Creature started at uni as a place for me and my friends to publish their work. It has taken on various different forms since then, arriving in its current incarnation of regularly updated blog in January 2010.

Nikki Pinder, a long time contributor, she is a prolific illustrator and publishes images every other Friday as part of our "Happy Friday" feature. She is currently publishing a colourful illustrated story "The Shadow Catcher" in sporadic parts. www.creaturemag.com/tag/ nikki-pinder 34

How does creature mag help emerging illustrators? In lots of ways... We feature the work of emerging artists, students and recent graduates on a daily basis and share it with our readers and our growing following on facebook and twitter. I also provide support and feedback / crits. We publicise interesting arty opportunities and initiate our own projects and collaborations. We spread the word on events and make the most of opportunities to expose our artists. Creature also provides a space for illustrators and writers to experiment, develop their visual language and practice their art away from the restrictions of a brief. Our regular contributors produce new art every week, stuff that they might not have created without Creature. Check out: www.creaturemag.com/category/freak-of-the-week www.creaturemag.com/category/marc-m-gusta-illustration www.creaturemag.com/category/happy-friday-illustrations What do you look for in an illustrator? I like the ones who push their creative boundaries, the ones who are really thinking about what they are doing, nurturing their creativity. I like to be surprised and engaged. Ollie Stone joined us about a year ago. He contributes to our Freak of the Week feature, his most notable contribution is the wrestling bear series: www.creaturemag.com/tag/wrestling-bears

Marc uses Creaturemag to experiment with Exquisite Corpses and Labyrinths and is currently building a city over 9 months. www.creaturemag.com/tag/marc-mgusta

You have a strong emphasis on networking and community, how important is this for emerging illustrators? Apart from having talent it’s probably the most important thing. We feature artists every week who we find through twitter and facebook and everyday we see new art, new projects, and lots of opportunities being grabbed. The rise in social media has seen a boom in creative interaction and collaboration between artists. Networking in general is important but social media has provided artist with an extra edge, it’s not for everyone but those who embrace it do gain more opportunities to expose their work. For the talented and committed it can open up a whole new world.

What's the future for creature mag? We have recently launched a music section. There has always been an illustration / music crossover with Creature. We intend to publish regular music articles, interviews and reviews. We have a new music writer called Betty (bettyhammer.wordpress.com) who is brilliant! There is a shop in development too, selling prints, hand made stuff, zines and some “made to order” paintings. We just want to push it further and in lots of different directions and just see what happens. We will wander farther into the land of tweeting and intend to use the power of social media for good. There will be more networking, more new projects and lots if opportunities to get involved and have a hand in making Creaturemag brilliant.

Words & Fixtures By Sarah-Clare Conlon

Thanks to Tom Mason of 330 Words for passing on the BlankPicks blogging baton to Words & Fixtures! In October, Words & Fixtures turned over the sash and tiara for Best New Blog in the Manchester Blog Awards to 330 Words, so it’s clear we like to share. And the blogging scene in the rainy city is a bit like that. People like Andrew Marr make jokes about bloggers, saying we're little more than sad singletons sitting around in bedsits blathering jibberish into the ether, yet this couldn't be further from the truth. I hate to use the word community, it's so public sector, and I can't stand the phrase networking; but events like the annual Awards, regular Blogmeets and monthly Social Media Cafes do see like-minded folk getting together to make connections, contacts and friends, and share conversation, laughs, knowledge, and even, sometimes, free drinks. We also share ideas, and it seems Manchester's bloggers aren't happy if they're not collaborating: guest blogging and guest editing each other's blogs, running joint projects together, setting up sites that invite contributions. 330 Words is a prime example of the latter; “interactive literary cityscape” Rainy City Stories is another. RCS is run by Kate Feld and Chris

Horkan, coincidentally creative parents of the Manchester Blog Awards and structurally integral to the whole Manchester blogging scene. Rainy City Stories is what connects me to the blogger I'm going to big up in a minute; she got in touch with me after reading a poem I'd had published there, linking me back to the place where we both live. It turned out our houses were in parallel streets, at exactly the same number. Her email pinged into my inbox in September 2009 and we've been in touch ever since. Last week we finally met, when I successfully bid for her 1930s table on Ebay after hearing about it on Twitter. Something tells me we'll meet again for sure; it's a bloody good table. Connectivity is key and, as the third heaviest Twitterers in Europe behind London and Paris, Mancunian bloggers are brilliant at keeping in touch. I think we're also friendly types who don't hold back from striking up a conversation. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. If you don't ask, you don't get. By chatting to people online then meeting them in the “real world”, I've extended my social circle massively and my diary these days is never empty. As a freelancer, this is great, and I've even gained some paid gigs as a result, so starting up Words & Fixtures as a shop window to show off my journalistic wares and keep my hand in with writing and meeting dead-

lines seems to have worked! The concept of W&F has developed organically as time has passed, but I'm happy to have settled into the role of arts blogger, covering arty-crafty things of a more general nature but largely chattering about Manchester-based literary goings-on in my Moment of Fiction series and as a guest blogger for Manchester Literature Festival. From discovering and disseminating details of submissions and events, I've even been encouraged to get involved myself and am now, unexpectedly, even part of an informal creative writing collective.

Sarah-Clare Conlon is a full-time editor, a spare time writer and press officer, and a part-time adventuress based in Manchester. She is also the author of Manchester Blog Awards winner Words & Fixtures, which looks at all things literary and language related as well as more general artsy-craftsy stuff. Clare also writes reviews and features, is the co-creator of Ask Ben & Clare and collaborates on a number of short story project.

Hayley Flynn is a fellow media and writery type, and her blog showcases her myriad talents. She takes photos, she does reviews, she posts poetry. Through her Tumblr blog, I've learnt all about Bookcrossing and unearthed a shared passion: found objects. My own guilty pleasure is lists; Hayley's is letters. Through her Lost Touch feature, you are invited to forward to Hayley any mail that's strayed off the path and can't be reunited with its intended recipient. She'll treat it with respect and deference, and provide it with a whole new lease of life. See? More wonderful ways to get involved and have fun. Don't forget to write... wordsandfixtures.blogspot.com hayleyflynn.tumblr.com

Forthcoming Events

SAVE DUMCROON The Orwell, Wigan Pier April 23, 6pm Drumcroon Art Gallery is Wigan’s only art gallery and space. It is not only an internationally recognised art gallery with links in New York and Spain, but is also an Education Center for schoolchildren and the wider community that has is currently celebrating its 30th year with a superb exhibition called Respective Perspectives by Patrick Hughes and Paul Critchley. However, government and local funding is being withdrawn meaning it now faces a real threat of closure and with it, over 30 years of hard work in the community promoting the arts and becoming a widely respected and acclaimed place of education for the arts. This event is the second of two being set up in Wigan to raise the awareness of its closure. It will combine all of the arts under one roof with the likes of Dave Rybka & The Victorian Dad Band, poetry, comedy and theatre, all pitching in to raise funds for Drumcroon’s cause. For more information or how you can get involved, please search ‘SAVE DRUM CROON’ on Facebook or email the BMC (editor@blankmediacollective.org) with ‘SAVE DRUMCROON’ as the subject. www.drumcroon.org.uk POETS & PLAYERS Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester April 9 2:30 - 4:30pm Poets and Players is delighted to present the poets Tiffany Atkinson, Jeremy Over and Robbie Burton alongside MariachoO! – two hilarious hombres who

deliver el songs con Love and Frijole in a joyous, strolling mariachi style. www.poetsandplayers.co.uk STREETS OF IDENTITY Instituto Cervantes, Manchester March 9 - April 6 Streets of Identity is a comment on the concepts of culture, imagination and memory and the way they contribute towards identity in society bringing together the work of five photographers Roxana Allison (‘Becoming a Memory’), Pablo Allison (‘Angel’), Susana Sanroman (‘In Transitum’), Santiago Carrion (‘The Promised Land’) and Virginie Anne Hebert (‘The Art of Play’), all members of Centrepoint Collective. www.centrepointcollective.org WE ARE HERE Turnpike Gallery, Wigan February 19 - April 9 We Are Here showcases the work of 6 contemporary professional artists from the borough of Wigan. Some have been working for a number of years, others have only recently left college. Each works in a different way, be it sculpture, textiles, painting or installation, and each one’s art is marked by a distinctive character or style. Sometimes beautiful or humorous, other times mysterious or unsettling, these artists respond to a variety of experiences and stimuli in the world around us – be it nature or humanity; people or places; things seen or things felt. www.wlct.org/arts/turnpike

NEW CARTOGRAPHIES Cornerhouse, Manchester April 8 - June 5 At a moment when North Africa is convulsed by civil unrest and social turmoil, and pro-democracy rallies in Algiers defy government bans, New Cartographies: Algeria-France-UK brings together recent work by ten emerging and established contemporary artists to explore Africa’s largest country and its complex relationship with Europe as it heads towards its fiftieth year of independence. www.cornerhouse.org PLASTIC FLOWERS East Gallery, London April 7 - June 19 The socio-political themes running through London-based de Stacpoole’s large-scale digital prints, play on notions of fictional and real-life narratives through the rhetoric of her source material. de Stacpoole’s digital collages intersperse contrasting references to film and TV, rural landscape imagery and avatar sites, to create a hyper-real world which explores our distanced relationship to warfare and our experience of the world through the mediated reality of the entertainment industry. The bitter-sweet nature of her eye-candy scenarios reveals there is more at play than first appears on the surface. Free entry www.eastgallery.co.uk

DR SKETCHY MANCHESTER PRESENTS A VICTORIAN EXTRAVAGANZA. Victoria Baths, Manchester April 17 7.00pm Dr Sketchy Manchester will be staging one of its biggest events to date, at the stunning Victoria Baths. This extra special Dr Sketchy, taking place in the beautiful surroundings of Victoria Baths will feature three fabulous burlesque performers and life models: Manchester’s very own bearded lady, the fabulous Fanny Divine, bathing beauty Ginger La Rouge and the Victorian gentleman Archie Greaves. www.drsketchy.com/branch/manchester THRESHOLD LITE VOL. 1 CUC, Liverpool April 26, 6-12pm John Hollingsworth’s ‘Do Look Back’ - a photo journal of Threshold Festival 2011, inside and out. ‘The Crumb Factory’, a retrospective look at the music videos of John Hollingsworth, with director Q&A. Also playing: Night Parade, Jessica West, James Munro, and DJs from CMWMSMDM (www.mixnot.net). Tickets £5 available soon from: www.contemporaryurbancentre.org

VOLUME FESTIVAL Antwerp Mansion, Manchester April 1 - April 4 A three day extravaganza featuring live music, art and performance in a Wonka Factory style playground of an 1840’s Victorian Mansion. The Antwerp Mansion is a renovation project aimed at building the baddest creative hangout in the world ever, totally reliant on the help of donations and volunteers. The mansion was officially launched in October 2009, when it opened its doors as the Antwerp House Rock Club. Founders Matt Beirrum, Simon Bullows, Andy Mansion and pals have worked tirelessly for over two years on saving the mansion from collapse and from greedy property developers too. The mansion now features a cafe, bar, free wifi, an open art gallery, a graffiti wall, live music nights, a library and now...The Volume Festival has arrived! There’s a plethora of acts on the line-up including hiphop, dubstep, rock, indie, dance and more. Plus, there’ll be live graffiti artists at work, a Halloween themed party with a dress code from hell, a FESTIBALL- dust off your mums old ball gown and get down! The Dream Factory Fashion Show featuring dubstep act Chimpo & Blizzard. And for the grand finale a Mad Hatter’s tea party! www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=182413865135885

TEXT FESTIVAL Bury Art Gallery and other venues April 30 – July 18 Major UK Festival of Language Art launches April 2011 in Bury. Groundbreaking event features exclusive appearances and commissions by international practitioners. An internationally recognised event investigating contemporary language art incorporating poetry, text art, sound and media text, and live art. The third edition of Text Festival opens this Spring in Bury and continues to be the leading focus of language in 21st century art: Highlights include, the first UK performance by Canadian sound poet Christian Bök. A unique text art commission by U.S. Poet Ron Silliman. Four new exhibitions investigating aspects of language from sentences to visual poems, language art works by more than 80 international artists, including MERZTEXT – an international celebration in exhibition and performances of the text work of Kurt Schwitters. Tony Trehy, Poet and Director of TEXT Festival Bury said: “TEXT Festival specialises in experiments, in new experiences, in performances and exhibitions that mix artforms in ground -breaking combinations that challenge traditional language and art boundaries and offer artists a forum for dialogue and exchange of ideas”. www.textfestival.com

This month in BLANKMEDIA COLLECTIVE PERCEPTION/DECEPTION BLANKSPACE, Manchester April 8 - April 17, preview: April 7 6-9pm Perception/Deception showcases the work of artists from the No Such Thing collective in collaboration with Blank Media Collective. Perception is the process the brain uses to interpret information. Deception is the practice of deliberately making somebody believe things that are not the whole truth.

In_Tuition is an open forum for creatives based in the North West. An opportunity for artists to talk about their work and inspire others through creative understanding, musing and action!

WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?

IN_TUITION (FINE ART)

Greenroom, Manchester April 20 6-9pm

BLANKSPACE, Manchester April 5 6.30-8.30pm

Playful, dramatic and disconcerting, Who’s Laughing Now? brings together two artists from the Philippines and the North-West of England. Surreal portraiture explores the theme of guilt within the narrative of the work. Michael Vincent Manalo’s Tales from the Story Teller is a collection of work that evocatively chronicles human experience and emotion. Shona Harrison’s taxidermy portraits or rabbit road kill, are difficult and compelling. She theatrically positions the animals in human-like poses, as if an accident has been preserved, which pushes buttons of guilt and grief.

IN_TUITION (CREATIVE WRITING) BLANKSPACE, Manchester April 12 6.30-8.30pm

IN_TUITION (MOVING IMAGE) BLANKSPACE, Manchester April 19 6.30-8.30pm

IN_TUITION (FREE-STYLE) BLANKSPACE, Manchester April 26 6.30-8.30pm

Blank Media Collective Team: Director: Mark Devereux Co-Director: John Leyland Financial Administrator: Martin Dale Strategic Development Consultant: Chris Maloney Development Coordinators: Dwight Clarke & Elaine Mateer Community Arts & Learning Coordinators: Chris Leyland & Jo Foxall Communications Coordinators: Stephanie Graham & Dan English Information Manager: Sylvia Coates Website Designer: Simon Mills Exhibition Coordintors: Mark Devereux, Jamie Hyde, Marcelle Holt & Taneesha Ahmed Moving Image Coordinator: Christina Millare BlankMarket Coordinator: Michael Valks Official Photographers: Gareth Hacking & Iain Goodyear

blankpages Team: Editor: John Leyland Editorial Assistant: Catherine Teague Fiction Editor: Kevin Bradshaw Poetry Editor: Abigail Ledger-Lomas Music Editor: Baz Wilkinson Visual Editors / Designers: Henry Roberts & Michael Thorp

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