blankpages Issue 15

‘Facebox’ installation © Claire Curtin 2009

blankpages

Issue 15 October 2009

Website: www.blankmediacollective.org MySpace: www.myspace.com/ blankmediacollective * You can also find us on other social networking sites such as Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, ArtReview and many more! blankpages submission guidelines: www.blankmediacollective.org/blankpages blankpages email: editor@blankmediacollective.org General Enquiries: info@blankmediacollective.org Communications: communications@blankmedia collective.org Exhibitions: exhibitions@blankmediacollective.org BlankMarket: market@blankmediacollective.org Special Projects: projects@blankmediacollective.org Blank Media Presents…: music@blankmediacollective.org Moving Image: movingimage@blankmediacollective.org blankpages copyright © 2006 – 2009 Blank Media Collective unless otherwise noted. Copyright of all artworks remains with the artist. Blank Media Collective logo copyright © Ben Rose 2008, www.graphicstateofmind.com. blankpages logo copyright © Eleni Angelou, www.eleniangelou.com Internal Photography (unless otherwise stated) copyright © Michelle Kerwin 2009

- - contents 3 - welcome 4 - cover artist

Claire Curtin 5 - blankverse

Penelope Turnbull 6 - this month’s mp3

Finneyerkes 7 - illustrated story

by Joe Booker 8 - blankverse

Marianne Daniels 10 - spotlight

Andrew Gilmore 12 - Falling To Pieces

by Martin Richards 20 - blankpicks 22 - blankverse

Marianne Daniels 23 - blankverse

Penelope Turnbull 24 - blank media recommends...

welcome You know when someone’s got something to tell you but they just won’t spit it out? When they go all round the houses rather than just getting to the point? Isn’t it annoying?

Conciseness, that’s what I like. Saying a lot in a few words.

I like it in life, and I like it in art. Most of all, I like it in what we present in blankpages.

‘Unlike the novel, a short story may be, for all purposes, essential.’ So said Jorge Luis Borges, one of the greatest short story writers of all time. He never wrote a novel, yet each of his short stories seems to contain entire worlds; libraries and labyrinths that go on forever.

It’s that focus on the essential that’s so important. Each word in a short story has to be so carefully chosen because it has to bear more weight and meaning than a word in a novel. And, of course, this applies every bit as much, if not more, in poetry as demonstrated in the work of Marianne Daniels in this issue, who’s short poems contain so few words that create so much meaning.

But this isn’t only about the written word – it can also be applied to visual art. Collage is a technique where an artist takes images or even just parts of images and mixes them together to create new meaning. Rather like a recipe, the artist has to make sure not only that they choose good ingredients for the work, but that they blend well together and are mixed in the right amounts.

Once mixed together, the work suggests new meanings that the viewer must interpret – fragments that create a whole. Andrew Gilmore knows this, and that’s why we’re so happy to feature some of his collage work in this issue.

At blankpages we continue to strive to ensure that what we publish is, for all purposes, essential, and we’re delighted to feature a blankpicks review by one of our readers - you too can contribute to the publication so get in touch with your thoughts on the art world around you.

Phil Craggs

Blank Media Team...

Director: Mark Devereux Financial Administrator: Steven Porter Web Manager: Simon Mills Web: Matt Small Exhibitions Co-ordinators: Jamie Hyde, Marcelle Holt & Gareth Hacking Special Projects Co-ordinator: Petra Hoschtitsky Blank Media Presents...

Manager: Iain Goodyear Blank Media Presents: Steve Goossens blankpages Team...

Editor: John Leyland Poetry Editor: Baiba Auria Fiction Editor: Phil Craggs Music Editor: Dan Bridgwood-Hill Visual Design by John Leyland With Thanks To: Claire Curtin Gemma Heyes Justin Watson Blank Media is kindly supported by:

“

The focus of my recent work has been the recording of faces that instinctively appear when random marks are given character. My intention was to interpret the faces providing them with characters and narratives.

I was delighted by the mixed reactions of other people who interpreted the faces in different ways, in the same way that people respond to found faces. This became integral to the direction of the work. I wanted to use these reactions by playing on the extreme emotions that the found faces seemed to be conveying. I wanted people’s own information to decide how they interpreted the faces.

Some of the faces are so ambiguous that some people cannot make them out which was another important element that I wanted to hold onto as it was so relevant to the found faces. Some people can’t see what others can.

Cildo Meireles’ installations play on your fears to disturb your equilibrium. These inspired me to create my own installation providing a home for the faces I had found, using glow in the dark or fluorescent materials in a dark room to intensify the experience.

This is a photograph from inside the installation ‘Facebox’; the 2.5m squared box was painted black, blackout curtains banished any light and on the walls were hundreds of handmade stickers of the found faces. A UV light made the faces glow but the vast variety of sizes made it difficult to perceive the depth which caused feelings of disorientation.

‘Facebox’ installation © Claire Curtin 2009

Claire Curtin

”

Claire is currently an intern with the Blank Media Collective Exhibitions Team. For information on internships, contact Mark at info@blankmediacollective.org

cover artist

blankverse

Hang Me A Picture of Home Reminiscent of balmy nights Gathered round a smoking fire Desiring just good folk and song To accompany these weary travellers Searching high and low for gold Discovering before now only grey matter Their true target the glinting stars In this world they see beyond Finding their way home in each other

Hang Me Another Picture of Home Hear, toast crumbs crunched in the morning time Hear, the crackling of cigarette paper Rustling as we roll Hear, tea being tasted all day long Hear, the two hearts beating between us Rampant red as the evening sun sets.

Penelope Turnbull

this month’s mp3 Finneyerkes are a duo from the USA. Matt Finney lives in Alabama and provides the spoken-word vocals, Randy Yerkes lives in Virginia and provides the musical accompaniment, occasionally taking centre stage with the instrumental tracks.

The duo pass recordings back and forth, gradually tweaking and perfecting as they go.

The resulting sounds sit alongside the likes of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Mogwai, dealing in gloomy desolation (‘Ochs’ this issue’s mp3) and lush sorrow (‘Cobain’, which features Japanese post-rocker Yawning).

Whilst these tracks, available for download at www.blankmediacollective.org/blankpages, serve as an excellent introduction to the group, it’s worth noting that Finneyerkes work best in large doses so be sure to visit www.myspace.com/finneyerkes and indulge further. Just lean back and soak up the moods - a perfect accompaniment to a cold and colourful autumn.

Written by Dan Bridgwood-Hill

Track playing: Ochs by Finneyerkes photograph supplied by Finneyerkes

A Lost Guinea Pig My mum and dad have friends who live in Reading called Nick and Sally. They haven’t seen them for a few years really, but when I was much younger, we saw them every year or so. One year, we were going to stay at their house, despite the fact that they were away on holiday. I think it was sort of a holiday for us too, as perhaps we couldn’t afford one that year. So we packed, and after a long and tiresome journey (especially for my parents, having to look after me and my quarrelsome brother), we arrived. As well as the house, we had been entrusted with the job of minding the three pet guinea pigs that the children of the family owned and loved. Of course, within the first five minutes of arriving, my brother and I wanted to get the rodents out to hold. My brother was about four, and I must’ve been about six, so my dad was reluctant to let us hold them in case they escaped, but I imagine me and Harry were being very annoying, so he let us. We were only allowed one out though, and told that we had to be very careful with it. My brother bullied his way into the first hold. If he hadn’t, he’d have thrown a temper tantrum. I didn’t really mind anyway; I was a placid child. So Melvyn got the creature out and carefully put it into my brother’s arms. Then he turned around to talk to my mum. Probably to tell her how careful Harry had to be with the guinea pig. The moment he did so, the guinea pig decided to bite or scratch my brother, who let out a whine and threw it at me, who was standing just in front of him. I tried my best to catch it, but it just bounced off my chest, landed on the floor and scurried into a nearby bush. Melvyn had turned around when he had heard the noise my brother had uttered, and was just in time to see the critter falling from my body and running into the bush.

Now it’s hard to explain the temperament of my father. For the most part, he is a very relaxed man, riled mildly by minor things, such as the presenters on home-buy channels and slow checkout workers (both of which, situations that he doesn’t hesitate to share his irritation about both loudly and often).

However, losing the guinea pig that we had been not to lose within ten minutes of arriving on a week long break was the pinnacle of annoyances for my dad. He has a short temper and little control when things that unbelievable and excruciatingly irritating happen. It is the ultimate ’Sod’s Law’ and he can’t stand it. He was ultra annoyed at me as he had made perfectly clear how important it was that we be careful, and of course, to him, it looked like I had dropped it. Fury pulsed through his veins.

He ran over to me; the assumed culprit, wrenched me up and heaved me about six feet into the air across the garden whilst shouting some aggressive obscenity. I, of course, bawled. It was as much from the shock of losing the pet and the consequential, unexpected flight, as much as the sense of injustice I was feeling. My dad felt no remorse in the minutes after his Olympian lob, watching my grass-stained body lift itself up, on shaky elbows. I can’t recall if we ever found that guinea pig, but once he had calmed down, he apologised to me. He wasn’t sorry that he had thrown the wrong son, but that he shouldn’t have thrown anyone regardless. I was just unlucky. He apologised well though. Unlike myself and my mum, my dad has always been very good at swallowing what little pride he has and owning up to his many mistakes!

Written by Joe Booker

Dolores

A tickle, a test tube and a pin prick of adulthood, Twittering in the grooves of your palms like snuff To a quick fix.

It’s low. She could have been anybody – It’s the laughter that catches more than the face And the embrace is stolen literature.

How do you say? Lee-sure time?

Tennis shoes frayed and the grumblings Of a prima donna but

Marianne Daniels

For a nickel here and there, she’ll take it.

Ta. Any way.

The sun on your skin is a cloth to disguise The winter that catches every skeleton.

And she’ll turn too. Mark your own words.

Her skipping rope for rouge And painted smiles to stoke the fires That all us little bitches Know where to find: Your pocket hides more than desire And if her apron grows, She’ll need to invest.

But the sad part is That you didn’t know The cancer that comes with a woman, The girl that left Was yours alone And a Galahad heart is cut In your adolescent rewind: Turning the hand from the pure And the lust blind.

blank

Frame Icy molars and a sensuous bite are traps enough for a governess To confuse the air intake with food, travelling soon Down walls of red in the dark, a house can be a womb And rocking softly is a kaleidoscope. Little hurricane in shards Of nerve endings split and grappling like a child behind bars, But somehow laughing at the same time, teach the history To come after scars and, buckling, we go down further.

Down, down, to where the sex keeps the heart: Blushing once and berating later, charcoal vibrates with every beat And a drug is a master for silence until she sleeps and shadows Draw maps on her body.

A bed is mouth you can tidy. Words are cleaned away.

Foundations of leukaemia frame a vase and a carnation.

The gut is truth, the skin lies And one day will be totally covered up With a grey block. Keep it tidy until then.

Home is where the heart yearns to roam And a door can punch.

Fingers clutch at wooden spleens And tell a story inside out – Gloat gloat with your perfect mind If your profile is pretty either side.

Marianne Daniels is from Manchester and has a MA in Creative Writing.

verse

A keen music fan (the more long drawn out the better) and avid reader (the more topsy turvy, the better), her forthcoming novel ‘Thorn House’ is a macabre twisted tale echoing her charcoal existence. She also likes cats and philosophy and red red wine. For more poetry check out writeoutloud.net/blogs/mariannedaniels.

She hopes to perform soon after many Gauloises so she sounds nice and croaky

Andrew Gilmore “

The new exhibition Beautiful Women with Depression in October is about contrasts. You see an attractive woman strolling through town, wearing designer 09 20 clothes you automatically assume she has e or lm everything you want; status and wealth Gi rew and happiness. It’s often far from nd A © the truth. n’

”

‘Cramp’ © Andrew Gilmore 2006 Mixed Media on Canvas

s o ati va ns can e S n lor dia o o p C me ‘Li xed Mi

‘Ham bu Mixed rger Hill’ © media A on ca ndrew Gilm nvas ore 20 09

“

Don’t expect the Vicar’s watercolour collection.

I want the viewer to feel something.

I want to make a difference.

”

for more information go to www.myspace.com/gilmore_art or email gilmore.art@hotmail.com

‘Invad e It. Kil l It. Bin Mixed It.’ © A media ndrew on can Gilmor vas e

2009

Falling To Pieces Monday Joe woke up on Monday morning to find that the little finger on his right hand had fallen off in the night. This discovery pained him; after all, what kind of person goes around without a right little finger? Of course, there are some people, he thought, who lose fingers, or even entire limbs, in accidents of one sort or another, but that’s an entirely different matter. There is a real external cause in those cases; a blade that slips, a piece of machinery that malfunctions. But Joe’s finger had fallen off of its own accord. He was not sure entirely why, but he felt a great sense of shame about this. What would people think? Losing a finger like that. Surely such a careless person should be looked down upon by even the lowliest of citizens? And what if it were an illness, contagious in some way? Joe could not remember hearing about cases like his – well, except leprosy but he was pretty sure he did not have that. He tried to think if he had done anything over the weekend that could have resulted in this condition, but he could think of nothing out of the ordinary – walking round town on Saturday, and then Sunday spent at home tidying up and doing housework. No, the answer did not appear to be there.

What about work? He was expected to write – his hands were vital for his job, his fingers that grasp the pen. Of course, he could write without his little finger, but it would automatically make him stand out – surely someone with less fingers than someone else must be less able than someone with a full compliment? At the least, the space where a finger used to be would not pass without comment. Joe could imagine the horror of it already – being the focus of attention, all the questions, or rather, the same question asked over and over as people regarded him with the eagerness of a customer at a freak show. But what could he do? He needed to work to pay his rent, and his writing was needed by his company – he couldn’t let them down over something so trifling as this.

And then, after a few moments, the solution came to him.

He dressed as normal, as though he was preparing for work on a day on which he still had complete hands. When he was ready, he took a pair of gloves from his drawer.

They were thin gloves, designed more for sudden autumn chills than winter freezes. He has not worn them for a long time as it was now the height of summer. At first he considered newspaper, but dismissed it as too noisy. Then he remembered the old shoebox under his bed. He cut a strip of card from the box, and folded it once, before inserting it in the glove’s right little finger, then slipped his hand into the rest of the glove. He nodded in a satisfied manner; if you knew what to look for it was clear that there was not a right little finger in the glove, but for the kind of passing glance he mostly attracted –

to be forgotten as soon as he left the field of vision – it would more than suffice.

He put his loose finger in the shoebox and tucked it back under the bed, well out of sight. Feeling more cheerful, he left for work.

Joe worked in a warehouse. While most of the people who work there carry boxes or drive around on fork-lift trucks, Joe was the admin person. He signed all deliveries in, checked that everything had arrived on time, called to find out why items had not done so. He arrived at the warehouse and managed to largely put the incident with his finger out of his mind.

He clocked in as usual and proceeded to the desk where he would be needed when the first delivery came in.

‘Hi there Joe,’ shouted Danny – Joe’s supervisor – as he walked past. ‘Feeling a bit cold, are we?’ Danny had his sleeves rolled up and there was already a thin glaze of sweat on his fore-head. It was a very hot day. Joe suddenly realised that he would have to explain his decision to wear gloves to work. But what can he say? There should not be a problem – after all, they don’t interfere with his job – but people would be curious.

‘What’s with them gloves?’ he demanded, loudly.

‘Oh, er…well, that is to say…um…’

‘Don’t give me “um”, just answer the question.’

‘Well, Danny…I…er…I am wearing gloves because…’

Danny stared at him, clearly getting bored of waiting.

‘…well, er…you see…it’s er…it’s the warehouse. All the dust – it irritates my skin you see. So I thought I’d…you know…wear gloves. You see.’

‘Let me get this right,’ said Danny. ‘You work in a warehouse full of men who have to carry round heavy boxes all day with their bare hands, and you have to wear gloves just to hold a pen?’

‘Well…it’s not the pen, you see, it’s the dust. Not the pen.’

Danny shook his head, and then raised his voice so that it echoed around the entire warehouse. Everyone stopped work to listen, looking in Danny and Joe’s direction. ‘Did you lot hear that? Joe here is having a problem with the dust – it’s hurting his little hands. Be sure to keep an eye on those cleaners as they go round with their feather dusters. If you see any of the slacking, take their numbers off their uniforms and report them to me. Ok?’

The response was a mix of agreement and laughter. Joe just stared at the floor.

Tuesday The next morning when Joe woke up he found that the ring finger on his right hand had fallen off in the night. This distressed him even more than the previous morning because he had harboured hopes that it was a one-off thing – unfortunate, but bearable. But losing two fingers in two days suggested a trend – would it continue? Would he lose all his fingers? And what would he do if he did? He also felt frustration at having the problem brought back into his mind. After Danny’s announcement at work the previous day, all the focus had been on the gloves, all the scorn had been for the way he covered up the problem, not for the problem itself. He had almost managed to convince himself that the gloves were actually the problem, not his missing finger. Now he was brought back to reality with a completely uncushioned bump. He briefly considered going to see a doctor, but decided against it. If he went to a doctor it would be official – there was something wrong with him, something serious that he himself could not cope with without medical help. It would become a matter of official record – although his doctor would not be able to pass the information on to anyone, it was expected that any employee with a health issue had to report it. Everyone would hear about it before the end of the first day, and Joe did not think he could cope with the shame. So, he decided to go to work as normal and to see what happened the next morning. After all, you don’t need your ring finger to write.

He reached under his bed and produced the shoebox. First he put the newly independent finger in the box next to its fellow, and then cut another strip of card from it to fill the glove’s ring finger. Then he went to work.

The gloves were less of a topic of discussion, although they still raised the odd comment. Joe got on with his work and tried not to think about fingers.

At twelve o’clock he went for his dinner break. As he queued up he noticed that Elizabeth was on the till today. He had his usual meal of chips and mushy peas – the only edible thing served in the canteen – and went to pay.

‘Hello Joe,’ said Elizabeth. ‘That’ll be two pounds.”

Joe rooted around in his wallet for the money. His dinner always came to this amount but if he didn’t have his money ready it meant he might be able to speak to Elizabeth for a moment.

‘I heard about your hands,’ she said. ‘I know how you feel. My skin’s a bit sensitive. I have to be careful. Don’t listen to any of that lot.’ And she smiled at him.

Joes smiled back as he paid, and went to sit at his usual spot in the corner.

Wednesday The next morning Joe felt that his cool-headedness in not going to a doctor had paid off – he was missing no more fingers. Had he lost his middle finger on his right hand he would have been in serious trouble – he would not have been able to write with his right hand, and he had never learnt to do so with his left.

Should he lose that finger the change in his handwriting as a result of switching hands would be too noticeable to pass off.

To his surprise, Wednesday turned out to be one of the best days Joe had ever spent at work. He was treated no differently to normal, but he knew about his handicap, and that he had successfully kept it a secret from all the people he worked with. It had not effected his manner, or the way he got on with his job, and this knowledge gave him a sense of pride.

A delayed delivery meant that he went for his dinner break a little later than usual. At first he was disappointed because Elizabeth was not on the till, but after he had paid he noticed that she was sat alone, eating her own dinner. She was, in fact, sitting at his normal table. This presented him with a problem. He did not want to disturb her while she ate, or impose his company on her when she did not want it. But he felt safe in his routine – the same meal every day eaten in the same place. And, if truth be told, he did want to sit with Elizabeth and talk to her. He did not know what they would talk about, but that did not seem very important. He made a decision – he would ask if she minded him sitting there, and then if she did not he would eat his dinner as quickly as possible so that he could then leave before his presence irritated her. He walked over to the table.

‘Er…excuse me, but you see, I normally…um, if you don’t mind, only I like to sit…’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘I’ll move.’

‘Oh no, please don’t. It’s ok. Only fair – you were there first after all. I’ll be quick then out your way.’

‘There’s no need to hurry because of me, honestly.’

So Joe sat down and began to eat. As he raised the fork to his lips he had a moment of panic – she was sat opposite him, how could she not realise that two of his fingers were not worthy of the name? However, she gave no indication of noticing, and he soon relaxed – about that, anyway.

‘You’re late in,’ she noted.

‘The delivery,’ Joe replied, as though this explained everything. Elizabeth nodded.

They ate in silence for a moment.

‘How are your hands now you’re wearing the gloves?’

‘Ok, they’re ok. Fine, really.’

‘Getting any comments about them still?’

‘Not really. I mean, a few. Hardly any. One or two of the guys…you know.’

‘Yes.’

Joe felt he really should ask something about her but could not think of anything. Instead he took another bite of his dinner. This inability continued and so he finished his food quickly. Not wanting to spoil things, he decided to finish his break early before he said something wrong. As he stood he finally thought of something to say.

‘I enjoyed our chat.’

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth with a slight smile, ‘me too.’

‘Perhaps another time?’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

Joe nodded, and left the canteen with a smile on his face that he could not explain.

Friday Joe woke on Friday to find that, while still attached, his middle finger felt a little stiff. On Thursday he had gone to work with an energy and willingness that surprised him, and he had done all he could to delay his dinner break in the hope of sitting with Elizabeth again. However when he went he found that she was sitting with another member of the canteen staff, and he ate in solitude. The positivity he had arrived with deserted him and he dragged himself through the rest of the day, his mind full of questions. Had he said something wrong to Elizabeth? Had she deliberately moved and sat with someone else so that she wouldn’t have to speak to him? Had he bored her? He knew he had struggled to think of things to say, and that he lacked the easy ability to make people laugh that many of his colleagues had. Was that his only chance gone? Would he be allowed just that one dinner-break with company to show what he had been missing before, and what he would be missing from then on? The thought depressed him, but when he went over the conversation he had had with Elizabeth he did not think she seemed too displeased. Perhaps it was just luck. After all, she had been surprised at his late arrival in the canteen – she would not have expected it to happen the next day as well.

Despite the stiffness in his finger, Joe made a spontaneous decision as he got out of bed and took off his pyjamas. If he could get Elizabeth alone for even a moment he was going to ask her if she wanted to meet him for a coffee at the weekend. He dressed with a little more care than normal, and fought a harder battle with his hair (before giving up as usual). As he put on his gloves he considered that perhaps he should buy a new, smarter pair, before asking Elizabeth out for coffee, but decided that if he put it off he would never ask her. Steeling himself, he left his flat with a determined step.

He struggled at work that morning. He made mistakes – silly, simple mistakes. His hand-writing was unclear, but he put that down to the stiffness in his middle finger. But he also found himself pausing before writing words, unsure of their spelling. His thoughts were on Elizabeth, not on paperwork.

And what thoughts they were! He started by thinking about exactly what he would say to her, and this quickly lead into him imagining her response. Soon he was making up entire scenes in his head as though she and he were characters in a film. His nerve – so strong up to then – faltered slightly when he realised that there were any number of reasons why she might say no, but no reason that he could conceive of that she might say yes. And this made him consider failure much more likely than success, and the embarrassment that went with it. After all, he had to work in the same building as Elizabeth – if he asked her and she said no he would be unable to look her in the face.

And what would she think of him? Even if she turned him down gently it would still mean she did not like him as much as he wanted her to, and what if she found the idea funny, or insulting? What if she went and told all the other staff that he had asked her for coffee? The joke would never die.

But hope is a stubborn creature, and as Joe went to the canteen for his dinner, he was still planning on asking. And then he felt the weight of his gloves against his skin and lost the rest of his resolve. How could he ask Elizabeth for coffee knowing of his deformity? It would not be fair on her. If she discovered it she would consider that she had been invited under false pretences and would certainly never wish to see him again. What would she think of him – a man missing two fingers? And even if she could somehow ignore this disfigurement, this ugliness, she would then feel sorry for him and perhaps even worry about him and his condition – whether it would get worse, whether it could be cured, whether he would lose his job. That, Joe decided, would be as bad as her disgust and she deserved better.

The queue continued to slide forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Elizabeth was sat at his table – obviously her break was a little early today. He paid for his dinner and headed cautiously towards her. She looked up and smiled shyly. He tried to decide whether to ask her out or not. And then the middle finger of his right hand fell off. Of course, being inside the glove no-one else could tell, but robbed of its support the plate of chips and peas fell from his grasp and smashed against the floor. All the conversations in the room stopped, and all heads turned towards Joe. For a second he did not know how to react. And then, he turned round and ran from the room. On his way out he accidentally tripped over the foot of someone in the queue. He felt his big toe detach itself from his foot with the impact, and then he fell forward. He put his arm out to break his fall, and was horrified to see his hand – which had taken his weight – fall off his wrist. He picked it up with his left hand and ran out of the building, through the streets, and back to his flat.

Saturday When he awoke on Saturday he didn’t do anything except stare at the ceiling. His phone had rung for the first time in recent memory not long after he had reached home yesterday, but he had not answered it. Now the silence felt louder after hearing the bell stretch out between his walls. He lay in the silence for a long time, not getting up to eat and not even thinking about using the toilet. And then he thought of Elizabeth again, and of the fool he had made of himself in front of her. She must despise me, he thought. Either she thinks I’m a clumsy idiot or she knows about my fingers – and my hand and my toes – and will be repelled by that. Or worse, she might pity me.

But… Might she not respect someone who could go through all that and come back from it? The thought cheered him and gave him a sudden energy rush. He got out of bed

and stood in front of his mirror, assessing the damage. His right hand was missing, as was the big toe on his right foot. In his hurry to get up the stairs to his flat – and without a right hand to rest against the banister rail – he had fallen and taken a chunk out of his knee-cap, although he could still just about walk (albeit with a strange, lumbering gait). He formed a plan. He could carry on as normal. The shoe box was pulled out from under the bed, the two fingers it contained visible through the gap where Joe had cut away the strips. He put his right hand, big toe and knee-cap into the box alongside the fingers and then cut a strip right the way around it, bunched it up as bulkily as possible and slipped it into a sock. When he pulled it over his foot it did not look like an actual toe, but he re-assured himself by realising that no-one had seen him in his socks for some years anyway. Next he took the lid off the box and drew the shape of a hand on it with a pencil. Because he had been righthanded the lines were very shaky and the fingers not really in the proper proportion, but Joe cut out the shape anyway. Without a second hand to hold the lid steady the cutting made the hand-shape even more impressionistic. Then he slipped the card hand into a glove, and held it against his wrist. Again, the match was far from perfect, but if he could keep his hand in his pocket…

The knee-cap was the hardest part. The problem was its shape and its bulk. Joe pursed his lips and thought about it. He decided that the best thing to do would be to cut the sides of the box and bend them so they appeared to have bulk. But he was not happy with his first effort, or his second, or his third. He realised with desperate sadness that he had run out of box – it was all used up. Laid there on his carpet were the detached parts of his body, unhidden, open to plain view. And when he looked in his mirror he realised how pathetic his disguise was – his cartoon-like hand, the big toe that kept unfolding outwards, and the sag beneath his trouser-leg where his knee-cap should be. It was over, he realised. He could hide it no longer. He started to feel loose, as though all of his joints were over-flowing with oil.

Friday Joe had ignored the phone all week. It sounded strangely faint – he could hardly hear it at all. After a while – hours? days? – he heard something almost unbelievably unusual; a knock at his door. Again though, it was almost too quiet to hear, and he ignored that as well – not that he could have done anything about it even if had wanted to.

Sometime later he heard the distant scraping of a key in a lock, and then saw his door open. First to step across the threshold was his landlord Mr Watkins. Next was Danny. Neither of them were people he would have chosen to see him in this state but he didn’t really care. It wasn’t like the situation could get any worse. He did manage to

think that if Elizabeth were to follow them it would be worse, but dismissed the thought.

She couldn’t think any less of him now anyway. Danny made a phone call.

Seconds or maybe weeks later they were joined by Joe’s doctor. Joe could not remember his name and did not bother trying. The doctor had a large black bag with him, which he put on the floor and opened. He took out a pair of rubber gloves, and started to collect the pieces of Joe up from where they lay, putting each into a separate plastic bag. He picked up his fingers and his toes, his feet, fibulas and tibulas, his pelvis, his rib cage. He placed Joe’s eyes back into their sockets and put all the pieces into a sack. Then he picked up the stray ear that Joe had thought still attached, but which was only being kept in place because it was trapped against the floor by his head. After collecting up everything, the doctor carefully put Joe into his black bag and took him away.

Later that day the news fizzed around the warehouse like power-ball.

‘Always knew there was something wrong with that one,’ said one.

‘Always too nervous for his own good,’ said another.

‘Needed to toughen up. Be a man. Grow a back-bone,’ chipped in a third.

‘After all, we’ve all got our problems, but you’ve got to get on with it haven’t you?’ said a fourth, and this summed up the feelings of the warehouse so well that when the matter was further referred to, it was normally with this phrase and a response of complete agreement.

In the canteen Elizabeth was comforted by her work-mates.

‘Told you, didn’t I? Always said he’d fall apart one day.’

‘Never knew what you saw in him. Nothing to offer a girl like you, nothing.’

‘Good job you found out about him now. Imagine what you’d have done if you’d found out after you’d got involved!’

And Elizabeth did imagine, and hated herself for not knowing.

Written by Martin Richards

In September I was lucky enough to view on the big screen an incredibly thought provoking and controversial film as part of the Pornerhouse Season at Cornerhouse, (“a brief season reflecting and exploring changing attitudes towards pornography and ‘blue movies’.”) I personally believe that ‘Ai No Corrida - In The Realm of the Senses’ ( Nagisa Ôshima 1976) is as far removed from the paradigms of pornography as a coming-of-age movie, but I certainly didn’t hesitate to take advantage of such a rare screening.

Ai No Corrida is Ôshima’s version of the true story of Sada Abe, an ex-geisha turned maid, who in 1936 killed her lover and her master, Kichizo Yoshida, whilst in the throes of their passionate and obsessive relationship. Sada was later found in the streets, where she’d been wandering for four days with Kichizo’s penis in her hand. Subsequently arrested and imprisoned, still she became an iconic character in Japanese society and culture.

Ôshima not only pushed the boundaries of the erotic within mainstream cinema, but also shifted the cinematic ‘gaze’ (argued at the time to be a male gaze) and all this during the time of the Women’s Liberation Movement. What I find truly remarkable about this film is Ôshima’s total lack of fear of woman, showing not only their sexuality but also menstruation; something that mainstream cinema normally designates to horror movies. Indeed, although Kichizo is ultimately castrated at the end of the film, nowhere in this beautifully crafted narrative is there the hint of Freudian castration - their love and passion exists in a vacuum, it answers to no higher authority.

Ai No Corrida is an incredible union of high artistic intention and real, explicit eroticism. Sada (Eiko Matsuda) is no femme fatale and Kichizo (Tatsuya Fuji) is certainly no ‘dumb sap’, these two lovers are equals, they are complicit in their love, desires, obsessions and their screen presence. Ôshima’s use of soft focus lighting and Bazinian long shots, with slow purposeful movements, echoes beautifully the precise and ordered Japanese culture in which the film is steeped, yet not overwhelmed.

Could it be that it is not the explicit sex scenes, but the recognition of ourselves in this honest account of human behaviour, when love intoxicates us, that audiences and censors have found so uncomfortable over the last three decades?

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Written by Annette Cookson

Enrico David Roger Hiorns Lucy Skaer Richard Wright

6 October 2009 – 3 January 2010 www.tate.org.uk Pimlico Follow Tate on

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Richard Wright Untitled 2009 (detail) Private Collection, California © Richard Wright. Courtesy of Gagosian Gallery, London / New York, The Modern Institute / Toby Webster Ltd, Glasgow, and BQ, Berlin

La Tristesse Durera Toujours Wax swirls and magnetic fields Burning brightly, tight daffodils And basking sweetly; Our bodies are shelves And dust remote Where heaven descends.

Touch me lightly, firework – The funerals Are ethereal And revolver Twitching in your heart’s grasp Transforms the steel To a mourner of god.

Court me softly, The preachings are sold And hands, like whispers in gold, Are more than enough To hold Your eternity In my heart.

Tiny Iris boy, this world chose You To be a spectacle unto the world And man will always reproach, Your beautiful sadness.

Marianne Daniels

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verse

If It Were 50 Years Ago… Eyes emblazoned with challenge He is a gunfighter With his Zippo lighter Quick draw, fire With an echoing snap, back in the holster Leisurely stretching, baring skin Not knowing the unharnessed power Of revealing a solid silver belt buckle Like a prized token to win Rising, his stride first rate A cowboy gait, quaking dust and sand He steals her breath with the promise of a kiss Leaving her heart wide open Shutters swinging to behind him

Penelope Turnbull

“

I’ve been playing with poetry since I could first clutch a crayon.

I had my first encounter with spoken word at age 6, reading poetry for spring on Good Morning Australia. In 2008 I became involved with the spoken word scene in Manchester and have performed my own work at the GreenRoom, Manchester Central Library and Trof Oxford Road (No Point In Not Being Friends).

I have also created a website: www.exposure.net.au

”

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An urban ecology of chance is the outcome of a month-long residency project with Red Gate Gallery in Beijing, during April 2009.

An exploration of the architecture, inhabitants and ecology of Beijing, this project employs chance in its creative processes, in order to avoid total conscious control of the product.

An urban ecology of chance aims to offer a valuable contribution to the evolving cultural ties between China and the UK. As the majority of visual art we associate with Beijing is produced by its prolific and internationally acclaimed artists, this project proposes to map aspects of the city that are overlooked or insignificant, fleeting or peripheral.

Preview: Friday 16th Oct 6 - 9pm Open: Sat 17th – Fri 23rd Oct 11am - 6pm daily Exhibition venue: easaHQ 43 Hulme Street Manchester M15 6AW

For more information: contact@danielstaincliffe.com +44 7906544253 www.danielstaincliffe.com www.interval.org.uk www.easauk.net

BlankMarket, Blank Media Collective’s new online store is now accepting submissions...

BlankMarket is an exciting opportunity for you to make your art accessible, and to sell and promote your work.

There are many great features and benefits of BlankMarket, these include;

- No sign up fee - Low commission - Free promotion and marketing from Blank Media Collective

For further information about BlankMarket and how to submit your work, please visit:

www.blankmediacollective.org/blankmarket