Interval1

1. Degree Show Edition

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Degree Show Edition Editorial team Charlie Dearnley Daisy Billowes Rene McBrearty Holly Argent Cathy Garner

First published by

United Kingdom Š2014

Preface

Interval brings together various modes of creative writing, critical and art historical texts and experimental prose, exploring an expansive index linking art and writing. Drawing energy from a final year module in Critical and Contextual Writing at Newcastle University, this publication brings together contributions from students throughout the four-year, Fine Art programme.

Interval recognises an intersection: a vital inseparability between studio practices and art historical studies. It stands to evidence how both these studies inform, energise and inspire creative practitioners to engage in different forms of writing as part of their creative practice; as writing-aspractice. Where art historical studies provide precedent for more experimental forms of writing, and the content and inspiration for more focused undertakings in critical and contextual writing, the opportunity to experiment, take risks and trial ideas links back to research based methodologies of artists’ studio practice.

Interval in non-prescriptive. It offers an emergent space and creative platform to think freely, imaginatively and contextually: to write of, for and about visual arts, or simply, to write visually.

Interval has been made possible through support from the Association of Art Historians (AAH) and Newcastle University.

Matthew Hearn

Rene McBrearty

1.

The air is dense.

It appears to be a headquarters, strictly for business.

To get across_________you must first navigate around a series of aisles.

There are always two options:

number 1 you can zigzag around the chair which blocks your path,

number 2 you can walk on the hard plastic which squelches beneath your feet.

You imagine this headquarters has a certain lost grace; there are no companions to welcome you.

The room is full of repetition.

The constant ticking in the background is a reminder you are waiting for someone.

Propped up by a series of cushions you notice a worn man

with long ears and a soft face. ______Behind him is a pulley and you wonder where he came from.

He is balanced on all kinds of scaffolding: mountains of cushions, vertical and horizontal.

Heather Reid

It’s winter in the room, so all the windows are closed and all the curtains drawn.

But

It’s

ll sti

cold

all day.

Both fires

have been burning

.

She is already asleep in the room.

Breath The book still in her hand.

Breath The Jumper still on.

Breath On the sofa of course, The sofa B r e a t h She has slept on for so many of her nights in this house.

Because the windows are all closed, the room smells of warmth; even if it is not filled with it.The wood smoke and lingering aromas of cooking deceive the nose. It chills first, begins to run for its mistake.The table has been cleared after dinner, but not wiped and the dishes remain dirty in the Belfast sink.

Book

o Bo

k

Book Book

Book

Book

around all the junk and mess and The Singer nestles in and Hatch, Pile, Wading, Button.

Book

We all fit somehow, inside and stuff.

Thread Undone, Layer Coat, Alter, Zip and

Book Book Book

There is floor-Wood and Tile. Curtains-Gold and tumbling.

Framed walls, Poppy seeds, paper stack. Wires and machine & heart and blood. Smoke and embers.

Extract from Buried in the Middle

The wicks bathe in hot wax, there is still a little heat. The smell joins the room, it always reminds us of birth days.

The room is filled with corners and lines.

She is filled with curves and circles, round and round & round and round outside her mind.

The room is filled with brown.

She is filled with inheritance.

The room is also filled with stuff.

She is also filled with herself.

She is filled with her.

I am filled with her.

She rings around her head. She rings around mine.

The Room is small, but has a lot in it. So you can tell a lot has happened, but not a lot is happening now.

Eilish Briscoe

I remember how the edges of the pavement met with the dumb dense tarmac of the road I walked along. It was a crisp line. Not as crisp as black on white but it was stoic: a steadiness in the midst of disorder. The clamour around me had dulled, still audible but I had become desensitized to its needy impertinence. I remember how cloth clung just above my wrists: those cylinders of fabric pulling up gently with every step. Bitter cold air slithered its way through the abrasive teeth that chewed at the sliver of exposed skin around my wrists whilst my hands lay unawares within modest pockets; I recall now how my fingers huddled together for warmth and support. I suppose the route was a familiar one by any definition of the word, yet still each time I walked it, it seemed to shift and alter. My eyes wandered as they often did to those unexplained clefts in the pavement. On the surface, with each heavy step, they seemed so impenetrable. Perhaps this constant drumming causes them to ache and rupture. For a time, my eyes swam aimlessly through the sea of gridded grey until suddenly their attention was seized by a small insignificant green blob, its colour intensified amidst these insipid surroundings. It wormed its way inconsiderately into the forefront of my mind. It was insignificant to be sure, yet it held some sort of power. It had shown no consideration for the carefully uniformed structure of those stable slabs. Its merciless exploitation of my momentary lapse, a fracture in my otherwise regulated thoughts, infuriated me. Of course by the time I had analysed its effect I had in fact long since passed the point where that hopeful green spot sprouted. I suspect what truly bothered me was that this defiant green growth seemed ill befitting to the cold hard surroundings, it completely threw off the aesthetics! It later occurred to me that this shouldn’t have bothered me at all, yet despite myself I was intrigued by its epic insignificance.

Niall Craven

Wael Shawky and Kara Walker The Power of Story Telling

Story telling is often used as a way of diluting history into an easily interpreted account of events, however using traditional methods of story telling to retell history also presents many problems. How can large portions of human history be boiled into a mere story? Complex events and times are retold in order to present a neat linear narrative that attempts to make history a continuum of events that have lead up to the present time. We know that history is not as simple as this, we know that historical narrative will always be biased in a way such that the writer of history books has an influence on what is told.

Wael Shawky is the Egyptian artist behind Cabaret Crusades, an account of the crusades from an Arab perspective acted out by beautifully hand crafted marionettes. Cabaret Crusades is influenced by Amin Maalouf’s essay The Crusade through Arab Eyes, an account of the crusades told from the point of view of the Arab forces. The videos are accompanied by a series of supporting works Shawky creates including drawings and objects, including the marionettes themselves.

Shawky is a story-teller by nature, his videos are expertly directed and captivating. His concern here is not to retell history, or to depict an account of what happened during the crusades, but rather to explore the way in which history itself is translated through stories and legends, and how we chronicle the events of the past. By using Maalouf’s book as a starting point Shawky offers a depiction of the Crusades from a perspective that is not

Wael Shawky and Kara Walker: The Power of Story Telling

often taught in western society. Though the events depicted are told from the perspective of the Arabs and the dialogue is in Arabic it is not Shawky’s intention to portray the crusaders as antagonists, rather he uses the video series to consider the way in which historical narrative is received by an audience. Shawky’s work considers a problem that has plagued historians of the past century, the problem of how history is documented and who documents it. The reliability of textbook history is called into question by Maalouf’s retelling of events, and Shawky uses this to present a bizarre depiction of events that can hardly be called a reliable document of the crusades, even if the events actually did happen as shown.

The whimsical nature of these puppets only serves to amplify the true horror of the atrocities that took place during the crusades, and Shawky does not attempt to conceal these puppets or their workings, instead embracing their mechanisms as integral to the video. The amusing movements of the puppets become sinister when coupled with the themes presented by Shawky – a helpless flailing of limbs, or exaggerated bow of the head which might have provoked laughter in any other situation are poignant movements in this scenario. Even the strings have a place in Shawky’s work, shots of the sharp red wires controlling the characters movements constantly remind us of an unseen puppeteer controlling this retelling of history, manipulating the story that we are being told.

Myth and legend play a big part in Shawky’s practice, as he often explores the complex relationship between these traditional stories and the stories that are generally accepted as historically accurate. Cabaret Crusades offers a rich, dramatic and complex narrative, rich with tales of deception, heroism and plotting, a story that could have been lifted straight from One Thousand and One Nights, or any other literary epic. Not only are the Arabs fighting the crusading Franks, but they fight amongst each other as well. All this confusion is used by Shawky as a way of unsettling the reliability of the narrative. The flags used by the fighting factions are desaturated by Shawky, so that they all appear similar, and the marionettes often have several characters to play. Often it is hard to distinguish between the Crusaders and the Arabs, the victims and the warlords. Throughout the two videos the characters are clearly named, as they would be in a television documentary, however this information is so easily lost amongst the carnage and violence that is portrayed.

Niall Craven

Kara Walker is an American artist who, like Shawky, uses a childlike form of story-telling to create narratives based in history, specifically narratives around the slave trade in America and the atrocities that went with it.Walker is most known for her works that make use of silhouettes placed directly on gallery walls, reminiscent of shadow-puppets or magic lanterns. Works like Gone, An Historical Romance of a Civil War as It Occurred Between the Dusky Thighs of One Young Negress and Her Heart (1994) and The End of Uncle Tom and the Grand Allegorical Tableau of Eva in Hell (1995) are large-scale wall mounted works that employ the silhouette as a device for telling invented narratives that take place during the times when slaves where kept in America. These works confront troubling and grotesque imagery, often depicting rape, violence and the brutal treatment of black slaves during this time, yet they keep the childlike appearance that Walker manages to create by using this medium.

The silhouette is a useful tool for Walker. The practice dates back to the 18th century where silhouette portraits were a fashionable alternative to the painted portrait. Historically silhouettes were seen as a whimsical art form, more folk art than fine art, and as such they are not generally regarded with the same seriousness as painting, drawing or printing. Walker is well aware that this medium has a history of playfulness and lightness, it is what makes the contrast in form and subject so startling. When we see the images of abuse present in pieces like The End of Uncle Tom and the Grand Allegorical Tableau of Eva in Heaven rendered in such a quaint way it reminds us that 250 years ago such brutality and racism could have been discussed in such a light-hearted way. This child-like discussion of difficult historical topics is also present in Shawky’s work, particularly his puppet show Cabaret Crusades, and they both have the same effect on anyone viewing their work, a certain kind of horror that arises when such terrible events are depicted in childish language.

Walker’s work is hard to digest. While the images she creates remind us of Goya’s Disasters of War in their frankness and violence, she approaches the whole subject with a strange kind of humour that can make anybody encountering her work uneasy. This is further enhanced by her appropriation of the racist imagery that she borrows from. Walker, likes Shawky uses imagery that she has borrowed from historical sources, where Shawky more literally borrowed his puppets from a historical collection, Walker

Wael Shawky and Kara Walker. The Power of Story Telling

draws upon the vast range of imagery that has arisen from racist sources in America and beyond. Her figures are caricatures that bring to mind images of ‘pickaninnies, sambos, mammies, mandingos and mulatto slave mistresses’, abhorrent racist stereotypes that came out of a culture and time period when such blatant racism was everyday and humorous. When using a silhouette these characters that Walker uses are recognised by their exaggerated features and stereotypical clothes, it becomes necessary to acknowledge these, and because of this, interpreting the tableaux becomes an uncomfortable task. Walker’s ironic use of these derogatory stereotypes has been heavily criticised in the past, particularly by other black artists who argue that she is wrong to use these images ‘for the amusement and the investment of the white art establishment’.Walker approaches the subject with an air of caustic sarcasm however, satirising the way black people have been depicted in the past, showing everyone how ridiculous and damaging this way of thinking was.

These artists approach story-telling and narrative as ways to offer an alternative, perhaps more human approach to history, where large events and cultural landmarks make way for personal dramas and human atrocities, however both do it by recreating history in their own idiosyncratic way, were people make way for puppets or exaggerated silhouette characters.

This makes their feat all the more impressive: creating such theatrical, emotive human episodes using such simple techniques.

Martin Eccles

Wind carries the Chaffinch call.

Under high cloud no sign of rain.

Distant crows in the roar of the wind.

Light scatters off rippled water

Meadow floods glitter brown and blue.

Into the sun is blinding white

Sedge stands tall through the grass.

Bent by the wind gusts it shivers

The watching Stonechat drops from the hawthorn.

Carried downwind.

Headland castles the horizon widens.

Islands to the south.

To sea, gulls lift and drop.

Windblown feathers picking at the waves.

Ross Sands 24 February 2014

The water’s edge.

Here sea swept flat there lined by the ebbing tide.

Kelp lain across the sand.

Holdfast torn loose by the winter storms.

Wind blown sand round grass.

Small stark shadows cast in the low winter sun.

Seal bones among broken shells.

Scattered across a graveyard of silt

Ridges of silt part shaved by the wind.

To be recast by the tide.

Ridges, gullies, lines and curves.

The beach maps the ebb and flow of the tide.

Out of the lee.

Into the wind and sun low over the dunes

Cathy Garner

THE APATHETE MANIFESTO

Every morning feels much the same; the world turns, the dew dries and the Sun rises, more out of routine than anything else. We stand upon the cusp of a young millennium; fragile, small and jaded-green. The racing pace of modernity has fizzled into hollow bubbles and our eyes have been opened to the illusion of progress. Around us, people gnash their teeth and spit their battle cries. They scream their beliefs into divided skies. Righteous or not, the intensity in which we live has become almost exhausting. Too long, the world has been fuelled by the disease of ambition. It is time to accept that inaction is not inertia and that doing nothing can be constructive.

Enter the Apathetes.

We stand for nothing. We fall for no one. What we half embrace is a deep rooted superficial ambivalence. This is not self indulgence, but self-preservation. Our Earth is one of contingency, of complication, contradiction. We know that it does not do to dwell too much on anything. We know that no belief can be pragmatic. The Apathetes recognise that cognitive dissonance will always reign pseudo-supreme and so we hang our hammocks between the twin palms of fervour and fatigue. Dispassionate, disenchanted, disinherited.

We do not profess to stand idly by and allow atrocities in our name, but what we advocate is the abolition of such atrocities for they are the product of actions and actions are distortion of thought. Actions are the enemy.

Instead of such disruptions, we seek to preserve that beautifully neutral element; potential.

We do not dream. We merely sleep We do not make. We merely breathe.

We are. And that is hard enough.

Or so we think today. I don’t know. We’re not fussed and, and it doesn’t matter anyway.

The Apathete Manifesto

Retrospective at the Baltic Lorna Simpson The Baltic art gallery in Gateshead has continued to draw attention to itself since hosting the Turner art prize in 2011, the first time that the prestigious show was held outside of the Tate in its 27 years. Now we welcome the prominent American artist Lorna Simpson to the North East for the first European Retrospective of her work. The show was previously displayed in the Jeu de Paume in Paris where it was met with great admiration, described as ‘both subtle and arresting.’

Lorna Simpson describes this as a quasi-retrospective, detailing her 30 year career but not yet a summary of all she has to offer. Throughout her work there are recurrent themes of culture, race, gender and, often a summation of all these, identity. This is exemplified in the vast greeting image displayed on the gallery’s exterior: a still from her film Momentum (2011) central to the fourth floor exhibition, in which golden, ‘afrodonned’ ballet dancers pirouette in endless performance. The image, monumental in size, leaves a lasting curiosity on passersby, even those who may not visit the exhibition themselves. Its ambiguous, unexplained nature has caused discussion as to whether the performers are at first glance white and even nude. Those who are familiar with Simpson will instead presume them to be black, especially with the stereotypical afros. It is only upon closer expectation that the viewer may observe a mix of Asian and Hispanic performers as well. Simpson has revealed this film is based upon her experience as a 12 year old child performing at a ballet recital, and realising “immediately it was not for me.” Simpson, now the spectator, creates a work that encompasses questions of race through cultural assumptions and involves the viewer in a snapshot of her own experience and dealing with identity.

Independent curator Joan Simon brought this exhibition to the Baltic from Paris but she worked in close collaboration with Simpson and it shows. Everything seems carefully considered in its placing and presentation to provide its maximum potential and effect. Notably, unlike many retrospectives, the work is not presented in chronological order but more in a roughly thematic structure. Spanning two floors, both offer very different viewing experiences. The third floor, where the exhibition starts, contains arguably the most emotive works. Simpson’s 12 panel serigraph on felt,The Car (1995) heralds you into the exhibition. An example of figurative retreat to architecture in the 1990s, the piece immediately introduces Simpson’s proto-cinematic construction of photography and prose, a technique used throughout her work to great effect. The

Retrospective at the Baltic: Lorna Simpson

viewer will automatically try to deduce a relationship between the text and the image, inserting their own views and assumptions to satisfy themselves with an answer.

This confusion and ambiguity is Simpson’s intention. ‘Eyes and ears are working in tandem...even though they may be telling you opposing things.’ Sometimes there is a faint humour in this process, as with Stereo Styles (1988) featuring 10 black and white photographs of the back of an African American woman’s head, her hair coiffed in various styles. Central to these two rows of images are a stream of 10 words, creating a natural desire to match up ‘the right’ word with the ‘right image.’

In fact Simpson is again playing upon our tendency to impose meaning as these words were just the first 10 adjectives Simpson came across on shampoo bottles in Wal-Mart.

Also on this floor is the piece that first brought Simpson international recognition: Waterbearer (1986), a large, predominantly black photograph, ripe with connotations. Central to the image we again see an African American woman, her back to us, hiding an individual identity. She wears the same simple white cotton shift that Simpson chooses to use so often: aesthetically this provides a powerful contrast to the darkness of the background and the model’s skin, which almost seems to retreat into the shadow. The stance of the model resembles that of a Dutch painting like Vermeer’s The Milkmaid (1657), but here, instead of the maid’s precise pouring with two secure hands, Simpson’s woman cascades the water with abandon from her two vessels.The heavy traditional silver jug, perhaps representative of the weight of history, sits lower than the light, white plastic container, a thoroughly modern item. The image has been said to represent the scales of judgement in which Anubis weighed a person’s heart on her left against a feather on the right. If the heart was heavier than the feather, the person was more wicked than good.

Race is the intentional red herring in a lot of Simpson’s work. The images release a chain of associations presumed endemic to black female experience. The ambiguity of her work opens up a can of worms for viewers to project their own assumptions and judgments upon. Particularly with the showing of the piece now, in the aftermath of the release of award winning film 12 Years a Slave, the tendency to presume Simpson is making a statement about slavery is understandable. A woman standing in front of the piece commented to one of the guides about the metal bracelet the model wears, thinking it a clear symbol of the chains of a slave. With the metal jug almost attached to it, the history of slavery weighs down on her ‘black identity’ and her indiscriminate white shift becomes one of the rough cotton garments seen on slaves imposed by their ‘masters’. This is the unavoidable implication that comes with being a black female artist: that her art is about ‘what a tangled and terrifying thing it is to be a black woman.’ Simpson herself does not appear to overtly state this, in fact seeming quite detached and sometimes running the risk of becoming too understated. In actuality this restraint has had the effect of magnifying the intensity of this message.

Simpson said that film allowed her more spontaneity than photography due to its collaborative nature which gives the potential for more unplanned variations which can shift the film in an interesting way. Her films often border on a documentary style mixed with elements of film noir. The films, as with her photographs, elicit the belief that between ‘looking’ and ‘seeing’ meaning starts to change. Throughout the

third floor exhibition you will hear an insistent whistling. The desire to search for the perpetrator disturbs your contemplation but venture to the far corner and you will find, tucked away in a black room, the source: Simpson’s 2004 film Cloudscape.

The late Terry Atkins stands in a dark room as a white fog slowly engulfs him and then dissipates. This is one of the most overt racial references within this retrospective as the song that Atkins whistles is one of gospels of the railroad. The fact you can hear it throughout this part of the exhibition adds secondary meaning when looking at the other, more ambiguous pieces. Its poetry and lyricism is pervasive yet eternal.

Through the elegant defiance of these pieces she shows us how we blindly accept images as truth. It is true that personal histories must inhabit an artist’s work but Simpson has tried over the years to move away from the more specifically African American origins of her early work in favour of a universal vision that everyone can relate to. She never fully lets go of her identity though as memory and history are always prevalent factors throughout the exhibition.

Be careful not to overlook the newest addition to Simpson’s oeuvre: a piece specially commissioned for the Baltic, Chess. Again tucked away in a dark room, this time at the back of the expansive fourth floor, it offers an interesting solace after the golden spectacle of Momentum, which slightly intrudes on this very different piece as the sound of the squeak and thump of the ballet dancers persists. Most viewers will be unaware that in this piece Simpson makes a rare transition to the other side of the camera as she becomes the subject, albeit an unrecognisable one. She takes two of the three roles in this black and white film, the other being taken by composer Jason Moran who plays the piano soundtrack which overlays the whole piece. It is reminiscent of her more classic works with its reduction in colour and subtlety but here she uses a rarely seen technique that is also new to her. Each character is on a split screen where they themselves are split and replicated by a five way mirror. The ‘man’ and woman, both played by Simpson, are playing themselves in a continuous loop to the sound of Moran’s music. While not much seems to happen in this stereotypically boring game of chess, the repetition of both the man and the woman in the mirrors is so well accomplished that they almost appear to be playing their identical quintuplets. Instead of a slow game of chess, the tension created makes it seem like a high-stakes poker game. Moran, his face obscured, is like the commentator with the rhythm of his music dictating the state of play. We become entranced.

While this retrospective at the Baltic offers a wide range of Simpson’s styles and themes, it is curious that her and Joan Simons choose to omit some of her more blatantly political or racial works, such as Corridor (2013), a split screen that presents the life of a female servant on a plantation on one side and, adjacent to that, the same woman as an independent female in the 60s living out her day in tandem.

These omissions in fact leave the meanings of the work more open and susceptible to the imagination of the viewer. Simpson carves out a new African American niche: one that, while still steeped in its history of racial identity, can now strive forward in an independent search for ‘the self.’

Lorna Simpson will be showing at the Baltic Art Gallery, Gateshead until June 22nd 2014

Retrospective at the Baltic: Lorna Simpson

Louie Pegna

Fanitullen or Write Your Own Bastard Tunes

In the tough Brundage, then the Oldrik and Svir hallingdolen Blade sad resolved in his scabbard, when Kvinderne to Gilde bar Ligskjorten with which the customer may i add her husband down, stood a blodigt Wedding in Hemsedal place somewhere, where Leg and dander was fell silent and Karlene slog cred. thi middle of the floor Tilje, in the mandslagne Ring, stood two with drawn Knife and eat BÊlte buckle around. And as udskaarne Supports dormant Ro staa a distinguished four Karle in Kredsen the two. they promise Tyrilysen mod the black Bjelketag, where Rogens Eddies and collected into a brooding Team. ForgjÊves tvende kvinde with Howl Traeng forward, that troubled the solid GjÊrde, which are pledged in front of them. they thrown angrily Compare af the muskelstÊrke MÊnd - and Spillemanden quietly goes to KjÊldertrappen going. Nu be him down the drain, thi victorious Mand may said well need that kiss Bowl Rand.

In BÊltespÊnding plucked only with the Blood Tab, THEN well Aaren fullness of T¯ndetutens Gab. But when he stood in KjÊldren, he saw in a blaaligt Skin one Sidd where paa Tonda and voice violi her. Karlen And kept the reverse, tÊt up to chest crushed, and gave him the stryges, as soon as he provisional arrangement was voted. , there was a games like dued: It sounded like angry Mands Word, which Hug af staalsat Bile, which NÊveslag in the table. jubled it and it hulked the creepy KjÊlderhal, then TURNED Toner ended with a resounding Mandefald. Taus Spillemanden lytted to the mÊgtige LOB, it was that game Eddies down ad his back Krob . Saa spurgte he is the candidate: “Where did you learn the hay?” He svared: “It is the same, but mind thee the sacrifice, “ Nu The Man down himself luded and after Tappen train - then he Hestehoven, such as stroke mod Tonda slog. , he forgot clean the drain, he sprang up in the living room - where lofted the floor of the faldne Mandekrop. Skogstad are called, a distinguished wild hay, and D¯lene the play, and play it well. obey But the sinister tones under Oldrik and Svir, then loosen again knife in hallingdolen sheath.

Fanitullen or Write Your Own Bastard Tunes

It delivered the story is linked to a wedding in Hovet in Hol in 1724, where two young boys, ≈dne Sindrol and Levord Haga, strove and then into fights. Levord were killed, while ≈dne, under threat of death , fled over the mountains to Numedal . The incident is referenced in contemporary court documents from the printer things in Eel .

The tune is related to the story, derived supposedly from MASTER-COOK at the banquet, which was on its way down to the cellar to fetch a beer for whoever won the fight. While he was down there, he saw a man sitting on wine barrel with a fiddle and play a beaten he had not heard before. The man held his fiddle opposite way, with the neck towards his chest, beating rhythm on the barrel with a coltsfoot instead of the left foot. It was clear that this was the devil . Kj¯ge master sprang up again, and found that one of the fighters lay dead in the yard.

Holly Argent

the Icelandic dictionary states that the term landslag is most often accompanied by the qualifying adjectives such as; beautiful, scenic, impressive, magnificent, effective, spectacular, majestic, expressive, grand, tremendous, unimpressive, monotonous, insignificant, bland B---L_____A----ND what a horrible word to say. you say it with a stress on the B: a constantan. definitely oral over nasal. made by active articulation via the lower lip and passive articulation by the upper lip. a curled tongue tip pervasive but basking

warily touching it’s the first to arrive the last to go re-laaa-t-ion-al equidistant there. it exists only by the means of the two. the two acquire the form they have within the network, emerging a relational space; as a result of interrelations within the network the entities take their form and acquire their attributes. it is in, by, and through the relations between these entities that they are performative (Law 1999), in other words co-dependent. like an egg to a sperm, teeth to the tongue, child to a mother, a brother from another mother. join the dots you’ll see a performative glottal stop, conversing with the external world

what a slag fell oxytocin. pulling at the umbilical cord with one hand swipe three fingers. pull. swipe two fingers down in one. push induced, the solid mountains shone, delivered bright as the clouds, grain tinctured,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, broken waters))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

using breathing and relaxation techniques you can drench yourself in empyrean light and in the meadows and the lower pools stretch and open stretch and open stretch and open st-ret-ch a-n-d o---pen

shit oh come on

I Am A Landslagmidwife

the body. As an intermediary‌dilating‌between nature and culture you fall like a wave. start gently and build gradually, gaze softly, still

offingly A BAG OF FLUID (usually lasts one to two hours)

moving around standing up kneeling leaning forward \\\\\\\\\ I MEAN /////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// ////////////////////////////////////////////////////// M MET?A /// bloody WORDSWORTH: apparently the broad ocean and the azure heavens are be spangled with kindred multitudes of stars which could find no surface where power might sleep show me [tendens] [rills] [soundless] power is the face, hands, mouths of a consuming cave, spurting ghastly moltens of blood, oxytocin, ergometrine, entonox, water, flesh compose I am a midwife.

I am a servant to #MotherNature And the body is a situation

dilating, at 37.

Holly Argent

according to Fathers of the church, thirty seven is a symbol of the Christ, symbol of the alive word of God. According to the antique science of the Chaldeans, number thirty seven symbolised force, the capacity and the power.

Flesh 37 Fleshy 37 Fleshing out at 37 A fleshist flesher trying to grow its way around the body. Controlling the world in all its shape, society, and nature in one grey ball of dermis: thickly hiding the torso and mind, reason and emotion, subject and object. Flesh is all of these things. As upholstery to thought voice and action, the body, the mind and the earth that surrounds the chapped ultimatums of life. The Master of Mother squeezes the flesh, lets it deliver, and lets it induce, brake, rip, pull, hold, labour, wane, pour and slip itself in to an assimilation that surrounds us when we immerse within an aesthetic perception for one should GIVE THEMSELVES to the experience to BOSS being in it, as our control is not one sided dominion but rather interaction with the natural force of nature is it though?

I Am A Landslagmidwife

Feminist Artists:

Are They Needed in Today’s Art World?

In a world where women supposedly have unparalleled positions of influence, where do feminist artists fit when gender equality is still rife?

Marlene Dumas The Visitor, 1995 With the likes of Tracey Emin and Sarah Lucas having ubiquitous popularity for nearly two decades, is it necessary to reconsider the issue of feminism in art and the validity of its use as a political medium? Have we become immune to the feminist outcry through desensitization or have we merely accepted feminist art as being politically charged? In a supposedly ‘post-feminist’ world where we are allegedly ‘falling out of love’ with feminism, is a resurgence in Feminist Art an essential component in establishing change, or are we in an age where change is evident enough to move on?

Evidence would suggest not. But how, after decades of social change and development, can this be the case?

The East London Fawcett- a branch of the Fawcett Society, the UK’s campaign for gender equality published results in May of last year in the form of the Great East London Art Audit. It found that only 5% of over 100 commercial galleries in London equally represented male and female artists. Similarly, the audit found that not a single woman appeared on the top 100 auction performances in 2012. The audit gathered data on 134 commercial galleries, representing 3,163 artists from April 2012-April 2013 and found that of this total; just 31% of the represented artists were women, with 78% of the galleries representing more men than women.

It is easy to question why this is happening, when the strident feminists of the 70s and the resurgence of feminist art in the 90s remain a lasting influence in history. It may be that the definitions, opinions and beliefs of the active feminism movement- that women are capable, intelligent individuals and should be treated equally to men- have become so saturated into society and our culture, that we take them for granted, no longer branding them as issues to be concerned about. The record breaking statistics from artists like Tracey Emin mislead people into thinking women have a fair shot at success in the art world. Similarly, that the varying beliefs of generations are affecting the way we look at feminism- our mothers may be openly political about feminism whereas we prefer to have accepted it as a given right- and these conflicts create a difficulty in establishing the condition of feminism now. Radical feminists have alienated women by railing against humour and criticizing relationships whilst younger feminists will refuse

to use the word ‘feminist’, fearing the negative stereotypes attached to the term, but stridently support equal pay legislation and domestic violence laws. Either way, it is clear there is a need for these issues to be redressed and considered differently, but where on this scale do feminist artists fit in?

In 1970, Judy Chicago coined the term ‘Feminist Art’, owing to the development of her own work challenging female stereotypes placed on women artistically. She, along with others like Yoko Ono and Eva Hesse, confronted and shocked the art world by addressing fundamental issues such as women’s representation in art history and art practice, challenging female stereotypes in art and confronting the male dominated abstract expressionist movement. Using their practice to ‘change the world’; Feminist Art became a hugely broad field, reflecting women’s experiences and approaches to their identity, attitudes and aesthetics. Many contemporary artists feel the need to identify themselves as women, despite this apparent saturation; Marlene Dumas openly questions her own identity as a woman, a South African woman, a blonde woman and a dirty woman through her focus on the human figure in painting and socio-politically themed statements. Ana Mendieta, a Cuban performance artist, uses natural materials and her own body to question our connection with the earth and her identity as a female artist. These artists draw attention to issues of race, gender and sexuality through their artwork and are subsequently thought of as feminist artists. Their interesting and humorous view of the world makes them pioneers in contemporary feminist art.Why then, is there still a statistically prevalent gender gap in the art world?

One idea to suggest the imbalance is the notion that the ‘personal is political’ , born out of a historical hangover from the 70s feminism movement. The phrase appeared in Notes From the Second Year: Women’s Liberation in 1970 and has been used by second wave feminists ever since. The idea originates from the conscious-raising awareness women’s groups created in the 1970, aiming to promote a political selfawareness in everyday life. The art world of the 70s was wholly male dominated, following the assumption that the male was the universal and the female was the particular; when the male artist spoke, he spoke for the world; when the female artist spoke, her language was personal. Abstract painting was a universal language, heavily dominated by male ‘expressionists’ and figurative painting could only be specific. In rebutting the universal, feminist art presented the personal, the local and the particular in all its glory, creating a symbolic premise for the nature of feminist art. The problem with this notion in art is that the mere identity of being a woman then becomes embedded in the artwork itself and the work becomes political merely because the artist is a woman.

Jenny Holzer Projections: I AM AFRAID OF THE ONES IN POWER WHO KILL PEOPLE AND DO NOT ADMIT GRIEF, 1996-2011 Studying the decades in art following the 70s decade, it becomes clear the artists who survived only did so because of addressing a radical new field in art such as installation or performance art. Despite the inclusion of women into the intellectual world of academia (this only came later in the 80s and 90s), the contemporary art world remains frozen in time, denying women entry to a closed system. The femi

nist movement opened doors to opportunity and possibilities of art making but it did not open the doors of the galleries. Artists such as Jenny Holzer, Barbera Kruger and Rachael Whiteread all stridently represent Feminist Art in the 70s but did so through these challenging and revolutionary new forms of art, allowing them to contribute to art history without simply being a female representative. It is true now that painters like Marlene Dumas and Jenny Saville have reintroduced the medium into a female domain but even their work openly explores female identity and issued of gender. Campaign or politically charged artists such Faith Ringgold or Mira Schor openly explore feminism and issues of gender and race in their work too, but it is easy to question how influential they are when they openly trademark themselves as feminist and appear to be part of the very few female artists to reach success or particularly be supported by institutions.

This begs the question as to whether a woman artist has to be a feminist artist to become noticed in our contemporary art culture. Is it the men who decide which women are going to achieve success or is it the public’s popularity vote? Why is it that so few female artists are being represented in general? In a recent interview with Der Spiegel, the German artist Georg Baselitz said ‘women don’t paint very well. It’s a fact’ . How much influence do these sorts of comments have on the art world? Jennifer Thatcher, in a recent article in Art Monthly quotes figures revealing that women made up 62% of the art college undergraduates to obtain a degree in 2011-2012. The fact that the Modern Art Sector only contains roughly 3% of these graduates casts a sharp relief on the imbalances that emerge after Higher Education and careers formed thereafter.

Thatcher claimed ‘Women…express anxiety at the prospect of having children, feeling they must avoid visible obstacles to their career progression in a world in which one must appear continually available for residencies, commissions or even just networking’. Is it really down to making choices about families and time constraints that limit the accessibility for women to the art world? It has for decades been revealed that our socioeconomic structure favours men; a notion evident in all areas of work, but in 2014 it is hard to accept this as being responsible for the significant deficit in the art world.

Aside from addressing or blaming the male dominated art world for this deficiency, there is the responsibility of the institutions and councils governing and funding these projects to consider. Whilst public art and institutions offering free exhibition entrance to promote equality and the relevant idea that art is for everyone, statistics like this lead us to question where the apparent gap is occurring. The BBC’s Reith Lectures this year took a bold step in asking transvestite potter Grayson Perry to host the prestigious event, valiantly promoting accessibility and approachability, his ‘Playing to the Gallery’ lectures received the highest viewing figures on record. Although his alter-ego, Claire, is a woman, Perry subtly and privately explores his own gender, but through the spectacle of showmanship, rather than boldly making a statement about feminism. Similarly, the awarding of the Turner Prize, a leading contemporary art prize, has been a subject of controversy due to only 5 of the 29 prestigious awards being granted to women.

According to UK Feminista, a campaign to support gender equality, published results in 2010 finding that 83% of the artists in the Tate Modern and 70% of artists in the Saatchi Gallery were male . These are worrying statistics in 2014, when our supposedly Post-Conceptual culture is the most accessible and open to change and opportunity as it ever has been.

The Guerilla Girls Do Women have to be Naked to Get into the Met Museum?, 1989 The Guerilla girls formed in 1985 with the sole mission of bringing gender and racial inequality in art institutions to light, famously using gorilla masks to hide their identity, gaining attention through their bold creation of protest art. Their notable piece ‘Do Women have to be Naked to Get into the Met Museum?’ appeared in the form of a billboard and circulated around New York in the early 90s. It included the statistic ‘less than 5% of the artists in the Modern Arts Sector are women, but 85% of the nudes are female’, casting a light on the institutional bias that was rife. Recent works include a poster campaigning to ‘free the women artists of Europe’ and their ‘Time for Gender Reassignment’ campaign, revealing similar statistics about gender representation in commercial galleries and encouraging women to ‘take a stand’ and ‘collect and exhibit’. Their revealing mantra is refreshing and it’s clear that they have made a difference in outreach and public knowledge, but how responsible are they for making these changes? According to the Frieze art fair statistics, that change can occur, but should it be the responsibility of Feminist artists to cast light on these issues, or is it the institutions that have a moral accountability for addressing the imbalance?

Advocate feminists such as the Guerilla Girls and art historian Linda Nochlin have identified that the contemporary art world has not only deemed feminist art out of fashion but resorted to the kind of sexist behaviour the original movement aimed to eliminate. London, as one of the capitals of the international art world, with innumerable new exhibition openings, events, performances and screenings appearing every day has branded itself a world centre for the sale and exhibition of contemporary art. The majority of these venues privilege the work of male artists and often brand women artists as ‘feminist’, whether or not their art has a political message. Today, although many prominent artists happen to be women denied there are many prominent artists who just happen to be women, but that they rarely or never get a one person show reveals the problematic attitude of our institutions. In the run up to the 30 year anniversary of the Turner Prize, will this continued imbalance of gender representation within the arts remain an issue or are we finally accepting the need to redress the balance? It might be that rather than asking whether feminist artists have a place in today’s contemporary art world, it may be more appropriate to ask if women artists do.

Harriet Bowrey

(untitled)

The toast popped as as hot as a temper. (1.)

Crumbs flying.

I don’t miss you eating in my bed. (2.)

I prefer sandy feed to scratchy crumbs. (3.)

(1.)

I threw the burnt square on to the lawn for the black birds.

(2.) Naturally.

(3.)

I’m pretty sure anyone who would rather be inside, than out,

on a sunny day, is not my cup of tea, to put it politely.

(untitled) The noise of computers fills my brain.

It makes my head fizz. (1.)

I don’t like technology. (2.)

I prefer the seaside.

Water so cold it clots your blood.

(1.)

Like a fizzy lolly.

(2.)

Does this make me a less valid human; “You can’t even use photoshop !?”

Poem

Do check will you?

Did I not mention this before?

I check I check I check (1.)

A wasp had flown in through the French windows.

Its body long and its presence unwelcome. (2.)

The hand of friendship was not extended. I ran from the room, (3.) and left the wasp to show itself the door.

But now I check (4.) and the question arises.

Did the wasp stay in or go out?

(1.)

(2.)

(3.)

(4.)

The anguish of not knowing.

Like a tiger who came for tea.

This justifiably is the best course of action when a stinging insect invades your home.

I check, I check.

Harriet Bowrey

The Future I saw a film about a couple who found a stray cat.

Their life/lives break. (1.)

We sat outside, (2.) and I wondered when we would follow suit.

I would want to keep The cat And I doubt you even thought at all. (3.)

(1.)

(2.)

(3.)

The woman rubs her crotch on the sofa.

I had a cigarette and was nearly sick.

I can’t say you ever really thought about anyone but yourself.

(untitled)

Let us do absolutely nothing today (1.). After all who is likely to tell me off, (2.)

I’m sick of education. (3.)

(1.)

I’m pretty sure I’ve lied my way out of a lot of situations.

(2.)

I’m the only person who is going to make me feel guilty. It

sounds like a line from a self help book. I read a self help

book once. It instructed me to imagine a rainbow of all the

colours and to let it shower down on me. A cleanse of kinds.

(3.)

Probably not the best statement for an ambition in teaching.

Poem

18th April 2014

A Rhea is lose in the fields of Royston.

He is searching for love. (1.)

A joyous bid for freedom in to fields as yellow as the sun. (2.)

I want to tell the Rhea ‘you’ve got the kind of nerve (3.)

I like’.

(1.)

Rhea seeks fast and friendly female for friendship, maybe more…

(2.)

Oil seed rape gives me terrible headaches and hay fever.

(3.)

According to the man on radio four rheas meat is very low in cholesterol.

Legs full of blood.

Pins and needles is a terrible infliction. (1.)

Waking up too early, or staying up too late, I end up sitting and thinking.

My most pressing worry is worrying about how much I worry about worrying. (1.)

I’m a worrier.

(1.) Sitting for too long is a foolish and glorious waste of time.

(2.) is not a well thought through plan.

Harriet Bowrey

Excuse me while I rage.

My worst trait is my spite.

In spite myself I can’t shake it I have terrible dreams about dogs.

A dog is attacking me, or attacking my cat. (1.)

And I go mental. (2.)

I savage it.

I burst its eyes with my door keys.

I rip its front legs apart I burn its fur.

I wrench its jaws open and split its face.

I maul its body. and wound its face.

Biting Scratching Growling Biting, Scratching, Growling. (3.)

(1.)

(2.)

(3.)

The Pykes dog once killed a poor little cat.

Some people, just aren’t dog people.

As feral as the animal.

Poem

I love once jelly has set to give it a little slap, such elation.

The thrill NEVER PUT TISSUE IN YOUR MOUTH. (1.)

Long hair strands clogged the drain, looping and knotting, greasy and fibrous.

When I’m angry I tear out my hair (2.)

The silt of the plug hole. The shiny layer. The discolouration. The slime on the shower cap. The bristles. The fluff. The fibres.

The bathroom, a celebration of legionnaires.

An overwhelming feeling of something I can’t quite place. (3.)

All I know is that some one needs to clean the bathroom.

And who am I kidding.

(1.)

(2.)

(3.)

you sicko.

When Oscar goes to the vets his hair begins to malt and fall.

I love having a moment. A solemn, self indulgent moment of self righteous pity.

A woolen jumper should be a form of torture.

Snow drops only show their face to the soil.

A humble tree 3 nests of mistletoe – it bows.

Are bees furry

to tease me that I can’t touch them ?

The Subliminal and The Sublime Now that branding has become a universal tool of identification, with the submission of major museums and artists to the tool, it is easy to get lost in the persuasive fog of marketing. Whatever happened to the pilgrimage of visiting a gallery to see the sublime?

Nowadays the experience entails a little wander round the gallery, a pit stop at the gift shop, then the final, satisfying relief of finding, not the sublime but the coffee shop. The constant ‘been there, done that’ and the ‘must sees’ of major artist attractions hails to the success of the brand, a branding which reaches to the far depths and alternate dimension of the Internet. Or rather it is found in our jeans pocket, on our device, recommended by the Trip Advisor App. Are we in fact being persuaded by the subliminal, the adverts, the brand on and offline to visit and find art: is the subliminal now the sublime? Branding does not just intend to sell us an object, it sells us an experience. So now that art has accepted this capitalist utensil to welcome in an audience, I wonder if the romance of art has disappeared and instead artworks, artists, exhibitions and museums only cater for the strict consumer diet of recommended popular tourist attractions.

What is clear in the work of Jon Rafman, is that there is nothing subliminal about it. The branding is as clear as daylight, but in the most sublime way. In his Brand New Paint Job (BNPJ) (which rather bluntly includes the word ‘brand’) he takes appropriated images from stock image sites and uses them to create interiors. But these are not just any images, Rafman takes an iconic painting that he has ripped from the web and plasters it all over Google’s 3D Warehouse template furniture. It is the supreme ‘one-offs’ meets ambiguous reproducible furniture.

It is the magnitude and repetition of the paintings in a confined virtual space that makes these paintings brand new again. They act as shrines to the artists, in an obsessive-teenagegirl’s-bedroom kind of way. What is difficult to distinguish is where the painting starts and finishes, or rather how many appropriated images are there in one room? One is completely submerged. I was drowning in Jasper Johns Oval Office until I resurfaced and found my face nearly touching the computer screen. Perhaps this speaks off the mundane rooms that employees become trapped in at work. Sucked in at the computer and surrounded by lifeless walls.

Considering images that are spread across the net rarely hold any concrete original information, “the name, title and date are often the first data to get lost” it leaves only the image behind: what is left is a version of something. But the image is recognised as a Jasper Johns. From first viewing Jasper Johns Oval Office without noticing the title there was something familiar about the image. But I thought surely this can’t be a Jasper Johns?

Stallabrass argues that images are as much branding as words and ethos this identification of this painting highlights the power of its brand, but also the ability and the beauty of the democratised image online. Google’s image search is itself an institution and its white walls are where these multiple versions of images hang allowing artists such as Rafman to use them as they please.

The Subliminal and The Sublime

The images of paintings have been digitalised, pixelated, bitesized, bitmapped, JPEGged, PDFfed, shrunk, stretched and ‘stolen’ (although the artistic word would be appropriated). So after all these transformations and the questionable quality of the digitalised image of a Jasper Johns, is it still branded a Jasper Johns? Rafman has highlighted the lucrative nature of the democratised image “it’s iconic but it’s also treated like any other digital image.”

Perhaps these digital images are like the fake designer handbags scattered across the black market, they look real but one knows they are something else. However, brand also means to mark something. Which is what Rafman has done: he has rebranded Google’s furniture.

By covering the furniture with these high class images he has classified the makers of these digital furnishings as on par with the makers of the paintings. The fabric is as important as the object. Separately they are banal, but together they are special. Rafman is now the maker; he is the middle man that puts these two qualities together to produce something brand new. He has mutually elevated the class and value of an appropriated, shared image and a reproducible digital artefact.

BNPJ also discusses the relationships between artists themselves. Rafman’s pieces become a ground for mutual elevation of brands where Rafman uses other artists to elevate his work by historically contextualising it and evidently name-dropping some of the greats.

“As an artist it is very important to be aware of what came before you” therefore he can place himself in art history. Picasso would not have developed Cubism without the help of Georges Braque and the YBAs would not be so famous without their collective ‘shock factor’. However, nowadays, artists connect via the web. The decentralisation and deconstruction of artist practise by making avatars and reproduced images of artists work to exist on the net, leads to an expanding omnipresence of the artist. Artists project themselves, their brands and artworks into virtual communities in social media. “We live in a time when young artists look at each other’s Facebook pages more than each other’s art.” These mini brands of themselves are shared with a constant plea to ‘follow’, ‘like’, ‘hashtag’ and ‘subscribe and comment’. Through this sharing and liking “an alliance of brands […] is supposed to elevate all those involved.” Therefore for each mutual ‘like’, artist status elevates.

Rafman reveals that he is always searching for the sublime, for “lost loves, ideals and cultures” through the internet, his constant search for that image that is truly inspiring. But now that branding is global and society is at a time where instant information and gratification is normal, the audience no longer needs to think what they are looking for or what their taste might be. Tourists look out for consistency; they do not have time to seek out that hidden gem amongst the branded diamonds that are so readily available. Thanks to apps like Trip Advisor, our fast paced lives direct us towards a recommended culture: The providers of these cultures can sit back, relax and watch the view count tally up, all thanks to the success and constant innovation of the brand.

We are following the subliminal, the constantly networked image. Institutions are now holding our hands and pulling us towards them through their trustworthy brands. Even though Rafman is seduced by finding the sublime, he can not resist the influence of a brand and the appeal of historical significance. But now that the Internet boom has settled down, it is another means of finding the sublime, not just being told where to find it or a way of producing it. So, I’m with Rafman on this one: one can find the sublime online, it’s as much of a pilgrimage as it is going to a museum.

Jay Weavers

We are watching the rears of two people in the front seat: a man, driving, and a woman aside him .

The periodic glare of oncoming headlights.

The roll of the cars passing by will break their dialogue.

Wipers wave a soporific rhythm.

The conversation is hesitant, awkward.

Sarah Grundy

A phone call, A ring, A voice, A female voice.

It’s her again.

She drags him in, Sucks him in, Like a big black hole.

The black hole.

A drive, A house, An answer, A final answer.

He doesn’t want, Her to know, She has control.

Leave her, Leave her hanging.

“Help me,” “You know,” “Help me,” “Help me with my art.”

She always says, Such things, But the meaning is so different, That they both understand, They both understand.

“She doesn’t know” “I know” “What she is doing” “He’s watching me” “Such is her charm” “What else is there to do?”

“She’s not just…”

“It’s fun” “A distraction from emptiness” “You have to amuse yourself ” “I think even if my world” “When you can” “Had everything and every distraction, and human” “Later I will hate myself ” “I would still want her” “For starting this” “She doesn’t know” “And hate him too”

A Long Night of Conversation

A Long Night of Conversation

“What I think” “We say nothing” “She always plays” “I always perform” “I love marble floors” “Movement after movement, he never speaks” “I can’t” “We can’t” A lamp, Books, A painting of clouds, A painting of a woman, Turn, Slowly, There.

Profile, male profile.

Woman watches through, The window.

A frame, A window, With lots of objects, Some objects.

She fingers.

Them delicately.

The man looks, She looks, Through another window, A window into another world.

A foot, Up a leg, Up a stocking, Teasing up a stocking.

Not absent of melancholy.

A window, Of this world, Peeping, peeling away the curtain.

Blank gaze Reflected in the glass.

Affected, Flinging, Burying, Self-conscious?

No. An act, Another act.

Head up.

“What?”

After interlocking eyes?

So empty a question?

So lacking of feeling?

Of meaning?

This dead? Really?

It’s wrong.

Nothing.

Silence.

Stare.

This is unusual She floats over to him, Sat on the desk.

Pouting, Doubting, Mounting.

STOP. “Stop!” He’s shouting.

Hand on her knee, Leaning in, So close, Closer, Closer.

The smell of her skin, Is stronger Than her perfume.

He likes it.

(They can’t) A kiss, A cheek, An abrupt goodbye, A cruel goodbye, Without a turn, A look back?

No. Nothing.

Head lowered, Like a child.

A whisper, The last whisper,

“Goodbye”.

Jay Weavers

The bitterly cold floor strangely settled me, but I was unsuspecting, a vulnerable adolescent. The porcelain tiles complemented my complexion; my ghostly tone was natural, making it impossible to suspect terror over tranquillity. My presence on the floor was a perfect blend of the artificial and mortal. If only I was soluble, I could have dissolved when the time was right.

I was attacked with oppressive movement. I jolted as my body tried to reject the soft yet brutal blows, but how could I? I was only a passive, receiving individual. I desired one simple result but instead was confronted with an impasse. My exposure was complicated as I tried to deny the repugnant smell.

Yet the strain of my body and breath was satisfying. The enveloping paste smothered my nakedness but cleansed it too. “Aim for the lens.� the part intrinsic to the body.

Stephanie Falkeis

A Poem

They don’t ask me to come They don’t want me to leave When I’m with them they’re special When I’m gone they’re the same My mother’s name is childhood And my daughter’s name is death I am reborn every day But possess no body of my own I am a visitor And I visit everyone I am youth Though I will never be young I am alone I have no body to own I am youth I make you do strange things You regret when I’m with you And praise when I’m gone I don’t make things blossom I’m just what they call me I’m not the inception I’m just the result

Oscar Dempsey

Performance Monologue from

“It’s a form of a taking something, possibly manipulating it and throwing, it’s just a projection, really”

Part of Newcastle Fine Art Degree Show 2014 *A person will stand at the front of the space reciting these words below, while making eye contact with the audience members.

Performance Monologue

What are you looking for?

You question how it was so many years ago but that it’s still something strong in your mind now.

You think it actually happened before you ever kissed someone, a lot of people have prejudice about acting on it, but you thought it was an extended version of playing. You eventually stopped and then began to question what happened, and how much you made it happen.

But it suddenly worries you, because for years you think of what you thought of as right but when someone questions it, you begin to question yourself.

It was one day not too long ago, that you thought, why do I think like this, why am I interested in that type of behaviour.

These ideas come into our heads. Why do we feel bad about them, what do you think other people would say if we told them it, would they have their own ideas, would they understand it.

So you thought what if something happened to me when I was younger, what if something actually caused me to think like this.

The first person that came into your head was that your uncle had done it and you don’t know why.

You created this idea in your head and that just sent you off on a reel of thoughts, so you always had these images of harbours and yacht clubs, because he was a sailor. Why are you thinking this, how can you accuse him of this.

You know something and feel something others don’t and you’re not sure whether you want people to know that side?

Nadia Scola

Speaker One: It’s hard to describe why you like someone. I think she seemed like a nice person, simple and caring to others I guess.

And she’s smart and of course beautiful Speaker Two: Oh right okay Speaker One: Why do you ask?

Speaker Two: intrigued Speaker One: hmm tell me would it be too much to go on a date with me Speaker Two: what do you mean too much?

Speaker One: trouble or something I guess Speaker Two: I don’t understand Speaker One: all I’m asking if you go on a date with me. I promise you won’t regret it.

Speaker Two: Okay how will I not regret it?

Maybe

Speaker One: I will try my best to give you a good time Speaker Two: How Speaker One: lol I don’t know what you mean by how. But if you’re asking where I’m going to take you then it’s my choice then I will take you to Nandos first. Then maybe a movie and afterwards a club or walk depends what you like Speaker Two: Fair enough Speaker One: Did I pass the test Speaker Two: I don’t know Speaker One:Yes??

Speaker Two: I am just laughing at you it’s not a yes Speaker One: I know why you don’t just say yes Speaker Two: maybe Speaker One: maybe don’t make the kid cry Speaker Two: that’s better than a no Speaker One: No that’s worse than a no!! Maybe makes you wonder for days.

Saying yes is not that hard you know. Haven’t you seen the movie yes man?

Speaker Two: No Speaker One: Come on please say yes Whether you date me or not, trust me you’re the first girl I’ve ever said please for a date Speaker Two: Why Speaker One: I don’t know I seriously don’t know maybe I can answer you after I meet you Speaker Two: Okay

Script III I don’t need to describe the scene to you.You already know it, inside out. I’ll let you use your own eyes for once

One: And by the way nothing. I said nothing. Did it hurt you to be a dot? Dear little Jean.

It knotted my insides into a little ball. I like the word little.

They had been separated for five months. He liked his woman. I think it mad. He liked his woman.

It was one of those parties with no purpose. Shrill little dancer; I wore sparkles. Daddy collected bees. He wore a basket on his head. I wish I was little again. I think i’m ill very ill. I hate tulips.

She said it seemed silly to wash one day when she’d only have to again the next.

I’m tired thinking about it.

He stayed for three days and all I could think was GET OUT. It was a note silly. Call Dr Horder. For the neighbour you see. Call the doctor.

What the fuck.

Call the doctor. It had been five months. She oscillated around London. She oscillated her insides too.You are a dream, I’m sure of it. I’m never sure. I shouldn’t lie.

I’m sorry. I hate tulips.

I hate anything red.

Car lights terrify me. She stuffed a towel under the door; a burst of creativity. She could think. I could think, well maybe. I’d rather be a smudge than a dot. A dot is too particular. Don’t you think?

It makes me tired to think.

I think it too particular. She thrust her head inside the oven.

I don’t understand either. I wish she hadn’t.

The nights were cold. I’d take a jacket.

Yes a thin jacket. I’d like to be thin again. The neighbour was supposed to call. If he’d just come home earlier. A young boy and a girl; towel beneath the door.

He liked his woman.

Two blood streaks across the cheek.

I always assumed i’d need a towel.

I want to mean something.

Little Jean, I hate tulips too.

Daisy Billowes Excerpt

Dionysus is a prominent god in Greek mythology, and literature that introduces: ‘madness, passion, irrational behaviour and frenzy.’ This madness and passion is visible in Bernini’s mythological sculptures. The Rape of Proserpina embodies frenzy and irrational behaviour. The physical struggle between the two is a combination of desire and insanity, to escape and to abduct. Apollo and Daphne is the result of Cupid’s divine love, inducing irrational behaviour through his arrows to initiate Apollo’s pursuit, and a frenzied bolt by Daphne. The Bacchae (an ancient Greek Tragedy) by playwright Euripides, also features a frenzied chase, or hunt, brought about by Dionysus’ divine love which ends in a ‘dreadful reality.’ We can see connotations between the two, and Bernini has chosen the defining moment that makes the stories so different. Apollo and Daphne is interrupted by a divine intervention of metamorphoses that consequently saves Daphne. In The Bacchae, Dionysus lets the hunt continue. Even if not directly, there is a suggestion here through Bernini’s interpretation, of Dionysus’ attributes. Rieger argues in his essay on literary madness, that ‘writers who deal with madness as a general theme reflect a deep awareness of human personality.’ Bernini would never have been able to produce such emotionally sustained sculptures without having some awareness himself. He may not have intended the madness of his sculptures to come across in such a Dionysian way, but it can certainly be interpreted as a reading of this passionate, emotional embodiment that engages us in a way that his other sculptures do not.

Dionysus is a prominent god in Greek mythology, and literature that introduces: ‘madness, passion, irrational behaviour and frenzy.’ This madness and passion is visible in Bernini’s mythological sculptures. The Rape of Proserpina embodies frenzy and irrational behaviour. The physical struggle between the two is a combination of desire and insanity, to escape and to abduct. Apollo and Daphne is the result of Cupid’s divine love, inducing irrational behaviour through his arrows to initiate Apollo’s pursuit, and a frenzied bolt by Daphne. The Bacchae (an ancient Greek Tragedy) by playwright Euripides, also features a frenzied chase, or hunt, brought about by Dionysus’ divine love which ends in a ‘dreadful reality.’ We can see connotations between the two, and Bernini has chosen the defining moment that makes the stories so different. Apollo and Daphne is interrupted by a divine intervention of metamorphoses that consequently saves Daphne. In The Bacchae, Dionysus lets the hunt continue. Even if not directly, there is a suggestion here through Bernini’s interpretation, of Dionysus’ attributes. Rieger argues in his essay on literary madness, that ‘writers who deal with madness as a general theme reflect a deep awareness of human personality.’ Bernini would never

Iona Brown. Hammock

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Lucy Chenery

Why do you react like that

When you look

When looking

Looking when you look, looking like that when looking

Looking is looking but are you really seeing

Seeing

Seeing when you see

Looking at what you see

Look

Look

M

Jean Tinsley

any artists have been influenced by Hogarth since his death but for me there is one artist today who stands out in the way he uses his art to challenge our thinking on issues in our contemporary society; that artist is Grayson Perry. Although centuries divide Hogarth and Perry I propose that these two artists are intrinsically linked by their ability to capture human frailty and provide social commentary through their strong narrative images.

Hogarth’s art was very much about the people and issues of his time and although scenes were often exaggerated, people would undoubtedly have recognised these problems and social vices within their own neighborhoods. Hogarth called his series of moralising narrative images his Modern Moral Subjects which highlighted issues of prostitution, loose living and cruelty to animals and were in sharp contrast to the more grand idealistic French style of high art much favoured by the British aristocracy. This form of high art flaunted wealth and status and primarily portrayed scenes from the bible; images from mythology; heroic events and grand portraits of the nobility. Therefore Hogarth’s sobering account of street life, in all its ugly forms provides a balanced, more realistic, view of life when we look back at 18th century Britain.

Commercial and cultural corruption at this time was laid firmly at Frances door. A gentleman’s magazine of 1738 commented on “the absurd and ridiculous imitation of the French, which is now become the Epidemical distemper of the Kingdom” . Marriage à la Mode (1745), one of Hogarth’s Modern Moral Subject series, consisting of a set of six paintings, further admonishes the loose French morals adopted by the upper classes and outlined the fate of those who succumb. One of Hogarth’s characters in this series, Lord Squanderfield, is portrayed as having syphilis, popularly known as ‘the French pox’. His diseased body is also emblematic of the spread of ‘foreign’ culture that was seen to undermined British identity, society and commerce.

Hogarth made engravings of all the Moral Modern Subjects series not only making his moral messages accessible to a wider audi-

ence but also allowing art to be enjoyed by those who would not normally have access to it. Thus, taking his high art representations to street level whilst at the same time elevating the status of engraving from craft to that of a higher art form.

Through his satirical narrative artwork he delivered discernible persuasive messages, for instance, Gin Lane (1751) sought to raise the issue of the ruinous effects of drinking gin. It is based on the real life case of Judith Dufour who murdered her child in 1734 and sold its clothes to fuel her addiction to gin. In an effort to dissuade people from this ruinous addiction, Hogarth produced a companion piece entitled Beer Street where healthy working people are shown consuming flagons of the national brew; a more patriotic ‘healthy’ alternative Charlotte Jirousek, Associate Professor at Cornell University, recognises that “the power of visual images has frequently been used to persuade masses of people to accept beliefs, take action, or follow leaders. The artist as social commentator may simply make us more aware of the human condition as he/she perceives it, without suggesting particular action” .

And so today, as Hogarth did in his time, Grayson Perry is also using his art to provide a commentary on the social attitudes and cultural issues in our modern day society. It is interesting that Perry directly references Hogarth’s The Rakes Progress (1733) in an earlier piece of work entitled An Oik’s Progress, (2004), a glazed ceramic pot which relates the story of a young boy’s short life from abandonment as a baby in a Manolo Blahnik shoebox to his teenage death joy riding in a car accident.

The referencing of consumer goods and the perils of excess are recurrent themes in Perry’s work. His vast Walthamstow Tapestry (2009) depicts a broad representation of the elements of modern life using a combination of text and imagery the tapestry charts the seven ages of man from birth to death. It focuses on our obsession with consumer goods. Materialism is evident even in the small motifs that turn out to be litter, the detritus of modern urban existence. Perry has used what could be classed as stereotypical images but these have significance in conveying his message.The work is peppered

The Modern Moral Message: the role of artist as social commentator with brand names and images not all of which are shown together – their dislocation, Perry feels, leaves an emotional resonance. Although he states he is not being judgmental about any brands he feels “there is a moral question to be asked regarding the subtle invasion of our emotional lives by brands” . Through advertising, product placement and peer pressure to buy the ‘right’ brands we have entered an age of lifestyle branding which often attempts to create cultural connections by selling an identity, or an image, rather than a product.

(1733), Perry’s tapestries chart the rise and fall of Tim Rakewell (a pun on Hogarth’s Tom Rakewell) through the layers of British society experienced by Perry whilst making his documentary. This modern moral message of excess brings Hogarth’s modern moral series up to date replacing eighteenth century iconography with that of the designer brands and mass consumerism of today. Both Hogarth’s and Perry’s pictorial tales chart the rise from poverty to riches and the problems that this brings.

In the summer of 2012 Perry exhibited six tapestries entitled The Vanity of Small Differences at the Victoria Miro Gallery, London.

The tapestries capture the human experience of joy, despair, ugliness and beauty in our everyday lives. Perry took inspiration for the title from Freud’s phrase “Narcissism of Minor Differences” which explains how minor differences such as tribal links and tastes can cause feelings of strangeness and conflict. The tapestries were the culmination of a year-long ‘taste safari’ that Perry made whilst making his BAFTA winning three-part documentary, All in the Best Possible Taste, televised in the same year by Channel 4.

Perry allocates two tapestries to each social class. In the first tapestry we see women from Sunderland getting ready for a night out. In the third tapestry Tim, along with his middleclass girlfriend leaves his working class home and moves up the social ladder. Their exodus is reminiscent of that of Adam and Eve in Masaccio’s Expulsion from the Garden of Eden (c1425). In the final tapestry we see Tim dying in the gutter after a car accident – all his wealth and status cannot save him and he dies in the arms of a stranger. This image of the dying Tim directly references not only Hogarth’s final scene in The Rakes Progress where Tom Rakewell is lying half naked in the madhouse but also references Rogier van der Weyden’s Lamentation (c1460) in which the Virgin Mary holds the dead body of Christ.

Perry’s documentary looks at three distinct social classes – a working class community in Sunderland, the middle classes of Tunbridge Wells and the upper echelons in the Cotswolds.

Like Hogarth, Perry converses easily with different levels of society and through his acute attention to detail he picks up on the nuances and foibles of the different social classes. Perry embraced each social ‘tribe’ becoming an honorary member to experience and understand each class ‘angst’, his transvestism for instance allowed him to experience first hand the Friday night ‘lash’ in Sunderland and all its associated rituals. Although the customs of each social class were markedly different Perry found that each group needed to follow their tribes’ rituals/styles to have a sense of belonging. Capturing this in his six vividly coloured large-scale tapestries Perry does not mock or judge any of the customs or tastes of the people he meets.

Drawing heavily from one of Hogarth’s Modern Moral Subject – The Rakes Progress,

Taking art to the wider public and generating interest in art is something that Perry has successfully achieved. Perry is not averse to speaking out against the establishment, something which Hogarth was also happy to do.

What makes Hogarth and Perry stand out is the inspiring modern moralistic viewpoint represented through their art. Historically, Hogarth’s satirical narrative images provide an alternative, more realistic, view of eighteenth century life. It will be interesting to know how people will look back at our time and view Perry’s artwork and if they see it as a counter balance to our twenty-first century airbrushed world? Perry’s work undoubtedly provides a subtle wry visual commentary on today’s society and raises important issues which perhaps as a society we need to be more aware of and act on appropriately while there is still an opportunity.

Rebecca Farr

Cinema’s Child On Friday 30th May, I ventured into Newcastle University’s Degree show. Near the back of the university, down a darkened corridor, I came across Rebecca Farr’s ‘Cinema’. I immediately noticed the strangeness of the layout, yes there was the obvious cinematic conventions; a rather large projection screen, a carpeted floor and seating.

However upon taking my place on one of the plastic stacking chairs arranged in the room, I realised that my vision was not directed at the screen, but at the other spectators sat opposite me. Their equally inquisitive expressions lit up by the spotlights on either side of the screen. One could describe the theatre drapes, plastic seating and close company as an odd cross between a conventional cinema theatre and that of a church or community hall that speaks of the formation of group identities. It became evident rather quickly that Farr’s arrangement was purposeful. That through her work we were transformed from mere spectators to participants, and together we experienced her story whilst tied to our characteristics of gender.

The initial credits that gently emerged from the blank screen depicted an abstracted nude female body, distorted by the overlaying pornographic images of women. Perhaps the credits are to be enjoyed as pure pictoriality, however it almost sets us up for the psychoanalytic turmoil we feel later for our voyeurism, as the film unfolds and acknowledges the spectatorial pleasure elicited by the erotic scenario on screen. But the operations of the slow motion visibility within the image and the revelation of the essence of movement, emerges correlatively with an extended sense of time, as we are exposed to the essential movement of movement itself. The image is projected and reprojected to the point at which any notion of an original disappears. The self loses its coherence in favour of abstracted pornographic imagery. So perhaps it illustrates a collapse of self, and so a new mode of subjectivity, which is then counteracted by the abrupt interruption of the on screen woman, composed beautifully in black and white with high contrast and clarity.

With an outburst of light on screen, A woman’s face appears out of a dark vignette. She is looking you directly in the eye, an uncomfortable pause, before delivering her message (which is communicated to her through an earpiece) with a confident, assertive demeanour. This strange image begins by reconstructing gender characteristics for the film, enforcing roles for men and women and telling them to sit on opposite sides of the room facing each other. Farr’s meticulous methods of the construction of psychoanalytic film theory within the work must be influenced by the thinking of Laura Mulvey. Whose iconic writings about narrative film recognise the patriarchal order within cinema and assumes that it is structured by specific choreographs of gazes. She

Cinema’s Child

enforces that the male viewer is the active controller of the look, and so it is always the women being watched and subsequently objectified, primarily as a result of mens displaced castration and homosexuality fears. Her given roles consist of fetishism for women and curiosity for men. Again we see the links to Mulvey, as she speaks of fetishism as one of the two avenues of escape from the male unconscious evocation of castration. One being an investigation of woman, to see her guilty secret, of which we never do throughout the film as we watch the woman on screen persistently covering her nude body with material. Thus we are left with the only other way out, the fetishist, a disavowal of castration and so we project our sexual desires upon the woman. Then we have curiosity, which Farr personifies as the desire to figure out the mechanism of the image and unmask its illusion. She foresees that men will identify with and feel an emotional attachment to the women on screen and want to protect her-A hint of satire with the blatant gender reversal.

So here we are, forced into this unfathomable position of being participants rather than spectators in Farr’s Cinema, involved emotionally and psychologically. For a moment we question this gaze, is there a possibility of a gaze at the viewer by the film? We can understand the conventions of narrative film which deny the looks of the camera as it records and the audiences look at the image, which leave us only with the characters exchange within diegesis and allow for such voyeurism. However with the woman’s confrontational manner and intensity of the look, leaves us with this almost chilling feeling, that she is watching. The narrative itself that unfolds throughout the film plays upon this very notion. The slightly fragmented text is centred around a de-humanised subject, always referred to as she until it becomes apparent that the woman on screen is talking about her mother. She speaks of her eventful and sorrow filled life, with strings from parents, religion and education pulling her in every direction. She speaks of her unusual talent to imagine stories in cinematic detail, of meeting him (who I believe is her partner), and even her own birth. All the while, we are pulled back and forth between emotional identity and pleasurable looking. The story which pertained a level of documentary realism takes an imaginative and twisted turn, as her mothers sad life, leads her to an addiction of the still image and eventually her death, of which the Cinema is born from.

These techniques of mixing autobiography, documentary and fiction, and eschewing forms of pleasure based on recognition of similarity and emotional identity, belong to some of the major characteristics of feminist film theory. Such theories have been seemingly left behind but are apparently still appropriate within contemporary debate.

Through her work, Farr is intervening, through act of creation, decisively and overtly in the way images of women are presented on the screen, whilst attempting to intervene also, in the way such are received. The viewer cannot avoid or deny her, or each other, we experience her together. Perhaps the recognition of the closing credits will almost give you relief, that you are not being watched anymore by the woman. However that thought of the fourth gaze has been instilled in you, and resides there long after.

Lucy Walters. Dust

Dust; it’s an odd thing to consider, but as your hurtling towards home, wheels grinding on tracks as signals flash, you day dream and collide with your history. I’ve travelled this route a thousand times I’m sure.

The outcome always different; the route always the same, the same particles that wax and wane around your form. Can they truly leave nothing behind?

It marks an etching on my very life this road I travel. A river between friends and family and those you love. Stringing us together always is this here route that remains always the same.

It is a scar now.

Dust; we softly subconsciously smack and crash into fragments of times gone by, a sparkling disarray of beauty and loss and tall tales.

You, you are the lights that guide me home and I shall stay until the wind changes.

Contributors 1.

Rene McBrearty Extract from Buried in the Middle Heather Reid Eilish Briscoe Wael Shawky and KaraWalker:The Power of Story Telling Niall Craven Ross Sands: 24 February 2014 Martin Eccles The Apathete Manifesto Cathy Garner Retrospective at the Baltic: Lorna Simpson Fanitullen orWrite Your Own Bastard Tunes Louie Pegna I Am A Landslagmidwife Holly Argent Feminist Artists: Are They Needed in Today’s ArtWorld?

Poems Harriet Bowrey Jay Weavers A Long Night of Conversation Sarah Grundy Text for Under Molly Bythell A Poem Stephanie Falkeis Performance Monologue Oscar Dempsey

Maybe Nadia Scola Excerpt Daisy Billowes Hammock Iona Brown Lucy Chenery The Modern Moral Message: the role of artist as social commentator Jean Tinsley Cinema’s Child Rebecca Farr Dust Lucy Burns