Months and months, in fact. But I've not been idle. No - I got my diploma, had two exhibitions, went to the seaside, and have worked for the London Film Festival. All of which has been exhausting and exhilirating.
But having left this blog rest for so long has given me some time to think about what I have used it for, and what I want to develop in the future.
Really I want something regular, broad-reaching, and collaborative. It gets lonely and frustrating, and, more often than not, very very unlikely that you'll actually post when working alone.
I'm developing an idea for a new blog which will have guest work, reviews, opinion pieces, edited and guided by me - eventually commissioning pieces I hope from writers beyond my immediate circle. It's still in its baby stages, even in my mind.
I'd like it to be somewhere between a magazine and a gallery.
I also want to have more physical shows. I want to develop my work, my research, my learning.
All of this is a preamble to saying that this blog will be closed down in the near future. I will post the link to the new site when it is up and running.
In the meantime, see the website for my portfolio, or follow me on Twitter.
I hope to see you all soon in the bigger, better, brighter future!
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Sunday, 18 April 2010
More roses
Sunday, 4 April 2010
A little something half-finished
Faedm
Full fathom five
(But stretching six
Feet / arms;
Certain lengths of certain men,
It means embrace,
Or seek
To understand,
Or explore
In pearls or coral)
Thy father lies.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
For Simon
A complaining reader says 'there haven't been any photos on your blog for ages. Get on it.' Here you are, Si. Something a bit out of the ordinary for me - muted colours! A little underexposed this one, which is a shame, but I like the gentle light and the pile of unopened envelopes.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
RED
We began at the end with a colour of endings and here we are, ending at the beginning with a colour of beginnings. Blood, most obviously, and its twisted rope of information carried back to our start. And forth into our start as well. Chain upon linking chain of gnarled proteins, floating lilypads of haemoglobin, metallic tang of iron and other elementals, phantom plasma. A galaxy in microcosm, and mostly filled with space. But also the light through our babybird and foetal eyelids, also the taste of mother's milk, also cuts and hurt and iron once again in the tears and the rust on your bike. Red for the chasm that orgasm drags you into and for starting knitting in the dark again.
We began at the end with a colour of endings and here we are, ending at the beginning with a colour of beginnings. Blood, most obviously, and its twisted rope of information carried back to our start. And forth into our start as well. Chain upon linking chain of gnarled proteins, floating lilypads of haemoglobin, metallic tang of iron and other elementals, phantom plasma. A galaxy in microcosm, and mostly filled with space. But also the light through our babybird and foetal eyelids, also the taste of mother's milk, also cuts and hurt and iron once again in the tears and the rust on your bike. Red for the chasm that orgasm drags you into and for starting knitting in the dark again.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
ORANGE
This bustling and officious colour has nothing to it but barking. Neither red nor yellow and barely tolerated in this countryside (colour elsewhere of tigers, tigerlilies) we have relegated it with a stern jerk of the head to its only rightful place, at the sides of roads marking the proper way, where our national sense of mischief demands that we steal and place them elsewhere, marking other older darker paths weaving drunk across the land. Not for us is the other association of oranges, cigars, girls with havana lilies tucked behind their ears and a saucy tilt to their waists. These oranges are to be ripped up with tired fingers, while the shadows from the slats of the blind lie exhausted over naked bodies. This is rich juice and bitter pith, stickiness and licking tongues and a certainty that the sun will shine tomorrow and you will be young and strong forever. No, not for us. We will drink our juice chilled from the white confines of the fridge and keep our roads on their proper path.
This bustling and officious colour has nothing to it but barking. Neither red nor yellow and barely tolerated in this countryside (colour elsewhere of tigers, tigerlilies) we have relegated it with a stern jerk of the head to its only rightful place, at the sides of roads marking the proper way, where our national sense of mischief demands that we steal and place them elsewhere, marking other older darker paths weaving drunk across the land. Not for us is the other association of oranges, cigars, girls with havana lilies tucked behind their ears and a saucy tilt to their waists. These oranges are to be ripped up with tired fingers, while the shadows from the slats of the blind lie exhausted over naked bodies. This is rich juice and bitter pith, stickiness and licking tongues and a certainty that the sun will shine tomorrow and you will be young and strong forever. No, not for us. We will drink our juice chilled from the white confines of the fridge and keep our roads on their proper path.
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