Notes From A Hospital (19 – 23 June, 2016)

8 Aug

IMG_8878

This place asserts itself first as a very ordinary space, as though it’s been purposefully designed to seem mundane, to take the edge off its real function with a veneer of domesticity, something between a dated suburban show-home and a school dining hall lined with beds. I try to pinpoint where the dread I’m feeling comes from. Perhaps it’s the incongruity of this mustard yellow stripe crossing the grey linoleum floor tiles, or the slightly discoloured white panels of this suspended ceiling, where small swarms of black pin-holes prick through to varied depths, each taking its arbitrary place in the beige constellation. A cobweb strains and slackens like a parachute canopy, a delicate diaphragm of white glowing thread where a steel window-frame opens to the blue sky outside. A cloud the shape of a gigantic wolf’s head drifts over the low-rise rooftops of the hospital buildings across the visible courtyard. Florescent tube lights glare inside glazed plastic boxes, blue marble-patterned curtains trembling against the partly opened windows… Mainly, the dread lies in the medical machinery that returns repeatedly to the ward, measuring blood pressure, squeezing the upper arm like a velcro python. The machines attached to these needles and drips flood us with antibiotics, painkillers and saline solutions, extract blood samples. These machines test us, seek dark shadows in our lungs, root out the signs and patterns of destruction in our own cells.

*

Inside A&E I see my own blood collect inside syringes, glimpse scans of my own ribs, examine the stock market graphs of EEGs and pulse readings as I’m assessed and reassessed then run through further tests, just to be sure. I’m given painkillers and injections, laid on a trolley and wheeled out into the cavernous bay where our ailments align like vehicles taking spaces in a supermarket car park. It’s the early hours of Sunday morning. An elderly man with the visible bruising and dried blood traces of a head injury is asking for food with an incongruously posh accent, as though making announcements on the BBC in 1966. A youth, who it seems had collapsed in the street, is surrounded by a retinue of drunk friends whose red eyes startle in the stark florescent light. There is the intimacy of an elderly husband and wife acting as though they are in a private space, as though this might be almost routine, as though they might switch places on the gurneys night after night. A wall-mounted TV scrolls adverts and a scarlet ticker-tape of rolling bad news. There is a coffee machine somewhere, though it’s not clear where. And where else would one stranger approach another with the words “I need to take some of your blood” so regularly and with such bluntly pragmatic intent to see the action through? Extraction might be coded into this space. Does the PFI that rebuilt it once now draw rents from these aluminum and white plastic fittings, these oxygen canisters and uniforms, leased-back strip-lights and polished concrete floors, wooden desks and blue curtains?

*

In this refrigerated room the machine hums quietly among the pipes and platforms, the windows of the observation chambers. Always seems strange when the operators of a system clear the space before it operates, leaving you alone inside it. This is the CT-scanner with its turquoise floored, aquatic waiting room, its looped TV channel discussing accidents – a man trapped under a car ploughed into him by a double decker bus, a surfer in collision with a jet-ski on a rolling wave, collusions of random chance and sheer misfortune followed by miraculous recoveries. When I’m wheeled along the corridor with its peculiar scent into the presence of the monolith – like the central pierced stone of Men-an-Tol – I’m conscious of the solstice, of the fact that I’d planned to be elsewhere, at a solstice celebration, and instead lie here, my back pressed in its thin gown against a cold metal slide, my arms stretched back above my head as I listen for the voice that emerges from the white machine telling me to breathe in, hold breath, breathe normally, its magnets whirring inside the white casing like the drum of a washing machine, circling my upper body, scanning everything, from chin to groin, slice by slice, till somewhere, on a screen behind those black glass windows, I’m reconstituted, replicated in a three dimensional matrix. This might be the altar of some alien pagan cult, exploring the limitless recesses of the body’s interior.

*

Everything tastes of this one solution but I don’t know what this taste is, how to begin to describe it. Everything smells of it but I don’t know exactly how I’m taking in the scent, what the components of this fragrance are, only that in the combination of taste and scent it blends a sickly sweetness with a metallic edge – is something complex, alien and impossible to place on any previous axis of sensory experience. Mercury and over-sweetened rhubarb? Silicone in custard? A compound of artificial sweeteners and metal shavings? Copper coins sucked through a soft cloth steeped in pine fragranced shampoo? The contrast – for this is what they call that weird solution here – is intravenously administered. I’m told that I’ll experience the illusion of wetting myself, that a soft warmth will seem to spread from my groin to my knees and waist. The woman beside the machine is reassuring, has told me already that this isn’t real, but it will, she insists, feel very real in the moment it happens. This is standard procedure, to be expected, she says, and it will pass once the moment does, be entirely gone and half forgotten even by the time I leave this room. It is not, she insists, anything to be concerned about.

*

I understand that this machine reads my body better than I, who inhabit it, can. The machine is driven by electromagnetics and x-rays, sending its resonant frequencies through my cells and fibres, my soft organs and hard bones, slice by slice as I pass through its open circle. The body inside the machine, my body, is kept at the refrigerated temperature the machine requires. My nostrils and the back of my throat are filled with that indefinably synthetic alien substance, still to be properly named or described: silicone and rhubarb with saccharine, uncooked pastry in cleansed sump-oil, white truffle in volcanic sulphur, spinach steeped in phosphorus and copper sulphate. How do I even begin to describe this after-taste? I’m conscious that this is primal machinery, machinery geared to extract a fully illuminated body’s interior, an imprint or double lifted from my own flesh for remote examination. This is a revelation of the inner self: not those hypothetical coloured lights, the auras and chakras beloved of the New Age, but the true inner being of flesh and fluids, nerves and ribs, veins and arteries, alveoli and heart-muscles, in all of which life flows, a low-level electric charge like the static thickening in the warm air that precedes a thunderstorm. Where clouds gather inside any image produced, wherever new cells or growths appear, fear must always follow, to clot and accumulate among the relentlessly shortening hours and days…

*

When I return to the ward, when I’m pushed in a wheelchair towards the empty bed by an open window overlooking a small lawn where pigeons and blackbirds peck among the freshly-trimmed grass in a late evening sunshine I’d half forgotten was out there, I’m approached by a tall Jamaican-Nottingham girl with Nefertiti features and a crown of lilac-dyed braids tied up in a tight sphere on her head, like an Egyptian sun-disk. She wraps my arm in a velcro pressure gauge, takes a blood sample and pulse: unlike every other nurse I’ve so far encountered she follows the electronic reading with an old-school press of her fingers to my wrist, silently counting while looking at the small dial of a watch. She seems in charge right now, but tomorrow I’ll be chatting to her and discover she’s still two months from qualifying, and she’ll laugh when I tell her she seemed to be the authority on the ward in the first half-hour I spent on it. “I was just trying not to seem nervous”, she says. “Didn’t figure I was doing any kind of good job at it”. And there it is, our disconnection, me oblivious to her nerves, her oblivious to whatever I was feeling just then, swept into her presence on the medical process that had already led from ambulance to A&E, from there to a holding ward, and had now landed me here, on a specialist male respiratory ward in another hospital, her long fingers taking the pulse of the one wrist still unmarked by cannula needles. It’s 7pm already and she’ll soon disappear as the night shift drifts in, as new ranks of nurses, new cleaners and carriers, wipers, bathers, sometime wound-dressers and carers arrive, one after another: all those who’ll see us through till morning, one way or another.

*

He was a big man once, a hard man, most likely, judging by his talk at times, the kind of man who carried his own name – M.I.C.K – inked on the four finger-knuckles of his right hand, where it remains visible among the bruises and needle-punctures, the dressings and swellings. He’s lost 25 kilos these last 8 weeks, he’s said, and the medical staff have confirmed it – 25 kilos gone from his bruiser’s bulk while his features soften into vulnerability and panic under the brute force of whatever illness has its hold on him. When he’s angry, he verbalises his feelings in terms set by a physical aggression of which he’s no longer capable: “a crack on the nose”, “a punch in the mouth”, “a kick in the balls”. Right now, you can only imagine what he might have looked like ten or twelve weeks back, the big fella and hard-man he remains in his own head despite this new reality where he’s bent double, depleted, fighting for breath over a white plastic bed-table while his grey skin hangs, exposed and flabby, in the folds of his unbuttoned pyjamas. When noises come from him, gasps and wheezes and cries, nurses from Spain and Trinidad, Guyana, Sri Lanka and Slovakia surround him, hook up the nebuliser or IV drip, ameliorate his pain for a few more hours, but it’s clear that he resents this dependence, is reduced and rendered weak, yet knows there’s nothing to be done with this need but to accept the help and rail against how disgusted he feels with himself at needing it. The women, the nurses, too pragmatic and pressed to be fazed, get on with it and keep going, as the world always does in the face of our humiliations.

*

Then there is the beauty of this woman with her attentive expressions, working to understand the post-stroke broken language of a 64 year old man with close-cropped ginger hair, a man returned to a kind of meta-childhood, whose wife and sole carer died a year or two ago, clearly aware of the chasms constantly opening between his movements, words and the thoughts behind both. He gets up often, paces, performs a kind of dance to re-learn the co-ordination of his limbs and extremities, placing his feet in a grid pattern that he repeats, over and over, on the chessboard of grey and mustard coloured linoleum tiles on the ward floor. In conversation, when he can’t find a word, knows but can’t retrieve it from his blighted vocabulary, there’s a laminated book of prompts he shuffles through in his big hands until something clicks and the conversation continues, like a car being repeatedly jump-started on a driveway. This woman, her features falcon-sharp, her fringe cut on a ruler’s edge across a forehead framed by tousled brunette and blond-highlighted hair, is listening to him. On her wrist is a playing card tattoo: the six of clubs, a grid of clenched black fists, its significance to her entirely unknown to me, perhaps anyone. She has the air of someone who’s been through more than one life, that who she is now is only the latest draft of a work in progress, which seems to be all she has in common with the man she’s talking to. Whatever he was before this, before the stroke hit him and his wife’s death cut him adrift, neither of us can know.

*

It is my final day here, though I don’t know this quite yet. Right now, I am viewing a range of potential futures, measuring my current difficulties against the struggles of others – who have no reliable address, whose health is free-falling far beyond any depth reached by mine, touch wood and so far. Men whose lives are in some sense already mostly lived, what highlights there were securely fixed in the territory of the past. Who, then, is more or less fortunate here, and is this, or anything, even measurable or, at least, measurable in these terms? Let us imagine that the dividing line between this world of hospitals and medical procedures, this world where control is relinquished, half in terror, half in relief, this world of quietly dealt-with deaths behind curtains, of being woken from restless sleep at 3am to be plugged into an antibiotic drip, to wake and sleep among all the humiliations a body can inflict on the spirit inhabiting it…the line between that world and another, a world that is none of these things, a world where the illusion of control is granted…that division seems fragile as the tissue in an exposed lung. One here is well enough to leave but waits on the availability of sheltered housing; another aged 87, reads the Daily Mail in bed, having fallen through a table a few days ago to end up here, immobilised. Yet another is tethered to his bed by a plastic oxygen tube, alternately pacing out the limits of his leash and flipping through the sports pages of The Sun. For a few hours more we are all here, on this respiratory ward, distracting ourselves with the thought that there might be more years ahead, or some purpose to those that have gone already, taking all our breaths and heartbeats, our best efforts and worst errors, and dragging them all out to sea with us, as a tide gathers stones on its long withdrawal from a pebble beach.

Men an Tol

From: Robert Holcombe’s Telekinesis (c.1954 – 1957)

6 Jul

Telekinesis II (1955)

“The game begins when the children, in whatever numbers are available when the desire to play takes hold, form a circle and focus their collective attention on a point in the ground at the dead-centre of their gathering. Each child then imagines the ground opening, mentally invoking a wound or vulva, a mouth or eye at that single point in space. Once the correct degree of focus is achieved each child in turn joins with the song that will slowly grow in volume and force as it passes repeatedly around their human circle, sometimes in the form of an elaborate but instinctively formed round, sometimes as a massed single chant as all the voices present merge into one:

Open, open, turn this earth to mouth,
Show coral lips and ivory teeth,
Cleave this ground to bring forth life,
Slice this stone with a surgeon’s knife.

When the required mass of vocalisation and psychic focus is accomplished a slowly expanding oval will appear in the air, its appearance not unlike a shadow’s penumbra surrounding a brighter central area. Witnesses have variously described this initial apparition as alike to a tiny nebula or cellular form hovering an inch above the ground, its circumference widening at an even rate. After a few moments this portal – for this, it is said, is what has been conjured – reaches its maximum dimensions, as determined by the numbers within the circle, then raises itself to conclude a smooth ascent somewhere around the average waist-height of those comprising the circle that has invoked it. It remains stabilised at this height for as long as the chant is sustained…”

Telekinesis [Brides] (1956)

Telekinesis [The Forest] (c.1954 - 1957)

‘Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History!’ (Nottingham Contemporary documentation by Andy Keate, 2016)

5 May
Salome (1953)

Robert Holcombe: Salome (1953)

Вот! Свободный рынок ликвидирует нашу!, 1973, is a book of collages by Robert Holcombe, a fictional British artist. Presenting evidence from a range of hidden, fabricated and authentic Cold War histories, the exhibition documented here takes its overall title from this work. The specific copy of the book used has its provenance in the library of Sir Frederick William (‘Bill’) Deakin (1913 – 2005), a former literary adviser to Churchill and active British liason officer with the Partisans of Josip Broz Tito in Yugoslavia between May and December 1943. While the image captions of Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History! remain legible, allowing ghosts of the source material’s original purpose to show through, the historical content of the photographs themselves is cancelled by layers of advertising, technological and erotic imagery. The display, commissioned for the Small Collections Room at Nottingham Contemporary between January 16 and April 17 2016, was made in response to both Pablo Bronstein’s room design, featuring four antique cabinets, and themes suggested by Monuments Should Not Be Trusted, an exhibition of artworks and objects from Communist Yugoslavia curated by Lina Džuverović in the main galleries.

Cabinet 1: Works from the Robert Holcombe Archive

This cabinet presents a selection of works by Robert Holcombe (1923 – 2003). The display includes a selection from his series Krakow: pour Alina Szapocznikow, 1964, and The Holcombe Family Bible, 1967, alongside Study for Performing the Curtain Ritual, 1966, and the book work Вот! Свободный рынок ликвидирует!. The cabinet also includes a number of undated photographic studies, such as Triceratops and Skegness Comet. Although undated, these studies were probably made at various times between 1951-63.

Cabinet 2: Works, Ephemera and Archive Materials

This cabinet includes source materials and other ephemera from the Holcombe archive alongside smaller works by Holcombe: Mask, c. 1952; The Lawn, 1966; and Argentina, 1976. A deck of Holcombe designed Tarot cards and their 1953 precursor, A Summary Of Contemporary Knowledge About Life And Its Possibilities, also feature. Archive materials include publications such as Youth in the GDR, scientific book club editions of The Drama of the Atom and LSD in Action, a set of 1940s film-star cigarette cards, a 1960 book of speculations by eminent Soviet Scientists on Life in the Twenty-First Century, and an eccentric hand-coloured photograph of a nuclear family.

Cabinet 3: 723 Variations on the Same Theme

The 723 found texts layered inside the drawers of this cabinet are cut from a wide range of consumer, technical and other publications from the 1940s to early 1980s. These cut outs are intended as both a typographic survey and an exploration of the everyday presence of propaganda in Western printed media during the Cold War period. They focus particularly on texts revealing prevailing insecurities and aspirations. The arbitrary number 723, which determines the size of the collection, was originally fixed by the addition to the series of a 1964 strap-line advertising a range of Hasselblad cameras.

Cabinet 4: Eastern Bloc Songs

This cabinet gathers a selection of 7” and 10” record sleeves produced between 1964 and 1981 by official state labels in Poland, Czechoslovakia and Hungary to give a brief visual introduction to the prolific and politically complex popular music cultures of European communist states during the Cold War period. The display is accompanied by a looped audio soundtrack featuring 11 songs by some of the artists featured, including Filipinki, Klan, Marta Kubišová, Czesław Niemen, Hana Zagorová, Sarolta Zalatnay, Olympic, Petr Ulrych, Josipa Lisac, Tadeusz Woźniak and Izabela Trojanowska. A small sampler publication introducing loose English translations of these 11 songs is also available.

Wall: Other Works by Robert Holcombe

Above Cabinet 1: Salome, 1953
Above Cabinet 2: Triptych (Marine Geology, The Sandstorm, The Brocken Spectre), 1955
Above Cabinets 3 & 4: The Modern Interior I & II, 1967

Robert Holcombe’s ‘A Summary of Contemporary Knowledge About Life and Its Possibilities’ [c.1953]

4 May

Drummer, from A Summary of Contemporary Knowledge About Life and Its Possibilities  [c.1953]

Drummer

A set of 40 images adapted from 1920s medical books and a small woodcut publication of the 1640s, retooled as a set of cards. Perhaps within the Robert Holcombe timeline, these can be seen as precursors of the later Tarot Series of 1971 – 1973 in that they appear to serve a similar function, presenting a set of Major Arcana figures and symbols with little to no actual connection with traditional Tarot (or conventional playing card) symbolism beyond a few passing tropes – in this case, the King, Queen and Swords cards. The originals are around 12 x 16cm in size and each of the images is backed with a seemingly random page from a medical dictionary where various terms, only obliquely or tentatively related to the images themselves, are defined: diagnosis, oxygen, antitoxin, anxiety, lymphatic system, morphia, transposition, contraception, breast, head, rigor, adrenal cortex, tobacco, cramp, oestragen, oesophagus, placenta, coma, bursa, strangulation, stomach, transfusion, enzyme, bruise, torniquet, Sigmund Freud, pneumonia, electroconvulsive therapy, sterile, protein, stress, fatigue, blood pressure, curare, culture, doctor, tropical diseases, modified response, and so on. The set was featured (with only one card visible) among the archival materials displayed in Cabinet 2 during the exhibition Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History! at Nottingham Contemporary (Jan 16 – April 17, 2016).

Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History! (Nottingham Contemporary, 16 Jan to 17 April 2016)

6 Jan

Eastern Bloc Songs Sampler

Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History! (Small Collections Room, Nottingham Contemporary, 16 Jan 2016 – 17 Apr 2016)

Drawing together strands from a number of ongoing projects, including 723 Variations On The Same Theme, Eastern Bloc Songs and the fictional archives of the British artist Robert Holcombe, Wayne Burrows presents a display spanning both sides of the Cold War. Curated by Irene Aristizábal, Behold! The Markets Shall Erase Our History! takes in typographic consumer propaganda, erased partisan histories, fabricated Independent Group artworks and artifacts from the histories of popular music in Communist Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. Eastern Bloc Songs: A Sampler, introducing loose English translations from the Polish, Czech, Hungarian and Croatian lyrics of 11 songs featured in the exhibition – all recorded between 1964 and 1981 by Filipinki, Klan, Marta Kubišová, Czesław Niemen, Hana Zagorová, Sarolta Zalatnay, Olympic, Hana & Petr Ulrychovi, Josipa Lisac, Tadeusz Woźniak and Izabela Trojanowska – is published by Nottingham Contemporary to accompany and contextualise the display and will be available at the gallery shop and elsewhere from January 15th.

003 (3)

Eastern Bloc Disco with UrBororo (Nottingham Contemporary, 16 Jan 2016, 8.30pm to 11pm, free).

To celebrate the opening weekend of Monuments Should Not Be Trusted and expand on the display of Eastern Bloc 7” records in his exhibition in the Small Collections Room, Wayne Burrows will be playing soul, rock, psychedelia, pop, folk and jazz, all drawn from the surprisingly diverse output of the official state record labels of Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, East Germany and the USSR between the 1960s and early 1980s.

The session will also include a live set from UrBororo, Pil & Galia Kollectiv’s new venture into “skewed filing cabinet swamp blues for corporate inflight listening” – an “objectively boring” band whose songs are made from an unlikely merger between the sounds of surf, grunge and punk and whose lyrics are all borrowed from a 1970s Management Self-Help guide.

“UrBororo are objectively boring. They also view themselves as boring. UrBororo actually refer to themselves with typically irritating self-deprecation as ‘The People Who You Wouldn’t Like to be Cornered by at a Party’. They regard most of what they do as a waste of time. Based on a managerial help book, the songs they play propose a skewed filing cabinet swamp blues for corporate inflight listening.”Pil & Galia Kollectiv (2015)

013

Shell-Ears and Tin-Ears (from ‘An Imaginary History of Musical Polynesia’, 2015)

19 Dec

 

Shell-Ears and Tin-Ears

(after ‘War Between Short-Eared and Long-Eared Tribes’, Easter Island)

The tin-eared people were the rulers and they inhabited the big skyscrapers, gated estates and apartment blocks in the most expensive suburbs and cities.

The shell-eared people lived on the poorest land in the small overlooked places, or in the cold shadows cast by the big buildings that belonged to the tin-eared people.

One day, the tin-eared people wanted to build another big skyscraper for themselves on shell-eared people’s land, so they put out a call:

“Come and help us clear these poor lands and make them better,” the tin-eared people said. “If you do this, the land will be improved and the shell-eared people can live there more comfortably.”

But the shell-eared people knew the tin-eared people’s tricks. They knew that the moment their lands were no longer poor they would be taken from them and they refused to do the work.

Then the tin-eared people cleared the land themselves and, angry at having to labour even for a day like shell-eared people do for all their lives, the tin-eared people now said they were building a big complex of luxury apartments for themselves on that land which belonged to the shell-eared people.

And the tin-eared people took the land from the shell-eared people, and built their big complex of luxury apartments there, and then they left them all empty, for the tin-eared people already had apartments and houses and could not live in them all.

While the tin-eared people were building the luxury apartments that no-one needed, they heard the shell-eared people singing and playing on musical instruments in their cramped huts while sitting around their fires, and before throwing them from the land, the tin-eared people said to each-other:

“These sounds will make lots of money for us if we can take them from the shell-ears and sell them to our own kind to play in their cars and offices.”

So before they drove the shell-eared people from their land and away from even the cold shadows of that empty luxury apartment block, they sneaked inside all the shell-eared people’s huts and took away their drums and guitars, their marimbas and flutes.

Only when the tin-eared people had done all this did they drive the bulldozers over the huts and pour the concrete over the places where those shell-eared people’s huts had once stood to erase all trace of them and make it appear they were never there, as they always did.

There was one woman who was very unusual in this story, for though she was born shell-eared she had married one of the tin-eared people in her youth. Now she was full of regrets, for she had found her husband could not respect her because she lacked a tin-ear.

But this same woman had also once been known among the shell-eared people as a great musician, so some of the business associates of her tin-eared husband came to her with all those stolen musical instruments and asked her to play them, as no tin-ear can ever be a true musician.

This woman now knew what the tin-eared people had done to the shell-eared people’s huts, but she played a short song on each of the instruments her husband and his associates handed to her anyway, hoping that the tin-ears she lived among would one day listen and hear something other than the sound of money rattling in every part of the world.

For the truth, as this woman knew to her heart’s cost, was that where shell-ears can hear music, tin-ears can hear nothing but the sound of money rattling in every part of the world, alive or inanimate.

When birds sing, shell-eared people hear the conflicts and courtships of wild nature or a promise of dawn, but tin-eared people hear only the money rattling in their feathers and meat or locked away inside all the timber of the trees those birds make their nests in.

When there is conversation, shell-eared people listen and hear the voices speaking and the words being said, but tin-eared people listen for nothing but the money rattling in a person’s business connections and appearance or locked away in their personal possessions and bank accounts.

When there is music playing, shell-eared people hear its sounds and textures, its harmonies and rhythms, its meanings and shifting atmospherics, but tin-eared people hear only the money rattling about in the infinite numbers of ways it can be wedged into slots on radio and TV or make terrible adverts for things not even other tin-eared people want 4% more effective with some demographics.

This was what this woman’s husband now proved, for hearing his wife play one beautiful song, he only heard money rattling in its slow and languid movements, thinking that it might be made simpler and more cheaply then sold to help other tin-eared people relax after they had spent their days listening for more things to get money rattling out of, which was indeed exhausting.

And hearing his wife play a song full of all the suggestive and snaking rhythms that no shell-eared person could possibly hear without remembering fleshy pleasures and dancing to it until they sweated and became delirious, the tin-eared husband could only hear the money rattling in the possibility of making a cheaper version and putting it on a keep-fit CD to sell at garages.

It is the way of this world that for tin-eared people, who can only ever hear money rattling in everything in this world, alive or inanimate, there is only one distinction that counts among all the sounds, the only subtlety a tin-ear can distinguish that a shell-ear will rarely notice.

For a tin-eared person, money rattles in different directions, so if a tin-ear hears money rattling into his tin, he is pleased and delighted, and he will congratulate himself endlessly. But if he hears money rattling out of his tin, he grows quickly resentful and his mood becomes dark and vicious.

Even so, after all this, or perhaps because of all this, the tin-eared people are still the rulers, and they still live in the biggest skyscrapers and office blocks of the most expensive cities, and the shell-eared people still live on the poorest land in the small and overlooked places, among all the cold shadows cast by the big buildings made for tin-eared people by other tin-eared people.

It is true that the shell-eared people still have drums and guitars, marimbas and flutes, and they are sometimes played, but even when silenced these sounds are suggested by all the noises of the world that made them and are still heard in that world by the shell-eared people, though their hearts might break at what the recognition of these noises conjures and stirs within their bodies.

Perhaps this war between the tin-eared people and the shell-eared people will continue indefinitely.

Or perhaps the shell-eared people will notice that they greatly outnumber the tin-eared people and turn on them, and after great bloodshed leave only one alive, as a reminder to themselves of the cost of inaction should the tin-eared ever again win the upper hand over the shell-eared.

Or perhaps, as that shell-eared woman married to a tin-eared husband hopes, the tin-eared people will learn to listen and hear again, for it is said that their ancestors once heard as the shell-eared people do, before this strange affliction that made them hear only money rattling in every part of this world, alive or inanimate, took them so far away from their own selves and senses that they came to consider any state other than their own an illness to be punished and cured.

Whatever comes next between the tin-eared people and the shell-eared people is not yet known, for the tale is now ended and my page falls silent as this world never will.

Buy Exotica Suite & Other Fictions (Shoestring Press, 2015)

 

Ten Poems About Nottingham (Candlestick Press, 2015)

20 Nov

Ten Poems about Nottingham (Candlestick Press)

‘The Second Time As Farce’, first published in March 2015 among the uncollected poems gathered in Black Glass: New & Selected Poems, has now taken its (arguably unlikely) place among pieces by Henry Kirke White, D.H. Lawrence, Joan Downar and others as one of the Ten Poems About Nottingham featured in the latest Candlestick Press ‘instead of a card’ anthology.

More details on the publication and its availability can be found on the Candlestick Press website.

 

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions (Launch at New Art Exchange, July 10, 2015)

20 Jun

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions will be out on July 10th, via Shoestring Press for the print publication, and as a full length album, also titled Exotica Suite, on CD from July and as a vinyl LP in 2016. The recordings feature some of the written texts sampled, remixed, re-edited and performed with music by Paul Isherwood, best known for four acclaimed albums made with The Soundcarriers, most recently Entropicalia (Ghost Box, 2014). The launch will also premiere a cycle of related short films to which the recordings act as soundtracks. It’s all scheduled to take place at at New Art Exchange on July 10, between 6 – 9pm, free but booking via Eventbrite is strongly recommended.

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions

BOOK PUBLICATION CONTENTS & BLURB:

Exotica Suite begins with an Easter Island creation chant in the style of William Blake’s Proverbs of Hell and an imaginary Polynesian colony in England in the 1780s then takes in a series of tall tales featuring Hawaiian musicians. Other Fictions fabricates occult histories in Nottingham caves and embarks on a labyrinthine sea voyage with the body of a late Hawaiian King. Now gathered in one place for the first time, the various forgeries, stories, false lectures, misleading anecdotes and other writings in Exotica Suite & Other Fictions are the flip-side to Black Glass: New & Selected Poems, also published by Shoestring.

Exotica Suite simultaneously exists as a vinyl LP and audio CD made in collaboration with the musician Paul Isherwood, best known for his work with The Soundcarriers.

“…spins a web that oscillates between the fictional and non fictional and encourages us to reflect on how we navigate the past and how this could affect all our futures.”

Katherine Wood on Marine (2013)

Book Contents:

Part One: Exotica Suite:
A Creation Fragment from Easter Island
An Account of the Hawaiian Colony in England (1790)
The Kumulipo Variations
Four Hula Songs for the Goddess Laka
The Sorceress
An Imaginary History of Musical Polynesia
(i) The First Musician
(ii) Joseph Kekuku Between Two Worlds
(iii) Sol Hoopii Finds A Sack Of Souls
(iv) Arthur Lyman’s Marimba Calms Pele’s Rage
(v) Shell-Ears And Tin-Ears
Invocation to Sun Ra (1914 – 1993)

Part Two: Other Fictions
Marine: A Story in Eight Objects
A Marriage of Styles
The Disappearances
The Peel Street Codex
The Nottingham Medlars
An Edible Alphabet
Fabricated Archives
Spirit Wrappings: Some Notes on the Rashleigh Jackson Family Collection
A Mandinka Song: Theme & Variations
Disturbances
The Enigma of Robert Holcombe
Convulsive Beauty: A Fabricated Lecture
Twelve Non-Specific Sites

The Sorceress (1955) Latino Graphics E

Exotica Suite LP/CD Tracklist:

Side 1:
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad I
Creation Fragment
Altar Prayer For Laka
A Hula for Laka (For Link Wray)
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad II
The Sorceress

Side 2:
Ankle Bracelet
Flute Interlude
Kumulipo Variation
The Hawaiian Colony Ballad III
Subliminal (Invocation to Sun Ra)

Avant Garde or Last Minute at Sunscreen (EM15 at Venice Biennale, 2015)

10 May

Photosensitive Abstraction

An animated text, made in the form of a screen-saver for the Sunscreen project, curated by Candice Jacobs in association with EM15 at Venice Biennale, went live on April 27th and is now available to download and install by following the instructions on the Sunscreen website. Avant Garde or Last Minute is very loosely linked to an ongoing Robert Holcombe project involving found texts under the title 723 Variations On The Same Theme, and one of around 40 newly commissioned online art-works, including those made specifically for the project by a number of artists I’ve collaborated with or written about elsewhere, not least Shana Moulton, Yelena Popova, Bruce Asbestos, Frank Abbott, Blue Firth and Simon Raven. The full collection of free, downloadable screen-savers by these and many other artists can be browsed here.

And Stand A Ruin Amidst Ruins: Selected Paintings by Tristram Aver (2015)

30 Apr

A new catalogue essay, Domestic Camouflage: Painting in the Pathless Woods, is now available as part of a publication exploring the paintings of Tristram Aver, tracing their evolution from the digitally-inspired abstraction of Low Fat Meal For One (2007) and Sci-Fi Lullaby (2010) to a more recent body of work rooted in eighteenth and nineteenth century genre painting and decorative arts. The recent commissions discussed in depth include The Chase, made for The Cornerhouse, Manchester, in 2012; There is a pleasure in these pathless woods, shown at the Angear Centre at Lakeside Arts in 2014; and …And stand a ruin amidst ruins, currently on display in the Great Drawing Room at Newstead Abbey, where it will remain until July 5 2015. Copies of the book can be purchased here, and a short extract from the essay follows below:

Tris Aver 'And Stand A Ruin Amidst Ruins'

“The palimpsest is typically a page of vellum parchment whose original text has been scraped or washed off and a new text over-written, its particular value to historians being that the under-writing often remains at least partially legible beneath the new text. These over-writings were often motivated by economic considerations, the straightforward recycling of a valuable and scarce material, as vellum was, but the process could also mark an attempt to erase the evidence of an older political or religious order as, for example, when the Medieval ‘Word of God’ was imposed over the pagan writings of Greek or Roman antiquity.

The palimpsest, then, might offer a fitting metaphor for the layers of historical, mythic and physical materials accumulated at a site like Newstead, whose history, from its foundation as an Augustinian Priory around the year 1170 to the present, has been a constant cycle of reinventions. The building’s ecclesiastical origins were followed by varied fortunes in the hands of the Byron family after 1540, and much of the present structure and décor dates from its time as the residence of Thomas Wildman after 1815, and William Frederick Webb, who bought the house in 1861. The philanthropist Sir Julien Cahn purchased then gifted the site to the Nottingham Corporation in 1931, and the Grade I listed buildings and their extensive gardens remain public property, now managed by Nottingham City Council.

Given this complex history, it seems highly appropriate that in order to get to grips with the significance written into a site like Newstead, Tristram Aver’s And stand a ruin amidst ruins (2015) borrows something of the nature of the palimpsest both technically and conceptually. The three painted panels making up the work, presented as a neon-framed decorative screen inside the ostentatious surroundings of Newstead’s Great Drawing Room, layer figurative passages, drawn from the site’s history and present, with stencilled wallpaper patterns, painterly abstract marks and an array of images alluding to the submerged currents of economic and political violence that under-wrote the grand-scale domestic interiors and lavish decoration we see at Newstead Abbey today.

At Aver’s Third Space studio, the shaped panels were developed using techniques of layering, collage and superimposition. Older paintings and studies might be cut up and sections recontextualised, building on, complementing and obscuring many layers of freshly painted imagery. And stand a ruin amidst ruins deploys an initially perplexing range of marks, from abstract swirls and drips to figurative representations. Period wallpaper patterns are stencilled into the backgrounds and foregrounds, where birds and dogs, lurid explosions and floral blooms, bare-knuckle boxers and red-coated huntsmen, all seem to appear and disappear, rise up from and sink back into that insistent, overall patterning. Snarling dogs strain against or seem to break free of a stencilled decorative mesh; trees and flowers create visual rhymes with explosions; the feathers of fighting peacocks and golden pheasants blur into extended passages of expressive brushwork.

There’s a notable ambivalence about the total effect, which seems simultaneously decorative and charged with coded, often disjunctive, potential meanings. The paintings are variously garish and elegantly restrained, abstract and figurative, seductive and threatening, their tone shifting abruptly between one image, one passage, and the next. I’m reminded of the blend of implied threat and domestic decoration found in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short proto-feminist novella The Yellow Wallpaper (1892). Gilman’s story centres on a newly married woman taken by her husband to a house – “a colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house” – where her domestic confinement leads to an obsession with the unsettling patterns of a sulphurous yellow wallpaper in one room. This pattern takes on an increasingly menacing presence as she strives to strip it, piece by piece, from the wall while hallucinating other trapped women behind it, until she is finally consumed herself, merging with a double trapped inside the ornate design.

Poised somewhere between supernatural and domestic narrative, a Gothic and Modern sensibility, Gilman’s story echoes the ambivalence of Aver’s recent paintings in its use of household décor, with all its connotations of finely-tuned taste and status, as a vehicle for the exploration of the social, cultural and political functions and purposes of such decoration. The dissonant wallpaper patterns described by Gilman’s narrator, as her eye is drawn deeper into their perplexing labyrinth, parallel the compositional swerves and shifts in technique to be found within the decorative elegance of Aver’s neon-framed triptych when it, too, is viewed more closely and the figurative details, with their overtones of aggression, begin to emerge. As Gilman writes of that insidiously threatening fin-de-siecle wallpaper design:

Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes – a kind of ‘debased Romanesque’ with delirium tremens – go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity. But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.

The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction. They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion.

There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all, as the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction…

[Gilman: The Yellow Wallpaper, 1892]

This passage, with its powerful sense of decorative order laced through with uncertainties and unpredictable visual movement, might be mapped onto the compositional impact made by Aver’s triptych, but perhaps the keyword here is ‘distraction’. The décor of the English country house in the age of the slave trade and British Empire, after all, was often a very literal means of distraction, claiming status at home by laundering money imported from elsewhere, as newly wealthy landowners spent lavishly on artefacts and domestic luxuries that simultaneously belied and exposed their money’s origins…”

More on Tristram Aver’s work can be found at: http://www.tristramaver.com/