Love Witch Cinematic Happening (Nottingham Contemporary Playlist, 27 Oct 2017)

29 Oct

LW

On Friday I put together a loop of cut-up visual footage and played records for the Nottingham Contemporary Halloween party, this year built around a screening of Anna Biller’s The Love Witch and live music performances by Cacator & The Sirens (a first outing for the all-new, and excellent, ‘haunted radiophonic girl group’ project of Louise O’Connor, Aimee Neat & Rosanna Gould) and Toy. Decor was by Kashif Nadim Chaudry. The track-list that follows is as complete as I can remember. The only record that wasn’t actually played (but is included here anyway) is the final one: it was all cued up to be the night’s final flourish but the closing time overtook it. A few songs can be heard, accompanied by some of the visuals used on the night, in the playlist here.

Nina Simone: I Put A Spell On You
Rosemary Nichols: Once Upon A Time
Dick Hyman & Mary Mayo: Moon Gas
Frog: Witch Hunt
Don Ralke: Black Panther
Nina & Frederik: Elizabeth I & II
Lake Ruth: The Inconsolable Jean-Claude
Dana Gillespie: Foolish Seasons
Margo Guryan: Love
United States of America: Coming Down
Bob Stone: Hang Cool Teddybear
Vampire’s Sound Incorporation: The Lions & The Cucumber
Brigitte Bardot: Saint Tropez
Birds’n’Brass: Fritzy Baby
Tina Harvey: Nowhere To Run
Crystal Fountain (Wendy & Bonnie): The Night Behind Us
The Lollipop Shoppe: You Must Be A Witch
Fuzz Against Junk: Ballad of the Hip Death Goddess
Proud Mary: Follow Me
Eclection: Violet Dew
Chiyo Okumura: Love Thief
Happy Day Choir: California Dreaming
Margo: The Spark That Lights The Flame
Leslie-Ann Beldamme: The One I Love
Francoise Hardy: Le Temps Des Souvenirs
Joan Baez: The Magic Wood
Sounds Inc: Taboo
John Barry: Vendetta
Dick Hyman & Mary Mayo: Space Reflex
Poppy Family: No Blood In Bone
Buffy Sainte-Marie: He’s A Keeper Of The Fire
Francoise Legrand: Attends Moi
Susan Aviles: Eine Schone Welt
Carolyn Hester Coalition: The Journey
Julie Felix: Snakeskin
Sarofeen & Smoke: Witch
Melanie: People In The Front Row
Jun Mayuzumi: You And The Sun
Graham Bond: The Magician
The Felines: The Sneak
Pandoras: Haunted Beach Party
April March: Sugar
Poppy Family: Free From The City
Alan Tew Orchestra: Light Flight
Baker Street Philharmonic: Daydream
Shocking Blue: Love Buzz
Pete Moore Orchestra: Catwalk
Martin Denny: Incense & Peppermints
Ennio Morricone: Svolta Definitiva
Mandingo: Black Rite
Rafaella Carra: Rumore
Demis Roussos: Let It Happen
Donna Summer: I Feel Love
Jane Weaver: I Need A Connection
Belbury Poly: Scarlet Ceremony
The Soundcarriers: This Is Normal
Lal & Mike Waterson: Bright Phoebus

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A Metaphor Backed By Law (Brittle Star #40, June 2017)

14 Jun

 

Brittle Star (Issue 40)

Since the middle of last year, I’ve been writing a column for Brittle Star magazine, mainly using it as a space for thinking aloud about writing in general. Full Spectrum Poetry (issue #38) argued for a definition of poetry that doesn’t bind it solely to a specialist sub-category of writing called ‘poems’ while The Lyric Mode (issue #39) picked up on the arguments about the exact relationship between poetry and songwriting triggered by Bob Dylan’s Nobel laureateship: might it be Dylan’s very literariness that made his award problematic as a recognition of songwriting on its own terms?

Both these issues are still available.

The latest issue, #40, features a consideration of the fictional, highly poetic nature of money – or at least, the fictional, poetic and ultimately irrational belief systems required to sustain a sense of reality around this chimeric substance we grant so much sway over our own and others’ lives. Tracing a line from an off-hand remark by Robert Graves through Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market to “The Magic Money Tree” of recent election debate notoriety, A Metaphor Backed By Law appears in issue #40, which launches at Barbican Library on June 28.

Brittle Star – launch for Issue 40
Wednesday 28 June, 6.30 for 7pm
Barbican Music Library, Silk St, London EC2Y 8DS.
Nearest tube: Barbican or Old Street.
FREE event but space is limited: book on 020 7638 0569

Brittle Star (Issue 38)
“Even so, [Philip Larkin’s] way of looking at finance still fits neatly into our standard idea of money as a practical tool, something that exists in the world, even if we do fail to use it well or acquire its promised blessing. The actual relationship between poetry and money turns out to lie in stranger, much deeper territory. In Christina Rossetti’s ‘Goblin Market’, for example, money is glimpsed in its true, chimeric and phantasmagorical forms. Rossetti’s poem shows us money’s seductive evanescence and changeability, its connections to our wishes and desires made literal flesh in the goblins’ fruit:

“I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
[The goblins] answer’d all together
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”

She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock…

Christina Rossetti (1859)

As Christina Rossetti’s heroine soon discovers, the cost of her transaction is paid in more than money – and if a golden curl can be used as a coin, it’s because the coin itself is only an arbitrary token. Yet we do still insist on thinking of money as a solid and practical thing, almost the opposite of poetry. When Amber Rudd and Theresa May invoke the undoubtedly poetic image of ‘The Magic Money Tree’ during an election debate, the phrase is plainly meant to be dismissive, derisive and wounding – who could be so naive as to imagine such a thing exists? – even as it turns out to offer a perfectly accurate image of what money is and how it has been produced…”

[Extract from: A Metaphor Backed By Law (Brittle Star #40)]

*

“Planet Claire has pink air.
All the trees are red.
No-one ever dies there.
No-one has a head…

The B52s: Planet Claire, 1979

Memorable and effective as they are, songs like these aren’t operating by the rules we expect when approaching the canons that define our sense of how contemporary poetry might be written. Their antecedents lie in those traditions represented by Mother Goose and Lewis Carroll, by the nursery rhyme, nonsense poem and anonymously authored folk air. Modernism’s antipathy to its own late-Victorian lyrical inheritance may partly explain why this approach is undervalued in the poetry of our own time, but remains a live concern in the popular song. A good deal of nonsense verse can be found in the catalogue of The Residents, for example, whose 1978 Duck Stab/Buster & Glen recordings amount to a fairly direct, if musically unsettling, reinvention of Edward Lear:

Skinny was born in a bathtub
and grew so incredibly thin
that even the end of an eye-dropper sucked him in.

Skinny never knew any questions,
Skinny never looked at lights
but Skinny sold something every single night…

The Residents: Hello Skinny, 1978

Eighteenth century literary fashions for ballads, children’s rhymes and commonplace verses of the kind collected in Thomas Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (1765) stirred disputes not unlike those seen since the Nobel committee made its announcement a few weeks ago. They were deeply concerned with questions about what was true and authentic art, what merely artifice and kitsch, in ways that are evidently still with us. Breaches of literary decorum, like the apparently superfluous but musical phrase, can be disapproved of but may also be where much of the song’s appeal lies: “We can refute Hegel, but not the Saint or The Song of Sixpence” as Yeats once put it.”

[Extract from: The Lyric Mode (Brittle Star #39)]

*

Brittle Star also has a Patreon if you do that sort of thing.

 

Telekinesis: Ghost Pornography & Fabricated Phenomena (Watch-It Gallery, May 13 – 28)

4 May

Telekinesis Flyer [Ghost Pornography (Silver), 1980]

Robert Holcombe: Telekinesis: Ghost Pornography & Fabricated Phenomena (1953 – 1980)

Private View: Saturday 13th May 2017

6-10pm

Open by appointment until 28/5/17

Watch it Gallery
18 Granville Road
South Woodford
London, E18 1LD

Tube: South Woodford, Central Line

E: watch-it@outlook.com

Web: http://watch-it-gallery.blogspot.co.uk/

Robert Holcombe is an entirely fictional British artist (b. Leeds 1923 – d. Exeter 2003) whose fascination with collage was first discovered when he began cutting up magazines and rearranging the parts whilst convalescing from injuries sustained in 1944, during active service in Malaya. He was a radio engineer, a contemporary of Richard Hamilton and Eduardo Paolozzi at the Slade School of Art and, from 1955 until 1988, a planning officer in Leeds. Although Holcombe did not exhibit publicly during his lifetime, he made most of his work under two pseudonyms – Gene and Michael Harrison. His works are generally marked by a fascination with consumerist excess, inscrutable apparitions of surgical, sexual, supernatural and folkloric symbols inside modernist interiors, or unsettling disturbances of ordinary space.

Telekinesis Series (1953 – 1969)

Most of the modified magazine photographs and private snapshots making up Robert Holcombe’s Telekinesis Series were created in the mid 1950s, though examples exist from as late as 1969, and other works in the series are fabricated to resemble photographs of an 1880s or 1920s vintage. The motivation behind the whole body of work seems to have been both an interest in the unreliability of photographic evidence and a basic fascination with the telekinetic and other supernatural phenomena the images themselves blatantly fabricate evidence for. Holcombe explicitly cites the notorious Cottingley Fairy photographs, taken by ten year-old Frances Griffiths and sixteen year-old Elsie Wright around 1917, as a key influence on his visual approach to making these works.

Ghost Pornography I – IX (1980)

“I suspect Ghost Pornography began from an observation that the way fabrics were represented shifted noticeably in fashion photographs and advertising at some point during the early 1970s, when rather distinctive kinds of suggestion began to appear in the folds and rumples of clothes and bed-sheets in the pages of magazines. Before this, sex is attached to products in relatively transparent ways but, after 1970, a shift occurs, with sexual cues coded into the products themselves. Was I seeing things, or was this a marketing progression, from the selling of products as mechanisms linked to the achievement of sexual fulfilment in the world, to selling them as things invested with sexual desirability in their own right? From the perspective of today, when the game has moved to another level entirely, these subliminally labial folds and phallic bulges in clothes and beds seem almost innocent: the ghosts of sexual desire coded into the fabrics so often used to make the likenesses of ghosts. Hence, the notion of the ghost in these images as a purposefully animated bed-sheet, as much a matter of Scooby Doo cartoons as the uncanny qualities generated by actual hauntings. These nine Ghost Pornography images, formalised on a grid of chromatic variations, cut several ways. They are simultaneously, I hope, a slightly unsettling joke; uncanny; perhaps even genuinely (if marginally and a bit perversely) pornographic though any true suggestiveness is only ever really imagined by the viewer in response to the title…”

[Robert Holcombe: Letter to Cy Albertine, November 1998]

“An Allegory of the City of Nottingham after Robert Holcombe” (Leftlion #87, March 2017)

28 Feb

p1350260

The latest issue of Leftlion magazine, officially published on March 1st but already out and about in all the usual pubs, venues and locations around the city, features cover art in the style of Robert Holcombe, but with an end result that is not actually part of his official body of work for a wide variety of reasons. As an explanatory note inside the issue points out about the artwork and its authorship:

“Explaining the authorship of this month’s cover might take a while. It’s an allegory of the city of Nottingham made by Wayne Burrows in the style of the entirely fictional British artist Robert Holcombe (1923 – 2003), borrowing elements from Holcombe’s Folklore Series work The Innocents III (1974). Making the cover image became a game of ‘how many blatant Nottingham references can I squeeze in without including a single actual thing from Nottingham?’. Ranging from the obvious (Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, Arthur Seaton minding Owl Man‘s owl) to the slightly less obvious (a Bramley apple, DH Lawrence’s The Rainbow, the xylophone of Xylophone Man) and ending up with the occasionally random (a mongoose, a fish-man coelacanth), we hope you’ll have fun trying to spot them all.”

an-allegory-2017-20

Holcombe’s Folklore Series work, The Innocents III (1974), was actually one of the first collages made in the fictional body of work that has, since around 2010, continued to grow and be refined, extending both backward and forward in time from that early focus on the work that Holcombe was making in the later 1960s and early 1970s. The collage featured in an exhibition titled Wunderkammer curated by Jennie Syson during the British Art Show fringe festival Sideshow in 2010, and in a few other places between 2010 and 2012, and while the collage itself either no longer exists or is lost (I’m not sure which applies myself) a scan made at the time documents it:

folklore-series-the-innocents-iii

As you’d probably expect, any resemblance between the two compositions (mainly seen in the central stone megalith and the lunar presence) is completely coincidental. It was only after the Leftlion artwork was complete that its familiarity and a certain sense of deja vu jogged my memory and led me to look again at The Innocents III, which evidently carried a little of the same DNA. Despite that passing similarity, it’s also clear to me that the 2010 image is made in a style from which Holcombe’s work rapidly developed into something else entirely…hence The Innocents III having a current status that places it as, at best, very much marginal to his canon, and perhaps, at this point, outside it.*

An Allegory of the City of Nottingham (after Robert Holcombe) [2017] is not designated as Holcombe’s work either. Its making as a commissioned piece, following a set format and including thematic links to the interests of the magazine whose cover it appears on, means that it not only has differences in technique to Holcombe’s signature approach, but its subject matter simply doesn’t fit into his chronology. Or, to put it another way, I couldn’t contrive a persuasive reason why Robert Holcombe might have taken such an interest in Nottingham, nor how he would have come to include allusions to aspects of the city that post-date his active period by decades. It’s also the second work of its kind to exist fully outside the Robert Holcombe canon in this way.

The first, The Naming of Clouds, was made to a brief for reproduction as a print to be handed out during performances at Somerset House of two works, Cloud Workers and The Naming of Clouds, by Philip Stanier and Penny Newell. The brief for this image (and the grid of 28 postcard-sized images making up a performance score that accompanied it) was based on Newell’s PhD research into representations of clouds in art and literature, and Stanier’s imaginitive response to that research, though within this I was free to flesh out the structure as I liked, with no specific instructions given beyond an initial diagram that positioned the basic elements of the landscape and specified the divisions into ‘flesh’, ‘nature’, ‘machinery’, ‘cloud’ and ‘mathematics’ within the cloud itself:

the-naming-of-clouds-landscape-image-small-edit

Making The Naming of Clouds in 2016 had already helped to define the separation between Holcombe’s fictional body of work and any collages that might be made for other purposes using the same archives and materials, and even some of the same methods, in my studio. For that reason, the effort of trying to bend the Leftlion image to fit Holcombe’s body of work in some way was a step that I could simply skip. The work, then, exists in a different kind of space and is allowed to be exactly what it is – an allegory built around a spatially unsettling constructed landscape, populated with both allusive components and objects present as much for purely visual reasons as reasons related to the meanings hidden away elsewhere in the image. It’s a sort of variation on an eighteenth century conversation piece: a picture designed solely to catch the eye and offer some sort of diversion.

*The Innocents III (1974) tenuously remains in the margins of Holcombe’s canon, perhaps, because it might have been nothing more than a failed experiment, a study he carried out in an idiom that is plainly more an exercise in the style of its particular mid-1970s moment than a work made in line with Holcombe’s own developed stylistic trajectory.

Two Excerpts from ‘Shrapnel’ (c.1998 – 2007)

17 Nov

p1240396

(xxxii)

“The genius of the free market idea is to have us blame ourselves for the inequalities built into the system. Imagine a hundred-meter sprint where some had to do a marathon or 10,000 meters before anyone started the stopwatch, some started six inches from the finish, and all the medals were already, anyway, sent to the same guys who won them every year without even needing to turn up at the track. It wouldn’t be credible as athletics, but it’s pretty much exactly how the economy works…”

William Sterling Everett: Signs of the Times (1997)

Careless Talk Costs Lives, the old wartime propaganda posters used to insist, a cartoon Nazi spy gleefully eavesdropping on Mavis and Hilda – or at least, on two ladies in hair-rollers and spotted headscarves who might as well have been named Mavis and Hilda – as they blithely gossip about their husbands’ postings and other matters of use to any passing Nazi spies who may have been lurking on the street-corners where they passed the time in their utility coats. They hold baskets amply but modestly furnished with rationed eggs, cheese and milk and, according to the poster, anyway, threaten to lose the war as surely as any active enemy saboteur.

Perhaps this was some early premonition of Chaos Theory, intimating the vast potential consequences of minute actions as their barely perceptible resonances multiplied in the world: the low hum of insect wings building in the air, slowly unfastening the stitches that hold some wind-current to its known course and changing the entire weather system. Or maybe it’s the appearance of a dropped penny on a pavement that magnetises itself to a hundred other orphan pennies and builds slowly towards a one pound coin, a ten pound note, perhaps the full multi-million pound jackpot of a lottery win on a £1 ticket.

Isn’t this how markets are assumed to function, as the unfathomable result of millions of barely perceptible individual purchase decisions as they generate vast sprawling factories and refineries in the desert sands, plant crops inside glistening perspex Savannah greenhouses, lay down entire networks of roads and red-brick housing estates with pocket gardens and tarmac cul-de-sacs and parking spaces to meet all the millions of freely-chosen individual desires that spawned them? As we desire it, so things shall be.

Except, desire as we may, nothing much seems to change. We throw out one government and acquire another that will at best pursue much the same policies with minor tweaks to the packaging and presentation, at worst do something it hardly bears thinking about that wasn’t even in the manifesto. We’d prefer to live our lives without being defined and shaped by money; we’d like to disentangle ourselves from the nine-to-five and the long-distance commute but find we need to spend ever more of our lives chasing money to achieve this goal in any meaningful way, to stack up enough to get out of the rat race, or at least, we do if we haven’t got the money to start with. We seek equilibrium while the prospect of achieving it recedes ever further into the realms of fantasy: even a moderately secure paid job and a place to live becomes the stuff of daydreams and fairy tales.

If this is the case, it must be because we lacked the necessary talent and drive. The thickets of mystique that grow around social connections and blind chance, like thorns around Sleeping Beauty’s castle, or the endless inflation that lifts entry-level doors beyond the reach of those who used to do the jobs, like the windows in Rapunzel’s tower. Besides, give someone the place and the role itself, the confidence inspired by acceptance, will tend to produce an approxiation of competence, enough to confirm the initial choice as right and justified, at least. Once the investment is made, and you’re on the inside, it might take years to expose your shortcomings even when this doesn’t apply.

Turn someone down, and maybe they’ll find themselves in debt, confidence shattered, slide from that crucial lost chance into apathy or worse. This is confirmation bias as a social and economic system, a lottery with delusions of meaningful decision-making. Every interview with someone successful you’ve ever read mentions the moment when something clicked: the job that led to everything that followed, the support that made the rest easy, the random draw that raised this one individual from the aspirant horde and planted those particular feet firmly on the sprung rubber surface of the fast track, where white lines curved on their clear path to the finish line. The rest remain outside, groping in the darkness for even the semblance of an entrance to the stadium.

Those who make it are the ones worthy of the rewards; the rest have fallen short. Anyone can see the natural justice at work in this.

Time passes. Small change turns up in the street from time to time. There is another story to be told, where we might glimpse details otherwise deemed insignificant: moments of clarity, peculiar unravellings of the fabrics we live by as the mind turns in on itself between one distraction and the next, each small paid job only tenuously connected to the last. Here’s one of those stories now, the beginnings of a prose elegy sketched out among the slogans and images that pierce the rain-soaked urban fabric with the fantastic promises of a dozen billboards along the route I’m walking:

It’s been eighty years since the armistice of the Great War, more or less. Vast posters appear in the streets showing the dark centres of scarlet poppies, as though Georgia O’Keefe has become confused with More O’Ferrall, the content stolen for the pasted image seamlessly merged with the interests profiting from the billboard itself. Lime green posters, possibly florescent, are slapped on top, unofficial fly posters showing a large disembodied phallus in black marker-pen. A train is beating over the iron railway-bridge, its wheels and carriages throbbing through the brickwork and girders above us with a close approximation of the rhythm in a migraine headache, right behind the eyes. A car takes a tight corner on a mountain road while the sun rises, or sets, it isn’t clear. Love and acceptance is promised to all by the mascaras and lipsticks worn by women so exceptional in appearance they are paid in multiples of your annual salary for a handful of photographs, a few seconds of film footage. There are four landscapes, sited at angles to one another above a junction, each one dramatic, beautiful and entirely free of advertising, all trying to entice us to travel into them by luxury car, cruise-liner or air…

This might be important. It’s just unedited notes, a few scraps of evidence, but you’ll probably have guessed already where it’s going, what the point will be. This isn’t subtle. There are some kinds of knowledge that we all share but somehow never quite rise into full consciousness for long enough to come into focus, mirages we aren’t sure are really there at all: am I seeing my mind work from a long way off or am I going mad? We know, instinctively, that the only place we’ll ever see a landscape entirely free of advertising is in the landscape depicted in an advertisement. It’s one of these things we know and witness continually but that no longer seems unnatural. Of course there are adverts everywhere, except in adverts. How else could things be?

Perhaps one day our shared observations will magnetize to one-another, gather weight and form, their collective gravity suddenly become sufficient to jolt entire fixed weather systems from their default courses. Would what ensued be chaos or liberation? Until then, I can indulge the dream of travelling among landscapes free of advertising while walking through a half-mile long canyon of shops and offices flanked by billboards, all the way from the Holloway Road to the gates of Finsbury Park. Perhaps if I can prove I’m worthy, start earning and save some money now, it might even happen. If I can just put my head down against all this rain and keep going…

p1240680

(lxiii)

“We work to maintain our chains of our own free will. We keep them safe with the clocks and the coins inside our own homes and fret ourselves ceaselessly about losing even a single link.”

Henry Sutton (1886)

The sun strains through the clouds like weak tea through muslin. Neon signs flicker high on the walls as I pass the Ethiopian crafts and clothes shop with its white door and window-frames, the grocer and halal  butcher, the steel shutters unrolled for an afternoon trade that seems to barely exist. On the pavement gangs of youths in leather jackets with gelled hair and strong after-shave hang around, maybe Greek, Cypriot or Turkish, maybe Albanian or Italian, but wherever they’re from I think I don’t recognise the language until I do, suddenly, finally catching a slangy, heavily accented English spoken at three times normal speed. A group of Somali women thread between them, while two elderly Jamaican men with grey hair and beards stand aside to let them pass, one doffing his tweed hat with a smile then moving on.

At the bus-stop a line of people moves forward to board a red Routemaster whose conductor hangs from the back step, one arm outstretched to signal that only the first four can get on, the rest must wait. There are murmurs and shufflings, but the line quickly falls back and returns to its paperbacks, newspapers and magazines. I am behind them, pausing by a litter-bin to pick up the shiny bronze penny that leans at a forty-five degree angle in the space between two paving-stones. As I stand, I notice the sky darkening, a large cloud moving through the light like a shadow over water. I can hear the distant rumbling of thunder, feel a vague electric charge hanging on the air like a veil.

The shadow throws the neon lights and office windows into sharper relief, and a blue and red sign shaped like a telephone flashes over a painted board that reads: Cheap Rate International Phone Calls and Travel Specialists. A man sits behind a wooden desk inside, a computer in front of him as he turns a ball-point pen over and over between his fingers, tapping it on the desk and staring into space. On the walls around him are posters in full colour showing scenes from Guyana, Jamaica, Cyprus, places where lurid pink and orange sunsets spread themselves behind silhouetted palm trees, where improbably blue skies luxuriate above sapphire oceans and white sand beaches, while natives in colourful clothes hold out baskets of fruit that seem to ripen in the warmth of exaggeratedly contented smiles, wide as the clean horizons that surround them.

He continues to stare into space, his gaze following a fly as it batters itself against a flickering florescent tube spotted with dust. He has the flight details and dialling codes of every point on the globe at his fingertips, but he is going nowhere and talking to no-one.

p1240390

‘Kumulipo Variations’ & Otobong Nkanga’s ‘Taste of a Stone’ (Oct – Dec 2016)

15 Oct

otobong-nkanga-taste-of-a-stone

As part of Otobong Nkanga’s exhibition The Encounter That Took a Part of Me at Nottingham Contemporary (Oct 15 – Jan 15) I’ll be performing a series of readings from the Kumulipo Variations, as featured in both the book and audio versions of Exotica Suite in 2015. The performances are scheduled on October 16 and October 23 at 3pm, on November 2 at 5pm, and on December 14 at 5pm. They take place in Gallery 1 at Nottingham Contemporary, where Nkanga’s Taste of a Stone is installed. (A programme of other responses to Nkanga’s work, from artists including Rebecca Lee, Panya Banjoko, Michael Pinchbeck and Nathaniel Mann, is set to thread through the full run of the exhibition).

Kumulipo Variations is grounded in the folklore of a parallel history where Hawaiians established a settlement in London during the 1780s and many Britons converted to Polynesian religious beliefs. Within this fictional context, the text suggests a hypothetical English translation of The Kumulipo made at some point during the first half of the 1800s. The Kumulipo itself is an epic Hawaiian creation myth, an oral account of the formation and history of both the natural and human worlds. The text as we know it today is usually credited to a figure named Keaulumoku, a near-contemporary of Kamehameha I. This known version is also dated to the few decades immediately preceding first European contact, when James Cook’s ships arrived in Hawaii during a festival dedicated to the god Lono in 1777, but much of the content is almost certainly older.

The Kumulipo‘s actual first full translation into English was made several decades after the entirely fictional one included in Exotica Suite. It has a very particular importance in the history of Hawaii’s colonisation, having been made by Queen Liliuokalani during the 1890s while under house arrest for her opposition to the coup that imposed a new constitution, disenfranchised native Hawaiians and annexed the islands into a territory of the United States under the control of an oligarchy of American landowners and merchants. Liliuokalani’s translation appeared in 1897, around a year before this formal annexation was finalised, and her intention was to reassert Hawaii’s political autonomy by presenting The Kumulipo, an account of her culture’s origins, to the wider world. Another, more scholarly, English edition was published by Martha Warren Beckwith in 1951.

While the 23 paragraphs of the Kumulipo Variations exist in an entirely fictional parallel history, then, and are also both partial (focusing on the earliest sections of the oral text) and at times divergent from their source, they are purposefully grounded in these earlier real translations, and hopefully draw some additional layers of potential meaning from their oblique relationship to the actual historical record. Not the least point of interest in writing these variations, for me, lay in the weaving of a potentially rich new perspective through the fabric of British folklore at a time when historically illiterate propaganda against immigration and cultural exchange was (and remains) dangerously influential.

The ecological vision found in the Hawaiian Kumulipo, with its proposal that all life begins in the sea and is interdependent, strikingly pre-dates and anticipates modern scientific and evolutionary perspectives, placing the wider issues the text hopefully raises into a useful dialogue with the botanical, geological and colonial themes explored by Otobong Nkanga‘s work. It’s also good to have this opportunity to perform the complete 20 – 30 minute cycle of Kumulipo Variations, as it is a text designed to be heard as well as read. The form adopted for this fictional translation merges Biblical cadences, the assonance and repetitions of Hawaiian chant, and perhaps the occasional hint of some particularly idiosyncratic David Attenborough nature documentary voice-over.

Exotica Suite & Other Fictions

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 [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 нашу!. 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).