Desolate land, decorated with fallen leaves. Silence: broken only by the girl – a giggling distraction – amidst the burnt orange, auburn and fluorescent pink. She scoops up a mass of leaves in her arms. She knows they’re dead but they make her feel alive. A gust of wind reclaims the autumn she has stolen.
I dreamt a dream last night in which a stranger took my hand, we flew above the ocean and the mountains and the land. The energy between us kept us soaring through the sky, I was overwhelmed with passion, I had never been so high. I felt we were surrounded by a glowing golden light
An article published by Volume Magazine here. There’s a world where sky blue horses, mounted by rosy-cheeked women in frilly ball gowns, gallop through manor houses. Pastel pink pillars come crashing down next to big yellow fish and graceful pink swans. It exists in the head of fashion photographer Tim Walker. His current exhibition, Story
Taking the title from one of David Hockney’s career-defining paintings of a Californian swimming pool, A Bigger Splash – at Tate Modern – displays the work of artists who believe documentation of their creative process is pivotal to the final art work. In Room 1, Hockney’s blue-skied, whitewashed American Dream swimming pool scene painting is
American artist Mel Bochner’s exhibition If the Colour Changes is currently being displayed over the ground and first floor of the Whitechapel Gallery. As you enter you are greeted by a huge, colourful canvas – Blah, Blah, Blah (2011). It is one of many paintings Bochner has recently produced as part of a word-related project
About five years ago I packed a little floral bag and went on a trip to Paris. I stayed in the Marais area in an odd hotel with heavily-patterned carpet up the walls as well as on the floor. I had chosen this particular hotel as they only spoke French and I wanted to be
I recently had an email, via the tutoring website I offer my teaching services through, from a woman who works for the NHS. She said that she had an interesting request for me (her words) – a blind Pakistani man who wanted to learn English. My initial response was: how can I possibly adapt my
blood red lining cupped the heart that was removed – when you cracked my shell and greedily grabbed the centre of my cocoon. The organ that beats – that lives that loves that dances inside me (that weeps when it’s weakened). You’ve stolen my centre – but lifted my wings. I’m agape; so exposed –
His wrinkles resemble his years of living loving, learning, recieving, giving. He sits with his head bowed, eyes to the floor; his numbed brain and limbs can’t go on any more. He can’t even cry, ‘cos he can’t remember a single day since last December. He may have loved or even lost but he’s forgotten.
I’ve written about being whistled and jeered at by white van men – but my man-haranguing is by no means strictly related to tradesmen in white vans. It could also be applied to suited men in the city, casually-dressed men in the media, doctors or dentists – I just happen to come across more tradesmen,