In here:no slugs,no snails,no brutal winds,no nibbling insects,no pissing cats,no spores,no weeds,no fingers–we give thanks.Not here:intoxicating liquids, or miniature ships.This garden speaks:for the living,for the aquarium,things in tanks,in pots,behind bars,behind glass.For the contained,framed,labelled stuffin museums.It says:the price is vigilance.Our constant call:the humility to ask simplynot to be left to rot,dry out,or,be forgot.
Molten lava flows from a hidden waist,heavy folds, wax from candles burned too late,hours in front of a cold fire, mourning. Stand,hold his miniature in marble-white hands.
Square-cut, my dress looks like upholstery,woven stripes, of furniture quality.Upon this chaise longue body, I inviteyou: recline on me, (a blush), stay the night.
The cloth square, hung on metal arms flung wide,like scarecrows along the Caspian Seaor hostages waiting for body search,becomes something to wear: an abba coatfrom a holy Iranian. Insidethis envelope, read Vitruvian Man,his stories of desert trains of camels,their baby-hair woven for swaddling bands,or shrouds, stitched narrow strips, horizontalpassages moonlight-gilded through the black.And, alongside, the second square, so-redlinen gauze, almost one-piece silhouettefashion interpretation by Shirin modelsare draped to show curves on catwalkspotlit marches, the ‘boxy layered look’.Here are two coats, then here is a womancasting lots in the Brighton Museum,fastening hooks/eyes of memory who,on her knees, bleeding, reaches for the …Read more
Lord forgive me, I carved these Winter Bears.This artisan would labour many yearswith Italy’s native woods to createOur Lady and Our Saviour – their sacredimages of suffering, sacrifice,our souls to elevate and edify notthese idols, cartoons, at which you stare,hoping for meaning in the heart they share.Instead of making works to contemplate,I offered to the world my holy trade tobanality I became a slaveand chose to embrace the doctrine of tasteundiscriminated, selfish pleasure.I am the sinner who took Koon’s silver. Inspired by Winter Bears, Jeff Koons, 1988
This piece was written during the Museum Tales course held at Brighton Museum in the summer of 2014Stolen from a vase amongst severalcentral to each table in the museum café,a white-petalled button-hole bloom.Yellow middle radiating petticoat frillsand cut stalk moist from its dip in Brighton tap-water, it’s now denim-crushed, pocket-hidden.Later, I may pluck each gentle blade for loves refused or given, remove them like insect wings.Or, between the pages of a book, carefully place this one-of-a-crowd flower,an artifact for preservation.