Slow Moving Words

Put them on your head, Charlie. On your face. They’ll keep your eyes shady in the sun. No, keep them on. Don’t pull them off.

[sigh]

Lucy Clout’s ‘Untitled (Eyebrows)’, in a barn or over a reception desk, is a plank suspended at head height. It obstructs and frames, a gun-metal grey redaction to a top secret file. There is a push/pull as your eyes adjust to look at the sculpture and past it, taking in your own brows and lashes as they afford faint fringed smudges. Clout’s eyebrows are a prohibitive, interruptive mark that shifts fore and back like Gombrich’s rabbit/duck.

What noise does a lion make, Charlie. Does it go RRROOOARR?

[whispers] Rahhh. Ahhhh.

Put them on your head, Charlie, on your face. They’ll keep your eyes shady in the sun. No, keep them on. Don’t pull them off.

[sigh]

 

 

 

The landscape is framed by windows and the limitations of our senses. Vision pushed and pulled between place-space as Manby moves across the ripple-glass, alongside speeding trains and high-vis cyclists. Factory windows afford a skylight glimpse, grubby with plant life.

The view opens up as the prow slices further into the ripple-glass. Unfurling here are ironwork bridges, curved footpaths and the cool echo of the tunnelscape and its spot lit brick. Multiple pathways. Choices to be made.

Sunflowers, hollyhocks, dog roses, daisies. Frond weeds dipping their toes in the water. A baby’s jumper draped on a railing. Youths with Supersoakers and thrown logs.

SPON LANE JUNCTION.
FRENCH WALLS BRIDGE.
EAST END.
A NEW NEIGHBOURHOOD FOR 21ST CENTURY LIVING.
EARLY FROST.
MARSH WARBLER.
OVER 2000 AMAZING CREATURES.

 

 

Mille feuille, a thousand layers. Flaked fat and carbohydrate, studded with chocolate, woven with custard, hot baked and dusted with sugar: colonial pastries torn on to the tongue.

Macarons reimagined in chocolate, Aperol spritz, Bird’s custard, gelato, HP sauce. Spices from East End, plums and the shepard’s pie I took out the freezer for the boys. Werther’s Originals from Berlin and Fairtrade bananas from Columbia. Italian acacia honey with a San Franciscan loaf. Chicken nuggets and avocado on toast. Apple turnovers, blueberries and Tamworth strawberries. Minstrels.

A thousand trades live here.

Boiled sweets are in production on a marble slab. A sticky lump of sugar mixture, pushed and pulled like dough, with the sweated effort of women with rolled up sleeves. To be made again tomorrow. And the day after.

Skin hook please.

Half
Calf
Milk
Cream

Milk
Calf
Half
Cream

Scremato

Milk that travels through water, over water or with blood. Marianna Simnett reminds us of the blood that threads our milk, marking liquid gold with sore red roots. Conflating bodies, consuming each other, consuming another. Milk threaded with blood and sweat, marked with the labour of my body fastened to yours, you lovely sleepy boy.

Grey-purple umbilical cords looped in time, tethering us, thick with veins. Carried in my grandmothers’ eggs a burden and a promise.

A squash-pumpkin placenta pushed out too soon.

Aquarium barbecue and two cabbage whites.

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