January and the New Year are often dreaded in their insistence that we look back on what we have achieved, or what we meant to. This year, the looming of March feels the same, with its marking of the anniversary of the initial lockdown. It is easy to be hard on the progress you have…
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
I sway and I spin, I smile. Sometimes even in perfect moments, you begin to feel the cold creep in.
My mother packed eggs sunny side up,
Spam slices golden-browned to perfection
tucked into my lunchbox.
The angel comes unbidden
on a Thursday morning,
knocking briskly, handing me
a pineapple and thirteen coral-tinted roses.
Through photography and sculpture, I question how the manipulation of behaviour and patterns dehumanises society.
To see a place, to see all of its contours and edges, its soft shape, you must leave for a while and look at it from the outside, return as someone different, someone older. I grew up on the Isle of Arran and left at seventeen, desperate to move to the city and become someone…
the diver submerged for so long
we presume her dead
scattershot of matter sinking deeper than cameras
Because of the pandemic, we didn’t have any Olympics this summer, so I decided to reproduce the Olympic coverage in July by printing (screen printing) over selected pictures from the Montreal Olympics of 1976
Spread out before you,
whipped and bright coloured,
dripping with sauces,
a world of unimagined flavours,
Through countless retrievals, our memories of precious moments lose their ‘truth.’
Below the wall the soil
from an artificial hill rising
out of the field like a wart.