I take it all away from this
If only I felt more like this — -
Instead I feel like this — —
If only I got to take a drink
I have no time for this —
This time its this not this — -
Its not happiness
It digests — -
The refluxes — - Its cit-ir-us-es — Acidicness In paper cuts A silly thing That hurts so much A haunt for Happiness A haunting sleep Insomnia In so much as this — Unhappiness Clean clothing sweats Of…
Bringing art into the circular economy conversation is not purely to visualise metaphors of information and ideas. Including Other industries and citizens builds a diverse, complex network. The complexity of the system reflects the complexity of the topic. At first glance, my perception of circular economy was that it is an insurmountable concept. But during my residency, I have found an inherent comprehension (often thanks to my chats with the Foundation team). As I go deeper into the rabbit hole, I see its proper form, a complex infrastructure beyond any single understanding. Only the whole can collectively know the warren…
Compare fine art and economy and you will find mutual inaccessibility. Jargon is prevalent in every industry — even now I’m not quite sure what I’m signing up for as I look at my studio lease. It’s important to bring in impartial and unique persons to any industry to prevent this. With fresh eyes, the amateur becomes the expert on what the outside sees, and identifies hidden blindspots — like systemic jargon. I joined the Foundation as an amateur of circular economy and, to their credit, they saw the value of my potential as a recent graduate, giving me the…
Although I’ve joined the crew of the Ellen MacArthur Foundation, I come and go as I please on my dinghy. Dwarfed by the grand S.S. Forefront, but supported and fuelled to the same super-yacht standard. No, I don’t sail, and yes I did emphatically tell Dame Ellen in my first week in residence about my seasickness plight during a ferry ride to Amsterdam — thankfully never held against me — because even before day one this has been anything but a traditional residency or collaboration. …
I rise, I fall, I disintegrate. Great.
Wilted and pruned to a poplar’s close shave without follicle for photosynthesis, I digress.
. . . . . . . Down.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . Down.
As above, so below, thrice great should know.
I feel I represent a fallacy from recent discovery of pop culturized research.
I am always behind the times.
Perhaps too downstream to live up to the height given.
Roll off a cliff edge and splash into deep abyss. Bliss.
Tooth and nail clamber to clanger aspirations.
Not too other-worldly that one forgets own’s terrestrial foothold.
The soup dragon left the skin on bitter potatoes.
Is the broth spoiled or were my taste buds?
From an infancy of toast points and crudités. Crude.
An oil spill in an already spiked mind.
I see your field and I raise you
Your bed up to altitude
a challenging atmosphere
do not dig
deeper disturbances split
spit into open graves
foamed from pursed lips
formed to larvae
a territorial marking
a culture of differences
gelatinous dish, a garden
I speak only in my head
Ear to the crystal butt
I hear your field and I save station
occupying my patience
reached higher ground
a hubris certification
a fork in the path shakes and wobbles
a reflection of lengths we go
for a loud mind and quieter sight
bands of tension
that corset my skull
through a spotting glass
met with crippling realisation
Oral sounds not fed
Ears remain hungry
Shout from empty stomach
Are the rest of us,
the little and the great,
fated for the same
floor slab grave?
Is it the needle tip
or the governor
who is cog and metal,
lever and foot pedal.
Grotesque agal blooms
Great though misunderstood,
a natural system.
to naked lens.
blinded by prescriptive glass
perspectives bent and bevelled.
Room of none’s own.
A blast of air
Created sinkholes swallow
mechanised but unmimicked
let dying dogs lie. …
Consider the goldfish conundrum once more. Take pleasure in secrets saved for the time-taker. Picture the stage-set, the object. Desert island props. A vermillion curtain blows through mist by candlelight, a reader takes stage. You are participant as audience, A reader is an audience, theatre is artform on the page. Read as such. It takes practice. Witchcraft artistry. Practice here as a serendipitor, a flanuer.
Below begins a piece written for the never-was SUMMERLAND, 2018. It has gone unpublished in the depths of my hard-drive. It is accompanied by a reader in the form of footnotes. Humour me, humour yourself, you are 16 in English class and for the first time you engage with a text fully.
A poem, prose, text. Time to read has died and with it the mind of a goldfish rules as we feed with social feeds. Remember education. The one book, poem, prose, text you enjoyed in school. You hated it. It was difficult, hard, but the class worked through…
First published 2018, Tenki Archive: Conditions of an Archive, Emma Hislop
When Dali imagined a surrealist landscape it was draped in clocks scorched by our hands, when I lived in it the reality was unrealistic perfection. Even when it snows the sky is blue as if to smile and provide seasons without scorn. Suffocating humidity envelopes you with a hazed careful mist bringing tempest’s might in the great forceful exhale and with it the downpour quenches long built thirst yawning into red until stopping all of time for days of slowed silence and cleaned eyes fresh for the coming pink…
I am a research based artist, writer and sculptor. Driven by data, experience of the natural world and ecological crises, I recommunicate and capture phenomena.