http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk Aspidistra Magazine Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:43:26 +0000 http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk en http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/E-C-Pardon http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/E-C-Pardon Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:43:26 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1059201 Published in Issue 1 – March '10 E.C. PARDON Igor Wizard E.C Pardon lived in an estate, which consisted of six blocks encircling a small central garden. On the 50th anniversary they had sent round a newsletter, in the top corner of which there was a photo of the mayor at the time, with a spade in his hands; breaking the earth to plant the apple tree, which still stood in the garden. Beside the photo was a caption which read, ‘Mayor More marks the occasion of the first of many new housing estates to be built in the borough. Asulon Estate has been hailed a fine example of practical and visionary living’. Pardon’s flat had windows on two sides, one looked over the central garden and the other the walkway that ran between his block 22-30 and 23-31 across the way. The blocks were mirror images of one another, as he had discovered when returning wrongly delivered post to the ‘odd block’ as he called it. It had been vaguely unsettling to enter the entranceway and to discover the stairs to the right, the doors leading to flats behind on the left. Here as well there was a cat that sat beside the boiler room. He had ascended to flat 27 and stood before the door wondering whether he should ring the bell to the left of the doorframe. There didn’t seem any reason other than that he wanted to receive recognition of the kind gesture he was performing. In the end he just dropped the letter through the slot. He heard the letter slide across the lino in the hallway beyond. Regulated grey lino that covered the floors in both Odd block and Even. He had covered over his lino with large sections of carpet that he had picked up at the carpet superstore. They were just cheap off-cuts of otherwise luxuriant wool wall-to-wall carpeting. He looked at the peeling, red paint of number 27; red flecks that now stuck to his coat. In his block the doors were blue and had recently been repainted, so that their doors shone in uniform gloss. A huge box-shaped man with shiny forehead had appeared at his door a few weeks ago and in halting English told Pardon that they were ‘sprucing’ the building. Pardon had smiled to himself at the man’s somewhat housewifely expression. He brushed the red paint flecks from his sleeve and turned from the door. As he descended the stairs back to the entranceway a man, whom he recognised as from number 23, emerged from his red door. He was on an electric mobility scooter, (red of course). The hallway was tight, so that he had to back out from his door and do a 3 point turn in the communal hallway, all the while a high-pitched alarm sounded as he reversed. The man looked at him over his shoulder as he lent forward to push the heavy door open. He had dull eyes that drooped beneath dark eyelids. Pardon felt as though the man did not see him, though he gazed directly at him. The man lent back into the seat, allowing Pardon to see the empty trouser leg that was folded back across his stomach, he strained against the latch before barging open the door with his scooter. The man disappeared, turning toward the high street. On the door there were deep scratches where the scooter had barged through. Pardon stepped toward the door and bent to inspect the scars, over the years they had become deeply ingrained with the metallic red paint of the man’s scooter. E.C Pardon was a solitary figure. He regularly drank a bottle of red wine in the evenings, laid out across a sagging sofa his eyes watering as he watched his programmes. By nine thirty he would haul himself across to his desk that sat before the window, and sit listlessly before the glass, gazing at his own skewed reflection in the darkness outside. He was just able to make out the branches of the apple tree in the suffusing glow of the city lights. It bared small yellow apples come autumn, but no one ever bothered to collect them. In the summer the birds would peck at the fallen harvest, flinging rotten, maggoty fruit onto the encircling path. Once as he had passed the tree, he had picked one of its apples. He had carefully rinsed it under the tap and checked for maggot holes before biting into its flesh. It was unbearably dry, with an aftertaste that made him retch; so he came to understand the reason that they lay in such piles beneath the tree. As the winter closed in, so Pardon too kept himself within the confines of his flat. He spent more and more time at the window watching the apples drop and the sky spit. It was about this time that he saw the one-legged man again. He watched him make his way around the edge of the garden on grim-grey NHS crutches. The man would flick his crutches out and then haul his upper body along after, following with a lumbering hop on his one leg, the empty trouser leg flapping backward and forward. He beat a strange rhythm. As he drew level with Pardon’s window he bent to the floor. He balanced on one crutch, the other raised behind him. He stood again, the crutch becoming a pendulum that he swung forward to upright himself. Pardon lent forward to peer above the windowsill, he saw that the man had picked up an apple. He looked at it for a long time, tiny in his large plump hands. Carefully with one finger he flicked at the apple, removing dirt. Pardon stared intently at the man’s face as he took a bite into the apple. He was surprised when the man lifted his head and began to chew, his face expressionless toward the disgusting fruit. He chewed thoroughly and then took another bite. It only took four such bites before he had finished the apple. Pardon noticed that he ate the core, turning his head to the right slightly and spitting the pips out from between tight lips. Then he lent forward again onto his crutches and with the same painful gait moved off. Pardon lent forward further, pressing his face to the glass in childish pursuit, to gain a last glimpse of the man. As he reached the corner of the block, he looked back and upwards, perhaps towards the apple tree, but also past its upper branches to where Pardon sat, pasty face pressed absurdly toward him. Pardon pulled back, embarrassed, there was steam from his nostrils on the glass panes. He watched the condensation shrink to nothing before leaning forward again and looking to where the man had stood. He was not there any longer, but Pardon heard the heavy slam of the entrance door echo around the buildings. Some weeks later Pardon awoke to the sound of furious shouts in the garden outside. He turned awkwardly toward the window. The night had an orange glow from the polluting light of the street lamps, yet its heaviness was apparent in the drops of rain that clung to the glass. Pardon sat up from the sofa, he had not made it to his bed that evening, the quart of whiskey on top of his statutory bottle of wine, having finished him off early. He was startled to see that it was not yet midnight and the misery of it made him groan. He staggered to the window and carefully opened it a notch to allow the sound to travel clearly up to him, a whiff of urine rose with it. He lent forward to watch the voices below. ‘You fuckin pig, piece of shit. How could you fuckin prick, to him! You fuckin cunt.’ The voice came from a woman with hair pulled tightly back from her face. The paleness of her hair gave the impression she was bald, or wearing a flesh coloured swimming cap. She had loose pyjamas on, with a thick jumper pulled about her huge sagging breasts with one arm. The other waved with every ‘fuck’ she uttered as though she were conducting herself in a one-woman orchestra. A window on the ground floor opened, Pardon saw the head of the one-legged man poke through. He was not shouting but Pardon could tell from the way his eyebrows drew together, his chin jutting forward that he was whispering angrily at the woman. ‘Come out here you fuck and explain yourself.’ She pushed her face up to the window and in the orange light Pardon saw a gob flash toward the mans face. The window was slammed shut, muffling the rage filled words erupting from within. It was now that a young man jogged up from the other side of the garden. He came toward the woman with a churlish and violent calmness. He walked about her in a figure of eight, flicking his hips and swaggering on fighter’s feet, high on his toes, his arms swinging fists beside him. The woman turned to him and spoke in frustrated anger, waving her hands about her face. Suddenly she fell to the floor and with tight little fists hit the paving slabs. The boy bent, pulling her up from beneath her armpits, she drooped against him. He staggered slightly and tripped backwards so that he lent against the wall, with her heavy body pressed back onto him. Lights began to turn on in windows, shadowy figures appearing behind curtains and poking from behind blinds. Pardon sat in the dark of his living room watching. No one would be able to see him sitting before the window, not with his lights off. It was now that the one legged man emerged from his building. He did not use his crutches but instead hopped toward the pair, one arm raised, waggling his fist with comical rage. They turned toward him, and instantly the woman began screaming again. The boy walked toward him swiping at the man’s head with a soft clamped hand. It did not seem to do much damage, merely a starting point Pardon thought. The boy swiped at him a few times, but the one legged man did not retaliate; he took the adolescent blows with soft stoicism. The woman seemed to grow bored of the one-sided fight, ‘Come on, this fuckin’ one-legged fuck doesn’t give a fuck’. Her voice was ragged now. The two turned from the man and walked away, he lent against the wall and stared dejectedly after them. He looked a lonely figure beneath the night. ‘Freak’, the woman shouted along the alleyway, one final parting stab. Pardon looked to the surrounding windows, they had all gone dark, yet he could make out the dark silhouettes of curious faces. They had given the scene its privacy, of a sort. Pardon continued to watch the solitary man; he was reaching up to the overhanging branches of the apple tree and tugging hard on one branch. It shed a reasonable sized club with a dead snap. With his weapon he suddenly set off with a mad hop toward the retreating pair. He raised the club high above his head and with all his weight swung the branch at the head of the woman. In his haste however, he pulled himself off-balance and Pardon knew that he would fall. He hit the corner of a wall as he went down, and fell deadweight to the floor. The branch flew from his hands, upward, in a wide arc. Dark blood floated away with his consciousness, a hot flood of pitch dark. The woman and the boy had turned to witness his fall; they pitched backwards, as from a horror, but within seconds the boy taking advantage of the man’s weakened position and filled with disgust at the pathetic picture before him set to kicking him in the stomach and chest. As he beat him, he did not make any noise and the garden was silent. Pardon lent back from the window, a slight sickness rose up from below his stomach. He felt the kick of drying alcohol and a tightness about his head that promised to be a migraine before long. He took himself back to the sofa and lay down. As he closed his eyes he heard the distant sound of sirens, though whether they were for the one legged man or not seemed unimportant to him now as he slipped into a feverish sleep. http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Some-Sculpture-Scenes http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Some-Sculpture-Scenes Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:43:25 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1063815 Published in Issue 1 – March '10 SOME SCULPTURE SCENES OF 1958 Tony Rickaby The judge motions with his hands and the twangs of the hand-jiving die away. The courtroom is silent, every noise has ceased. The prosecuting counsel, with his shirt-collar turned up at the back, asks the constable to describe the details of that terrible afternoon. ‘Although the gallery was quite full,’ the policeman begins, ‘I feel it best to talk about the objects first, and leave the people till last.’ Shyly, a begarlanded Robin Luke begins his third song. Then two disastrous things happen. Firstly, a massive spider drops from the ceiling onto the neck of a passing carver and bites her to death with its poisonous fangs; secondly, a greasy-haired man totters through the door with his bloodstained hands clutching his stomach and setting the whole audience wondering: what on earth is Johnny Stompanato doing at the Slade? After many long hours of working directly from the model, he becomes bored and starts to sew on fishhooks behind his jacket lapels in order to feel secure from any unexpected attack. He suddenly launches into a critique of what they are all doing. But the others, who know full well what sort of bouncer he really is, just laugh at him. ‘Huh,’ he grunts, ‘you lot and your part-time Palais jobs.’ He feels surprised and helpless when his pet dog suddenly crouches and shits on the foundry floor. All he can think of doing is relating to the startled workmen an odd conversation that took place earlier that day with a young girl. She had asked him whether or not he, like she, envisaged the passing of a week in the shape of an elongated diamond with fuzzy rounded corners, Thursday being the widest part. She sits bolt upright in the contemporary bed. The starlight streaming through the window makes the pointing-instrument on the dressing-table look like something that she has never seen before. Then he awakes beside her, and his old, old discourse on the vexed question of rock-‘n’-roll starts up all over again and continues and continues into the night until they both fall into the deep sleep of exhaustion. He slips quietly from the youth club by the back door, his heart thumping. But there they stand, waiting for him, their smocks glinting evilly beneath the streetlamp. Their leader takes a step forward and the youth shivers, knowing that no detail escapes the attention of this brute’s bicycle-chain, be it box ground or phone box, coulting or O.A.P., Woolworth’s window or Hopton Wood, Hugh Gaitskell or Ham Hill. The group of horrified onlookers can’t believe their eyes as the powerful craft skims at incredible speed over the sparkling steel surface of the lake until it hits a floating armature and the resulting explosion instantly kills the courageous driver. ‘I fondly remember his bronze songs,’ says the smiling member of the royal family. But the crying young girls know that she really means the recent royal portrait. He organises himself and his week very well: Monday and Tuesday nights he works on the isolation of the birdman; Wednesday night is given over to exploration and technology; Thursday – Joe’s Cafe (where there is an excellent jukebox); Friday night is maquette night; Saturday night there is dancing down at the Territorial Army Hall; and on Sunday he goes to the Regal with a few friends. ‘It’s all a giggle,’ he tells them. She stops rasping, closes her eyes, opens them again and feels terrible as a cliché appears, spitting golden-selling lyrics in all directions. The noises of the studio workshop cease as she emits a dust-choked scream. She drops to her knees and tells everyone that she can see it immediately above her head and that it is floating there, making spiked spatial forms; seemingly grey, but so far away that it could be anything. He waits until the cheers die away. Holding the dish close to, he scoops up some of the brilliantine with his fingers and flicks it onto the model. He does the deep parts first, blowing it in where he can’t flick it, watching it diffuse. He begins at the top and works down until all is covered to a 1/4-inch thickness. When it is quite hard he dabs it with water and turns and bows again to fresh waves of applause. Dressed in his old army uniform and wellington boots, he drives his horse and cart through the streets. He shouts out incessantly and unintelligibly at the houses and people rush out and give him any old carvings. When his cart is full he drives home, changes into his scarlet suit and beret and catches the bus into town. He later appears with his backing group on the Queen’s Hall stage and drives everybody wild. The slouching squad of national servicemen lines up in front of the drill-sergeant. He glares icily at them. ‘Get this into your thick skulls!’ he roars at the bedraped ranks, ‘you’re going to march till you drop across stony ground!’ He points at one of the men. ‘Well Harris, and what do you think of that?’ ‘Well sarge,’ replies the powdered Harris, ‘that concept is closely related to the aims of much contemporary art.’ A small crowd of women critics (although middle-aged they are in trapezes) stands and screams unintelligible obscenities at the huge and terrifying figure of Frank Mitchell. He wears sandals and in one hand wields a no.7 fish tail and in the other a massive blood-drenched axe. He stares at the women. Then, swinging the axe around his head, he lunges at them with a hoarse cry. They scatter. ‘Number three,’ says the man. She enters cubicle three and waits for the music, tapping her toe in anticipation. An aroma inside the cubicle disturbs her by conjuring up strong feelings of deja vu. Then she remembers, and yells out, ‘my art teacher at school once told me that the smell of shellac was most enjoyable, and although I’ve always tried to appreciate it, that particular aroma always leaves me completely cold.’ He is the first person to hear the mighty roar. He walks over to the window, looks up and there is a wonderful and reassuring sight: a trio of silver birds flying in close formation through a clear sky. Knowing that Britain is safe he looks away with a grin, picks up his purchases (one tin of Ricory and two new rifflers) and, to the delight of the other customers, whistles a well-known tune of the moment. He picks up the bits of old scrim lying about on the floor in the corner of the public bar. He places down his battered Dansette and plugs it into the mains. A hush descends as he lowers the needle onto the first 45 and a gasp goes up from the drinkers as the sound of Pius XII Tyrone Power, Maurice Vlaminck, Mike Todd, Georges Rouault, Imre Nagy, Faysal II and Ronald Colman dropping dead gets everyone onto their feet. It’s Friday night and work is over for the week. She spends ages getting ready to go out: lipstick on, curlers out, shoes cleaned, duffle jacket brushed. Ignoring the pleas and conversation of her family, she has her tea. Then she goes off to the youth club. She enjoys the club because of all the various things to de there: she dances to records, talks to boys and joins in heated debates about the future of expressionism. The minor celebrity stares out through the window. In the forecourt a number of pompadoured youths are attacking his best-known piece of work. Summoning up reserves of courage, he opens the window and hails them: ‘Hey, surely you boys realise that that has a sure and easy grace, and that in its symmetry and design there is a unique flow of line and rhythm?’ The youths look up and throw marble chips at him. He swaggers around the town, appearing to own it. He has done this for some weeks, ever since returning from the Brussels International Fair. He stops everyone he meets, telling them that crushers and the like are right out and that they ought to get themselves the new Marino Marini look. He continues to do this until he receives a scar on his cheek from a squaddie wielding a claw-bit holder. ‘It must have been a funny pony that this came from!’ shouts the little girl. Her friend laughs and slides down the slippery tail. Marion climbs up to the top again (carefully, because yesterday she scratched her knee on that sharp bit). ‘Look!’ she yells, ‘it’s that daft Colin, and he’s still wearing that daft old Davy Crockett hat!’ They clamber quickly down through the shapes and crouch behind the base, hiding. They have found the film so amusing that they’re seeing it round the second time. They fill up the back row with Butterkist, dog-ends and shavings, making so much noise that the attendant finally gets up off his chair and comes over to them. ‘Oi!’ he moans, ‘if you lot shut up and watches the film you’d find out that the scope for the likes of you is wide, ranging from pure representation to the fantastic and the abstract.’ In the middle of a long and detailed discussion concerning the influence of Eaton Clubmen upon the work of Chadwick, an ex-disc jockey now making a new and successful career as a cheerful TV personality interrupts her and her friends. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he beams, ‘I wish to present a vivid chronicle of a vital period. It is the story of our time, told authoritively and illustrated lavishly.’ http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Tower-in-Flux http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Tower-in-Flux Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:43:22 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1063801 Published in Issue 1 – March '10 TOWER IN FLUX (GOLDFINGER) Myles Painter One of a series of collages that strive to reimagine the infamous architecture of the Brutalists, combining Erno Goldfinger’s Trellick Tower and it’s sister, Balfron Tower. <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1063801/Tower in Flux (Goldfinger)_LARGE_GRAY.jpg" width="500" height="500" width_o="500" height_o="500" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1063801/Tower in Flux (Goldfinger)_LARGE_GRAY_o.jpg" data-mid="5109182" border="0" align="left"/> http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/A-Man-Called-Pete http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/A-Man-Called-Pete Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:43:21 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1060434 Published in Issue 1 – March '10 A MAN CALLED PETE WALKS INTO A GALLERY Pete Caul A man called Pete walks into a gallery; the curators are setting up a group show that he is supposed to be in. He walks up to the curators and says, ‘I tried to catch up but never quite made it.’ The curators ask ‘catch up with what?’ Pete then pulls out a piece of paper On it is written the following – A man called Pete walks into a gallery; the curators are setting up a group show that he is supposed to be in. He walks up to the curators and says, ‘I tried to catch up but never quite made it.’ The curators ask ‘catch up with what?’ Pete then pulls out another piece of paper. The curators are now thinking that they won’t be able to catch up too. They read on hoping it won’t be written again, it reads – A man called Pete walks into a gallery; the curators are setting up a group show that he is supposed to be in. He walks up to the curators and says, ‘I tried to catch up but never quite made it.’ The curators ask ‘catch up with what?’ Pete again pulls out a piece of paper. Then a couple of other artists in the show walk over ‘what are you reading?’ they ask. They all read on – A man called Pete walks into a gallery; the curators are setting up a group show that he is supposed to be in. He walks up to the curators and says, ‘I tried to catch up but never quite made it.’ The curators ask ‘catch up with what?’ And again Pete pulls out a piece of paper Then the rest of the artists in the show are getting curious, the others try to warn them, ‘Don’t come over here,’ ‘you don’t know what your getting yourself into,’ but it’s too late, all of them are reading together – A man called Pete walks into a gallery; the curators are setting up a group show that he is supposed to be in. He walks up to the curators and says, ‘I tried to catch up but never quite made it.’ The curators ask ‘catch up with what?’ Pete then pulls out another piece of paper. Soon the private view has started and the pack still hasn’t caught up. Now the guests are reading too ……… A man called Pete walks into a gallery with an infinite sized piece of paper. He has problems fitting it all into the gallery space. He asks the others in the group show to give him a hand but they are all worried about the relationships between their sculptures, paintings, videos and this slightly overwhelming infinite sized piece of paper. They all say ‘sorry, I’ve got to get on with my own work’ Eventually Pete decides to fold it up in the hope that it will fit into the space. Despite not being able to find the ends he makes creases somewhere in the centre and starts to fold it over on itself. After so many folds it’s just a huge vast mess that goes up to the ceiling, up the walls, out of the gallery doors and off far into the distance. He realises that this is no good, there’s got to be another way. He spends a while thinking then comes up with a genius idea; he will make a video of the piece of paper. So he gets hold of a camcorder and starts to film. All he can see through the lense is white, pure endless white, occasionally his feet get into the frame but he decides to edit those bits out afterwards. 60 minutes later the tape comes to an end. He looks over the tape, but he’s filmed less than 1% of the piece of paper. It’s not a fair documentation he decides. Again he thinks this is no good, there’s got to be another way. He decides to scrap the piece of paper and do a performance based on it. He practises in front of a mirror… …this is no good. Pete starts hauling the piece of paper back into the gallery space. He then starts to rip the piece of paper up putting huge sheets into the bins outside and then dragging the colossus back into the gallery, ripping off more vast sheets then dragging it back in. The bins outside the gallery start to fill up then all the bins in the street start to fill up. He rips more and more off but he seems to make no progress, the piece of paper just does not end, when he drags more into the gallery he can still see the paper on the horizon, ripping manically, screaming and shouting, shredding paper in his hands he begins to feel madness creeping in and falls to the floor. He rests… He pulls out a cigarette from his trousers and puts it in his mouth, the gallery owner says ‘no smoking inside please.’ He pulls a lighter out anyway and sparks the cigarette inhaling a deep lung of rich smoke. He looks out onto the infinite piece of paper that looks the same as it did in the beginning whenever that was. He takes another drag of the cigarette then starts to play with the lighter, sparking it, lighting it and then letti A man called Pete is supposed to walk into a gallery as he is in a group show. Instead he stays home as he hasn’t finished his piece. triptych A man called Pete walks into a gallery after being at home for half the day. The curators are still setting up a group show that he is in. He walks up to the curators, and says ‘Sorry I’m late, but I only have to stick three pieces of paper to the wall’ A man called Pete walks into a gallery. http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Bembo http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Bembo Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:42:37 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1064086 Published in Issue 2 – March '11 A BIT ABOUT BEMBO Lewis McGuffie <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1064086/ASP_issue2_66_080211.jpg" width="600" height="849" width_o="600" height_o="849" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1064086/ASP_issue2_66_080211_o.jpg" data-mid="5110390" border="0" align="left"/> http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Submit-to-Issue-3 http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Submit-to-Issue-3 Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:36:24 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 2405112 Want to submit to the new issue? We are looking for sci-fi inspired work on the following themes, Monsters and Machines The Moon Alternate History/Uchronia for words and art - fiction, poetry, essays, illustration, photography and other visual arts. Images should be sent as a jpeg. Word limit is 3,000, poetry under 40 lines. Please send work to aspidistra-magazine@live.com Deadline is 31st January 2012 Keep the Aspidistra flying!<img src="http://payload5.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/2405112/star-wars-russian-movie-poster-puma-style_640.jpg" width="640" height="954" width_o="996" height_o="1485" src_o="http://payload5.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/2405112/star-wars-russian-movie-poster-puma-style_o.jpg" data-mid="12103413" border="0" align="left"/> http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/The-Vegetable http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/The-Vegetable Wed, 20 Jul 2011 14:35:58 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1755130 Published in Sistermag – March '11 THE VEGETABLE Bella Dear ‘It’s a marrow.’ She said, gesturing to the vegetable. ‘No, it’s a large courgette.’ He picked it up and turned it over, as though looking for a proof on its green skin. ‘Does it even matter?’ He placed the vegetable down again and looked at her. She stood with hands on hips, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Isn’t that what a marrow is? A large courgette?’ He laughed, a loud horse’s grunt. ‘What?’ She said, reeling around to face him. ‘Why is that funny? That’s not a stupid thing to say.’ ‘Look sweetie.’ He raised his hand and placed it on her shoulder. With his touch he carefully pushed her back from him. ‘I wasn’t laughing, I’m just saying, it doesn’t matter.’ He spoke slowly feeling the words carefully in his mouth before releasing them. ‘You were laughing at me. You did laugh at me. I want to know why, exactly, it’s funny?’ ‘Because it doesn’t matter.’ He said sharply. Withdrawing his hand he swung round to face the vegetable. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a courgette or a marrow.’ ‘Yes, I agree. Because.’ She said slowly, ‘they are the same thing.’ She turned away from him. He let out a slow, sigh and reached for the kitchen knife. ‘What are you doing?’ She said suddenly, looking at the knife. ‘Well let’s find out shall we? Which of us is right?’ http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/A-Conceptual-Artist http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/A-Conceptual-Artist Wed, 16 Feb 2011 03:00:10 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1064144 Published in Issue 2 – March '10 A CONCEPTUAL ARTIST Rosanna Mclaughlin I know a girl who, for the past five years, has been practicing a vanishing act. She has a horror of substance: form for her is a hell of unrefined surfaces, base and grotesquely inappropriate. She would whittle a tree into a pencil and not stop even when she has only lead left in her hands. She is consummately beautiful of which we are painfully aware. We try to convince her to exist more, but when we embrace her she leaves us clutching at shadows. She is a purist and longs for a place far from the dirty ghetto of the body, in the realm of ideas; a haven untainted by the figure. But if she must partake in the physical world, even if only for a little while, she will carve herself a figure slight enough so that if we should let go she would drift and fade into the ether. For us who watch it is like witnessing a terrible trick. We wait in the audience as she attempts the ultimate experiment in form: dematerialization. We are left with the foreboding that we have somehow been complicit in her plans to escape, that we have sat back and watched her long departure. Conceptual art took the painting and came back with wood, paint and canvas. She took the body and came back with skin and bone. I dread the day that she makes the next step and leaves us with only documentation that she did once exist. We would love to see her believe in the value of substance, for we value what little she allows of herself so much but so desperately. Sometimes it makes us turn away. She has made of herself a line marking the border between something and nothing, and the living must maintain the impossibility of death for fear that it will become them. http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Ornithmancy http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Ornithmancy Wed, 16 Feb 2011 02:53:36 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1064109 Published in Issue 1 – March '10 EXPERIMENT 3 (ORNITHMANCY) Victoria Jenkins <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1064109/Bella3_victoria_GRAY_large.jpg" width="600" height="480" width_o="600" height_o="480" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1064109/Bella3_victoria_GRAY_large_o.jpg" data-mid="5110832" border="0" align="left"/> http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Fred-Fuller-I http://aspidistramagazine.co.uk/following/aspidistramagazine.co.uk/Fred-Fuller-I Tue, 15 Feb 2011 10:18:55 +0000 Aspidistra Magazine 1060343 Published in Issue 2 – March '11 Various Illustrations Fred Fuller <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF4.jpg" width="300" height="452" width_o="300" height_o="452" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF4_o.jpg" data-mid="5093270" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF_3.jpg" width="300" height="485" width_o="300" height_o="485" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF_3_o.jpg" data-mid="5093272" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF_1.jpg" width="300" height="358" width_o="300" height_o="358" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF_1_o.jpg" data-mid="5093271" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF2.jpg" width="300" height="510" width_o="300" height_o="510" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/2/82057/1060343/FF2_o.jpg" data-mid="5093269" border="0" align="left"/>