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First Edition printed January 2017 / ‘Linen Slipcase’ Limited Edition of 23

Electronic Edition Published January 31st 2017

by BA Publishing, Norfolk PE30

Printed in the USA, 845 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022

All rights reserved

Curation, appendices material, design and art direction, all photographs of

the pieces, collages and montages:

© Phil Barrington / Barrington Arts

Foreword, commentary and narration:

© Phil Barrington 2016

Pornography and demons; in conversation with Charlotte Niemiec:

© Charlotte Niemiec 2016

Book design:

© Phil Barrington / Barrington Arts

The rights of Phillip Barrington (also birthname) to be

identified as author of this work has been in accordance with

Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders.

The publishers would be pleased to rectify any omissions or errors

brought to their notice at the earliest opportunity

Phil Barrington is an artist from East Anglia UK primarily working in analogue/digital photography and

Multimedia using a variety of experimental paint and chemical methods.

Previous books by Phil Barrington include;

"A Collection of Rusted Dreams; Phil Barrington 2007-2012", 2012, OOTB Publications.

"The Golden Age of Bloodsports; The Collected Words, Lyrics & Performed Songs of Jhonn Balance ", 2014, OOTB Publications.

www.barringtonarts.com

Charlotte Niemiec is a journalist and coffee addict from Surrey UK with an academic background, having studied MA in

Shakespeare at Royal Holloway University of London before becoming an editor and freelance journalist.

lotteniemiec@gmail.com

23 2 3 2 3 2 3 2 3 23


Cracked Amber Solid

,Frieze of the Faded-

Phil Barrington

i. Life

ii. Love

iii. Sex

iv. Death

BARRINGTON ARTS

www.barringtonarts.com / www.facebook.com/BarringtonArts


Contents

07 - Frieze of the Faded; a foreword by Phil Barrington

10 - Acknowledgements

11 - Pornography and Demons; in conversation with Charlotte Niemiec

17 - i. Life

25 - ii. Love

33 - iii. Sex

47 - iv. Death

59 - Appendix I; Blotter Pad

64 - Appendix II; Variants & Rejects

79 - Index of Works

*Inside back cover+

- A Home for a Relic


6


Frieze of the Faded

After nearly 25 years of collecting vintage media and 4 years of preparation, this is an exploration of mind, space, time and remembrance in four stages of

human existence; I. Life, II. Love, III. Sex, IV. Death.

The pictures here are accompanied by semi-autobiographical text that is gradually fragmented by cycles of Markov generation as the narrative progresses.

Autumn 1993. The man behind the counter suddenly ushered me into a tiny back-room as soon as he saw me come in. The man's small shop was situated on

the back streets of King's Lynn in Norfolk England and, as I recall, this was on one rainy Saturday lunchtime. The 6 foot by 2 foot room he motioned me to

basically climb into was under a flight of stairs, thus the ceiling bluntly slanted downwards, without a lightbulb, and there were some slightly mouldy boxes

of yellowed comics on the dusty floor.

I was well-known in the shop up to that point, even from my very early teens, as it bought occult literature from my burgeoning collection and sold various

Lovecraftian items to me almost every weekend. It was here where I bought my first copy of "Simon's Necronomicon" and it was here, in this shop, that I

regularly traded banned films and a variety of prohibited VHS titles.

On this particular rainy Saturday afternoon in my seventeenth year on the planet, this man (shall we say he was named "Bob"?) quickly shoved a white plastic

bag of flat card-like items into my hands and simply said "do you want 'em?" before leaving to serve other customers at front-of-house. I tried to capture

some ambient light from the doorway to see what the hell he'd given me. It was at a particularly strange angle to gain some light on my newly-given bag of

'things' that I hit the top of my head quite hard on the slanted ceiling in that under-stair storeroom. Now, I mean this was a hard physical blow by anyone's

verdict. If I was a baby at the time, my fontanelle would've split open like a fresh egg, I swear it. I literally saw stars in that damned dark room, nearly

dropped this white bag of items, and a sharp scent of sulphur hit my nostrils in the way it always does when I suffer a blow to the head (I hit my head in

public quite often - I am 6ft 4in tall). I became unsteady on my feet, swore a great deal, rubbed what must've been a bleeding scalp, looked around to see if

anyone saw my slapstick calamity and luckily no-one was in my vicinity. I was safe from mockery, derision and raised eyebrows.

I regained my composure, though still whoozy, and delved into the bag of items. It must've contained around 50 hardcore polaroids and amateur darkroomsourced

pornographic prints, on a level that would've been banned from every sexshop in the land at the time (hardcore entry shots in adult magazines were

still censored in the UK by those oval banana-trade stickers at the time). Bottlefucking to pissing, voyeurism to cuckold-by-PO-Box, group shagging to teabagging,

all of the musty dog-eared photographs hand-annotated with suggestive personal notes by the female star of each setup. Even through my whoozy

star-filled vision it was obvious to me in that darkly-lit room that these pictures clearly spanned decades, from the 1950s-1980s by my reckoning.

Clearly, these pictures were sent between lovers and, on occasion, shared with mail-order subscribers. How the hell did Bob come into possession of these

private items? I hung around the shop and waited until near closing time to ask my many questions. Who are these amateur pornstars? How did you get

them? Where did you get them from? And how much money do you want for them all?

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It turned out that a middle-man was involved. A man who was a passing acquaintance of Bob's. A man who conducted house clearances for a living (mostly of

the abodes of deceased loners without family), someone who regularly sold a whole house-worth of relics at auction for his income - minus a nominal fee to

the auction-house for their trouble.

This man was not alone. In fact, I got to hear of a great many other house clearance businesses on my travels, each of them storing away "white bags" of

personal items from the deceased. In the 2000's it'd be pen-drives, smartphone simcards and hard-disks that house clearers couldn't sell on through auction

houses. In 1993, it was bag-upon-bag of private photographs from the deceased.

And so my collection began. Over nearly 25 years I have accrued VHS tapes, Super-8 reels, audio reels, polaroids, slides, transparencies, notes, "Dear John"

letters, inscribed notebooks and other personal items from all aspects of the lives of deceased strangers, sourced from the backrooms and white carrier bags

of UK house clearers.

On one occasion I obtained the x-rays of a deceased cancer sufferer along with the lady's final holiday snaps taken of herself by herself, with no member of

her family alive (or otherwise absent) to accompany her on her final physical journey.

These items, often recorded at the time with such obvious glee, playfulness and humour - lasting evidence of the vibrant and passionate lives of strangers - all

shared the same outcome before I intervened and collected them. The items were all destined for the trashcan, lost forever. I saved all of these relics from

complete destruction, not because I am some sort of sordid serial-voyeur (at least no more than anyone else), but that I felt it was an outright criminal act to

destroy unique relics of these lives just because they have no monetary value in the nation's auction houses, or are otherwise condemned as either sordid or

pornography without value or merit.

Processes

I had some personal caveats when making this collection. I am a firm believer in a person's "right to be forgotten". Without exception. The photographs

which show a perhaps identifiable feature or face of the people involved must have either been taken in a public space or otherwise come from a collection

that showed some evidence of being distributed in its lifetime, or clearly intended for distribution. Outside of that principle I was left with a problem; there

were some fantastic pictures that I felt deserved to be seen and "kept alive", yet these were often the most personal of pictures, perhaps between lovers,

and thus my usual method of adding texture to photographs by paints and/or eroding chemicals came into force; not merely to obscure the identities within

but with the aim to add an extra layer of 'otherness' and vibrancy to them. My actions here are done with hope to give the collection an additional signifier

from the old worlds that both time and space continue to erode.

To make a more balanced and broader set of work here I wanted to add a piece of my own private life too. However, I did fear that this collection could

revert to being a kind of vanity project - one in which I obscenely and disgracefully co-opt items from other people's lives to make a project all about me, me,

me. It was clear that there needed to be some outside variables to mix up or influence the flow of things beyond my control. When I say 'outside variables' I

mean it literally; I left a great amount of these photographs outside to brave the elements of three full-on Winter seasons (in fact three whole years). The

photographs were hit and covered by snow, sleet, birdcrap, sap, ink from poisonous berries and everything else that an average English season can throw at

them from 2012-2014, over and over again, with a year of drying out needed in my studio the following year.

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This destruction-by-nature of a great many of the pictures did add that personally-uncontrolled aspect to the visuals that I needed, though I also required

something external to happen to the accompanying textual narrative to make that less like an autobiographical stream-of-consciousness text that it first

became. I firstly broke up my paragraphs into the four general themes of the book, added character names as independent voices and filtered most of my

text through online Markov scripts in cycle-upon-cycle of textual degradation, in the latter stages most notably the script made by my acquaintance and

coder Nick Boughton (though equally using Shaney script and other more linear word jumblers beforehand too).

Phil Barrington

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Acknowledgements

Dedicated to John Ernest Joseph Bellocq (1873–1949)

In assembling this collection, my sincere thanks go to;

Charlotte Niemiec

The Caretaker

Jhonn Balance (wherever he is)

Philip Eke

Medusa Rose

Ceridwen Smee

Nick Boughton

“Bob”

All the eternal stars of the featured

With rare exception, the original photographs featured in all sections and appendices were bought from various East

Anglian household clearance contacts by Phil Barrington from around 1993 to 2014, the purchases saving the

unauctionable pictures from ultimately being destroyed. To all the original photographers throughout the ages whose

pictures feature in the book - my heartfelt thanks for your gift of inspiration, your great work has been saved from

oblivion. For now.

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Pornography and Demons

In Conversation With Charlotte Niemiec

Mostly illustrated by failed untitled pieces, studio scenes and unused alternate

versions

On a cold winter evening in late 2016, journalist Charlotte Niemiec confronted Phil

Barrington on many aspects of the collection, his creative methodology and morality

behind the content.

CN: So, where are we at right now?

PB: Well, after perhaps 25 years in the making, I finally reached the point of finishing this book -

my first photographic book in 3 or 4 years now, and my third actual released book (the last one

was the words of Jhonn Balance - a completely different subject, completely different material). So

we are now at the point of being on the eve of releasing this book, electronically first and then a

very limited printed art edition run.

As a pre-amble, this book covers four major themes, a little bit like Edward Munch‟s “Frieze of

Life”, this incorporates Life, Love, Sex and Death - universal themes that people can relate to,

recognise or feel some kind of empathy towards. This is the first major project of mine that I haven't

really featured my own creative photography in, because it's mostly found items, found photographs

(different textures from a whole variety of sources really) and features complete strangers

throughout that have no real-world connection to me at all. The people featured within the imagery

are not portraying any kind of role or fictional character, they are just expressing themselves, or

rather going on their travels, or just captured in a moment of time. So I think that's basically it with

regards to a rather messy summary of the book.

CN: If okay with you, could you explain the book’s title “Cracked Amber Solid” for me?

PB: I was initially just going to call it “Frieze of the Faded” but that sounds too prog rock with a kind

of overblown grandiose nature to it, so I wanted something with a little bit more depth and mystery

to the title words, as they appear on the page. In my home studio I have a piece of rectangular

amber that has a beetle inside it, not sure how old it is but it's a perfect specimen aside from a

slight crack in it, and it gave me a mental image of people frozen in a similar way in space and time

via photography, hence why it's called that.

CN: Okay, so there’s a very explicit image on the front sleeve – did you deliberately choose

one of the most explicit images from your collection for the front cover, perhaps as a

provocation of some kind to the potential reader?

PB: I don't want people to have any illusions going into the book that it was going to be held back

or censored in any way, shape or form; one thing I can't stomach is a nude study that has the

model do a kind-of striptease act, covering themselves up for the camera - I think that breaks the

fourth wall, that kind of self-censored image, the subject just saying to the viewer “hey, don't forget,

you‟re the viewer and I'm in control of what you see”, giving the audience a self-consciousness that

isn‟t helpful. I think it's you have to see things as they would be in “reality”, so that attitude is

reflected on the front cover. Perhaps it could also be seen as a creative warning that the collection

is very explicit in parts and actually dealing with the concept of sex as a form of communication

between people. Mostly though, I happen to love the image in question – a curious sense of a

woman in peril, the female looking like she's falling. So, yeah, I think that it is representative of the

strongest material that's in there.

CN: Yes, I also think it does, but was the cover intended to “shock”?

PB: No no no, definitely not intended to shock, not in a kind of violent or aggressive standoff

against one‟s potential audience, because that kind of thing doesn't really work - and no-one ever

makes millions of pounds from mere shock value alone. I think, anyway, that art collectors tend not

to buy things that they “shocked by” per se. I have always wanted to be bold with regards to nudity,

with regards to more horrific elements, with regards to emotional content and it is definitely wrong

to say that I have ever wanted to “shock” people. Unless shocking people these days is equivalent

of making them want to think about elements of their own private lives and general musings on

society.

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CN: Can you sum up the intention behind the whole collection in your own words, for those

who haven’t read any summary of the book. For instance, what point are you trying to make

when connecting love, life, sex and death together?

PB: From an aesthetic point of view at least, all four subjects blur into one for me, a kind of

hauntological collection of memories of all those elements in one‟s life. I've been skirting around the

aesthetic qualities of hauntology for quite a while now with a similar ambient mood and imagery,

trying to evoke an almost supernatural sense of the mundane; so, the images here could be of a

very banal holiday, or an awkward portrait of someone looking to one side, looking down, or having

sex, grief for those bastards who left us behind and so on, all elements linked together by the

nature of them all being in one book with the shared visual aspects of decay in many forms. These

kinds of „episodes‟ are happening in everyone's life and I just wanted to share a portrayal of “life in

hindsight”, from my own world and perspective, whilst using other people‟s worlds to show it

visually.

Leaving the photographs out to decay for such a period of time is a bit like putting a magnifying

glass over a pinned butterfly; there's a quality from it‟s existence before you get to that point, the

butterfly will always show its beauty as long as it physically exists in that time/space even though

it's captured in time, but the magnifying glass distorts and, if caught by the sun, burns or fades the

creature in an almost abstract way by its focus on it.

I think, yes, in some of the works there is an element of fear or sadness, but there is also humour -

which perhaps we can explore a bit later because usually the most ignored side of my own work is

the humour I put into various finished pieces over the years.

CN: You say in the book’s foreword that it would have been outright criminal to destroy

these unique relics or photographs, which I can understand, but how do you reconcile that

desire to preserve the past with how you manipulated and changed them by leaving them

out in the open for years to degrade and rot?

PB: Well I did that for several reasons - one being a practical reason, as some of the best pictures

had fully-identifiable people in them so I wanted to obscure their identity (if the situation was clearly

in a private setting). Although most people in the photographs are deceased (the pictures

originating from my house clearances contacts), there is still a possibility that someone could

personally identify a person in it, so I wanted to minimise that a little bit and actually enforce some

anonymity in some of the best works. I most often preserve the person‟s body but destroy their face

in my own work anyway, so this approach isn‟t new to me. So, even though there are some

distorted and decayed pictures there, I think I have that balance between respecting the original

picture, respecting the person within it, and also adding a necessary aesthetic texture to the whole

collection.

I still maintain that these very human, very touching and very moving moments are better kept

forever in some form than destroyed en masse as they were going to be, but it's an interesting

point that I found myself balancing between preserving them and actively destroying elements of

them myself.

CN: But I I think that many people could pick up this book, or download it, and think that

you’ve just included pornography for titillating purposes - any excuse to include such

polarising material - what would you say to that?

PB: I'd like to know of such people who think that any of my work is pornographic because, if anyone

gets „turned on‟ by most of my work then I probably wouldn't want to know them! I can't predict

all the ways that people will react to the very explicit imagery in the book but, to a large extent, that

is beyond my control - if someone reads the text or sees the other imagery there that surrounds the

explicit works and still comes away thinking that the book is pornographic (pornography

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asically existing to stimulate a person‟s genitals) or if you put my book down thinking, um, “I'm hot

for action” then you're a different person to myself. Of course, there is a variety of straight hardcore

and S&M imagery in the book, but I genuinely struggle to see how anyone could find anything that

I produce sexually stimulating.

CN: So, in that case, how do you think people would react if they picked up your book for

the first time?

PB: It depends on the person – because if they're comfortable with themselves and in-tune with

their emotions and their sexual peccadilloes, then I think they wouldn't put the book down in shock.

I‟m hopeful that they'll put the book down feeling quite emotional that certain elements of the book

have triggered certain memories or feelings of their own about their past; their sexual experiences,

their grief for their parents, their first love, their most explosive break-up, their first holiday in

foreign lands. All these things have equal balance in the book, but I am realistic and understand

that some of the more “out there” sexual imagery could be grabbing lots of people's attention away

from some of the more subtle works and that's fine. It‟s nature, because we're mammals and we

need to think about sex almost constantly.

Large portions of the text were written when I was in a highly emotional state, during a particularly

bleak period of time, so I do hope at least some of the readers would recognise a tenderness and

longing at the core of the book itself. In my mind there are also many symbols of hope - not

complete nihilism - but they are not always there - and death may be on almost every page in

some form or another.

Beyond its own dedicated section, “death” has the tendency to leak into everything in life anyway,

likewise it is the case throughout the different sections of the book - but then I don't necessarily

see death as a pessimistic topic to talk about anyway. I see our mortality as an interesting subject

to think and talk and feel about - but the book as a whole, itself, has elements of hope and they're

embedded in sand within much of the contents.

CN: You say that some of the work is “explicit”, but that form of visual erotic expression is

basically the same as calling it pornographic in my opinion. In that, despite your view, there

is some material in the book that could be sexually stimulating for many people. Again, I

have to go back to what you intended, at least as an idea in your mind for the book from the

outset - or what you wanted to achieve, and does the book successfully convey that idea to

you now?

PB: Ok, fair enough. Simply put, my idea from the outset was to thread many of the collected

photographs together into solid themes that gave a sense of a narrative in an ambient emotional

way. But when I say „outset‟, I don‟t mean when I started collecting the images 24 years ago. I

never thought about showing them or doing anything artistic with them until about 5 years ago - I

just wanted to keep them as “mysterious treasures of human life” or something [laughs]. The book

has actually turned out exactly how I envisaged it to become all those years ago, almost down to

each page how I wanted it to be.

I didn't predict how the text would turn out though, because the text was written - all of the text in

the book was written actually - in one draft only and lots of it was made in a stream-ofconsciousness

way with some sentences inserted from my daily travels, or things I think about

when I'm riding on the bus as a chronic pedestrian. I have to suffer public transport but, when a

sentence comes to me I jot it down on my phone and build a narrative around it in some way later.

90% of the text in the book is, firstly, a broad stream-of-consciousness writing and the remaining

10% being altered or randomised text through software text generators – and, yeah, that 10% is

vital to the mood and reflective nature it gives to the other text, and to the book as a whole.

CN: You talk, especially in sections of the book, about respecting the individuals that

appear in the photographs, that you will not show the full identity of individuals unless the

photographs are set in public spaces or intended for distribution. It seems to me, though,

that you don’t always respect them, and that your rules seem contradictory in some of the

chosen works for the book…

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PB: Okay, right, you might have to bring up some examples here…

CN: This one on page 51 - this image, I’d argue, is neither intended for distribution, nor set

in a “public space” or anything else - totally private between her and her lover (who's taken

the photograph).

PB: Right, there's handwriting on the back of the original picture and it is saying “to Richard” -

actually it was to a certain name which may or may not be Richard - and it is part of a cache of

photographs that have clearly been distributed, upon request, to other people in a PO Box swinging

community of the 1960s-1980s so, in other words, I‟d argue that these pictures are out of the

source‟s control and, to a large extent, there‟s a fair expectation of them drifting into the public

realm, at least after they pass away.

Similar to the polaroids I use later on in the book which is especially in the Blotting Pad section,

just an appendix as the set wasn't a final thing, these sexual images all either have writing on the

back to indicate a prior circulation, or the faces are obscured anyway. But, again, I have to point

out [flicking through the book] that there is a lot more to the book than the sexual imagery we keep

going back to…

CN: But a sexual theme runs throughout the book – constantly…

PB: I disagree. But I think that, regardless, once people see the sexual imagery in a different

context they can see why they have merit for being featured there. I'm just flicking through the book

now… through the Life section… and until it gets to this point here, for Love [page 28], a section

which needed to have some kind of sexual imagery as just one visual representation and expression

of love, there is nothing preceding it of an explicit nature. I do admit that there is some sexual

imagery that crosses over the themes of the book slightly, but is that wrong? What‟s so bad about

that? I think that beats a photo of someone eating a burger next to a van in the 1970s as a form of

their expression, if you take their life as a whole.

The Street Photography genre covers such mundanity well, War Photography covering violent

conflict in all its varied forms, Tourism Photography doing its job too, so all elements of a person‟s

life can – and are – covered by all genres of photography. I just like to mix such content up a bit.

I still think it's a very balanced book even though, granted, looking at it through for your eyes there

may be lots more sexual imagery than of other possible elements of a person‟s life.

CN: What are your personal favourite works in the book?

PB: I quite like something called “Akio's Last Summer (Isolated Jaw Version)”, which is towards the

middle of the Death section, and I quite like some of the humorous ones…[flicks through book] I'll

just, maybe show you a couple of my favourites… I particularly love this picture here [page 48], of

the person looking back and their face melds in with their environment – that, there, encapsulates

everything visual that I wanted to do with the collection… the road leading up the centre of the

picture… it is all just perfect, perfect destruction, to me.

CN: The works featuring urinating women…?

PB: As mentioned before, I have no desire to shock people - that isn't what I've ever wanted. It can

be handy to shock people at times, but it‟s an ultimately childlike tool with limited results – no longterm

vision, just a fleeting thing, so although I think actively shocking someone can be a good and

positive thing, I've never wanted to do that with any of my works, and people don't seem to understand

that sometimes. When people are „shocked‟ by an image, they immediately cut themselves

off emotionally from it. That‟s not good for any artist.

Like all creatives, I simply want to make striking, memorable imagery and, especially working with

collage and montage, that depends on what materials or pictures you have at hand. And I

happened to have had, through no fault of my own [laughs], images of urinating women at hand.

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Regarding nudity, I really don‟t think many people find it shocking – nude human beings have

appeared in art since cavemen began doodling on their cave walls. But I suppose the most

controversial image in the book is probably the Blowjob Bible image. Some may find that work

disrespectful to their tiresome beliefs. But, again, that was just me in the studio playing around with

what imagery I had within reach, doing something on the spur of the moment. Not planned out. Not

calculated. I placed several things on that framed bible before digging out that old reel sleeve of a

stag movie. The title just worked and the whole thing clicked from there. The image almost didn‟t

make the final selection for the book, but there it is.

PB: If we can move outside of this Q&A format for a moment, I'm very interested in many ways

about your own thoughts on the images, or the book as a whole, or the text, because I know from

our private prior conversations of your literary interests and your ability to look at things in various

different ways to me, like you have done with the questions. I was wondering if there are any

particular images, or text sections, which you felt were “too much”, that I perhaps “stepped over a

line” to the point of being almost puerile, maybe?

CN: There aren’t necessarily many works within the book that I’d say went “too far”, but

there are works which I think could be seen of lesser artistic worth, or perhaps a few that

are slightly distasteful. Let me show you a few… This one here with the bottles [“Miss

Bottle Top”, page 41] struck me as such a work. I have two responses to that image – one

being of natural curiosity and the other being one that reflected my questioning earlier, to

do with the reasoning behind your placing this image in the book if not to shock or titillate.

What was the point you were trying to make with that particular collage, in relation to the

rest of the book?

PB: Would it be fair to say that the reason why some of the images, such as this one and the

collage of the female opening up her vulva [page 40], look distasteful to you because they're not

especially aesthetically pleasing to the eye, or are perhaps rather rough and unflattering to the

female form in comparison with standard glamour photography?

CN: it's not necessarily because of aesthetic reasons. I think it's just the point of showing it.

Maybe I'm not entirely sure what someone is supposed to feel when looking at that. It’s

either meant to “turn people on” because of its erotic nature, or it's not a turn on because

it's too explicit. I'm not so sure that there's any way to appreciate those works in the right

way.

PB: But you're still seeing it as having the potential for being erotic, and you have mentioned that

there are lots of images in here [the book] that are erotic.

CN: You said that you understand that many people could see the works as erotic, as we

are all mammals, but if this image is not erotic, then what is it? What does the explicit

nature show or represent?

PB: Right, okay, well my response to that would be that when I was dealing with any of these images

I never once thought about whether something is erotic or not. Yes, I am dealing with fe/

males, who are doing sexualised poses, but I genuinely didn't see eroticism as the primary mood

of the works when seen in the larger context of the whole book. I saw the vintage and strangely

disjointed nature of the pictures enhancing the mood, perhaps, of a recollection or haunting past

memory, regardless of any sexual content. Lots of human memories focus on human contact, sexual

or otherwise.

I don't personally find any representations of the fe/male form in the book aesthetically displeasing,

but I respect the fact that some of the photographs have more in common with a gynaecologist‟s

clinical examination of female genitals than traditional glamour photography normally covers these

days.

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I do think it's important to take into account that there are background images, taken from

1800s/1900s scrapbooks, which support such explicit central images in particular ways, whether

humourously, mysteriously, symbolically or surreally complementing such imagery. Along with the

accompanying text, of course. To get a sense of what I wanted to achieve, you really have to see

beyond a vulgar photographic representation of a vulva and see it as part of the whole experience,

mood or world I wanted to create. So, for example an open vulva could suddenly become a warm

and inviting – all-encompassing, even – home to a family of nesting birds in a wry kind-of way. Just

an example of course [laughs].

CN: Could you talk a little more about the text that accompanies the imagery in the book?

PB: There are, basically, certain mysteries in the book that I‟d like to keep mysterious. If I went

through it all now and gave lots of things away then I'm not too sure that the appeal of the book

would stand up. I think I‟d definitely agree with the view that, in a sense, there is not one single

narrator but, in fact, several – and hard to pinpoint, sometimes, who the narrator actually is; if it's a

real “character”, if it's me, someone else, a demon, or electronically distorted and randomised text.

For me, it doesn‟t matter who the narrator on any particular page is - I really wanted to create a

texture of words which started off seemingly making some kind of order but then, as time goes on,

names and sentences get jumbled up, the structure of the page can sometimes feel compromised,

etc. I never wanted to be making completely pure linear sense, so the idea that the text definitely

always echoes or reflects the accompanying imagery on any particular page is more or less open

to interpretation.

Aside from the fiction and the “cutting up” of some sentences, there are two things in the book

which are of my own factual writing and strongly from my own personal worldview. Firstly, the

Foreword background story of when I was first introduced to some of these pictures - that is all

completely factual except for a name change of someone external. Secondly, the 1980‟s streamof-consciousness

block; every single word there doesn't reflect everyone‟s “reality” but it reflects a

gloopy sense of reality of the eighties when I look back. Those two pieces are definitely all me,

right there.

CN: Yeah, okay, well - for a final summary - maybe you can talk to me about the Love

section of the book, instead of me asking you specific questions?

PB: Okay, well, in this section I would argue that the pictures mirror the text in a way that there are

blank open spaces and things left obscured - some of the images, to me, portray a massive void,

of lovelessness, that I really wanted to write about too; “love” from the view of not having it,

because my personal perspective at the time of writing that section was exactly of that situation.

That section reeks of loss. Of loneliness.

CN: And I believe this is the main section where your own name is mentioned?

PB: Right. Yes. Yeah, I did at times want to cut through everything and make it personal to me

because the rest of the images obviously (except for one) don't feature me or anyone I know in

them. This section still contains strange musings and distorted half-truths, though - the text is

definitely not from a “me me me” perspective, because I intentionally jumbled the text up and put

other people's names in to try and stop that. It's not all an ego thing. Though if your view of this

section as one of complete introspective indulgence on my part, I wouldn't get upset about it - I did

intentionally want to have an honest and confessional air to it.

So some people could argue (myself being one of them) that perhaps it's my personal musings

that mostly drive the entire Love section, because at the time it was all written I happened to have

felt a complete and utter bereavement about that element of my life. I needed to let that particular

demon out.

16

16


tion I.

ife

17


Akio’s Last Summer (detail)

*page 17 - Davide Bromide+

18

18


Akio's Last Summer

The universe? It died aeons ago. The

very living sadness we all feel - indeed

all that which binds us - is the soft unidentifiable

ripples of extinction coming

back to us from space zero. The

physical place at which the ending of

the universe happened had transmitted

the end back to us, similar to

ripples from an exploding atomic

bomb.

The lamp in the window is simply another

reflection of dying starlight,

slowly but surely arriving in our vicinity

from the distant apocalypse.

Can't you feel it, Davide?

19

Yeah. I can feel it.

19


20

20


21

21


*page 20 - Familial Spaces+

*page 21 - Lists+

Do you have an eternal nagging feeling that someone gave you a pony,

unannounced, and told you to just deal with it?

There’s a feeling that I don’t believe has a definitive word in the English

language. A feeling of anger towards one’s parents for giving birth to

you to make them feel better about themselves, and leaving you to your

own devices as they die. There’s more than one thing that every living

being on this globe shares, and I’m talking about the fact that none of us

– not one human being – asked nor voted to be alive.

You see, human life itself - the very act of being born - is completely

undemocratic to the individuals involved. Sometimes even the parents

themselves do not make the binary choice to have, or have not, the

children they force upon the world. They just go along with it. To hell

with the consequences to the child they create; Umbilicus Detestus.

Sam; “You wanna force a child into this world to suffer, for your

amusement? It seems the way of human life and ape logic. We know

the cruelty here. We know the abject pointlessness of it all. We know

we bring a child into the world to suffer disease, possible abuse, murder

and the very act of dying. When we look into our bairn’s smiling eyes, all

of those mortal damages fade away and we smile too. For life is a fascist

card trick we playfully nod along to.

Now that’s not to say that there are no joys in this world, but they are

fleeting. All things must pass, they say, and that’s possibly the truest

sentence. Throughout our lives, our loves, our fucking, and our closing

stages of death, we learn to live with the lie, the darkest card trick of all,

the parlour game of life.

Step right up, buddy boy, for we have a menagerie of lurid diseases to

show you. There is a disease that effects your reflection, one that will

corrode your memories to a rust-red brilliance, another disease that

will confront you with cancers, pox and breathing difficulties. Sex is not

a disease – but it’s a hazardous and messy past-time that fails to fulfil

the images in your brain that your very being needs.”

There is a disease called love, too. But we shall talk about that later. If

that’s okay with you?

Sam; “Growing up in a very rural area – a village that is almost Amish in

its outlook on the modern world – my experiences of life were almost

always painted in dark hues of horror and fear. I was a timid, shy,

awkward and doom-transfixed child. A kind-of Milhouse Van Houten

meets Rimbaud. It was the 1980s.”

Fading into view. AIDS pamphlets arrived today. Or was it yesterday?

An iceberg on the front. Depth of field. This thing called “Sex” can kill

you. Highly toxic bonding. Where’s the Titanic? A nuclear fallout leaflet

is arriving tomorrow, giving advice about unhinging doors. DIY? “When

The Wind Blows”. A programme about Nostradamus, a book from my

father; severed hands and tarantulas. The Pan Book of Horror. Bryan

Ferry crooning fucking Avalon as Durex promotes. Finding my first used

condom. In my childhood living room. First glimpses of anal porn and

leather fetish, “Loose Ends 2” standing 69 and Bondage Monthly. An

anniversary about punk music. Copies of “Razzle” found when breaking

into tractors. The Russians will kill you if the sex doesn’t. What is sex?

Drawing nude ladies at the age of 6. Rubbing through Flash Gordon

pyjamas to your sketches. Telephone sexlines at the back of The Sun.

Badly photocopied lips and perms. Trading top-shelf magazines

22

22


Solitude Sometimes Eats

and Page 3’s at morning assembly – the High school

champion of open beaver shots. Censored adult magazines,

banana stickers covering hardcore entry. Making horrific

cartoons on Spectrum 48k paint programs. Reagan and

Thatcher gurning as acidic puppets. The girl’s face mauled

by a dog, sellotaped and kept in my mother’s handbag as a

warning to me. Beware. Be Aware. Of Dangers. The

Yorkshire Ripper blows up the Iranian Embassy. Frankie

Goes to Hollywood and meets Sinn Fein there, starring as

legitimate violators in their own overdubbed movie. The

English not giving up their absurd distorted Empire

memories. Poverty. Moving into the warm kitchen during

winters. Dogs dying. Now That’s What I Call A Supermarket

Bombing, Volume 8. First visit to Pontins. Seeing a redhaired

beauty ascend from terrifying local swimming pools.

Wet hair and water dripping down. At age 11, drawing her

picture in secret. In the bus when it ran over that poor girl.

Seeing her sad-looking death-skeleton as other children

laughed nervously at the whole deathly incident. The

headteacher’s trenchcoat over her body as we marched past

her to the assembly room. Dissolving horrid teenage years

as Thatcher cries.

23

23


Solitude Sometimes Eats (detail)

24

24


Collection II.

Love

25


26

26


27 27


28

28

28


*page 25 - The Lovelorn Corrosion+

*page 26 - We Are All Geometry+

*page 27 - From the Exit+

*page 28 - September, 1969+

Love? Does it exist? Oh, not for me old friend. You have to have at least

one element of beauty about your person. A glimpse of attractiveness

hidden in your top pocket. As the song goes, “No, the mystery of love is

not for me”.

I have loved. And have haunted myself with it for more years than I care

to think. I have looked into the eyes of my lover and actually see her love

for me fade away into nothingness through her irises like a drop of milk

in a bowl of black ink, preferring a return to her abusive relationship of a

past lover than a safer country life with myself. A cottage of mine,

covered in cobwebbed items of dead unions. A Mr Havisham of the

Referendum Age. Being told by another that she is the attractive one in

our relationship. I should not, then, think of myself as worthy. Can love

remind you constantly of death? It shouldn’t. For it’s the same thing.

Love is also what the French existentialists call “finding fleeting moments

of joy in your short, meaningless life”. A deathly distraction, then.

I had wanted it. Love. Until the age of forty and the knowledge that, in

my small rural sphere of existence, I shall never find another. Not like

her. Never like her. When distant wedding bells chime and a noose

swings.

Michelle; “Why did you become so cold to me. Where are you really?”

Phil; “We had our memories. Remember Egypt? I loved you. Your long

flowing fiery-red hair. Your smile. Your milky-white beauty. Your beating

heart and innocent caring eyes.”

Michelle; “So why did you leave me? Leave…’us’?”

Phil; “I didn’t leave you. I left…this. Your beautiful red hair; such striking

colour to contrast with your pallor. I let you go, because – please admit it

– I left your thoughts six years ago”

Narrator Describes in Script Cycle; “Occasionally numb by choice. The

hurt lasts, and my soul aches for the world to be different for me. To be

different for me. To be good, the world to be different for me. The world

became grey and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. The hurt lasts,

and my hope left with it. After that time my world - be different for me.

The left was always Shelley. She left and my hope left with it. After that

time my soul aches for me. To be different for the world, to be different

for me.”

No, the mysteries of love are not for me.

Michelle; “I touched your heart and you kept it from me soon after.

Locked it away. Like a briefly-discovered jewel that you reclaimed –

snatched away for pawning. At what price? And did you get a receipt for

it, my love?

Phil; “If the gallows ever had a backstage green room, this bar would

surely be it. Rejoicing racists, zestful xenophobes, beaming bigots and

nationalists nodding in approval. ‘A graveyard for favourites’, as my old

gambler friend once said. Yet, here we are, for our final meeting no less.”

29

*page 30, 31 - In This Place We Shall Disappear Together (detail)+

*page 32 - In This Place We Shall Disappear Together+

29


30

30

30


31

31 31


32

32

32


Sex

Collection III.

33


Scrapbook Memories & Actions I; Quondam

*page 33 - Return to September, 1969+

34

34


Scrapbook Memories & Actions II; June, 1967. Almost Airtight

*page 36 - Sunday Afternoon (Before Mother Came)+

35

35


36

36

36


Narrator Expands in Script Cycle; “To be different, for the world became grey, and my world to be good. She

left with it. After the hurt lasts, and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. The hurt lasts, and isolated,

occasionally numb by choice. The hurt lasts, and my soul aches for that time grey and my world became grey

and my hope left with it. After the hurt lasts, and my soul aches for the world to be different for that time my

world became my hope left with it. After the world to be grey and my soul aches for me. To be good.grey and

my hope left and my hope left and my hope left and my hope left with it. After that time my world to be grey

and my soul aches for that time, grey and my soul aches for the world to be different for the world to be

good. It was always Shelley. She. World became grey and isolated, occasionally numb by choice.”

Narrator Concludes in Script Cycle; “The hurt lasts, and my soul aches for me. To be different for me. To be

different for the world be different for me. To be different for the world became grey and my soul aches for

me. The hurt lasts, and my hope left and my soul aches, for that time my world became my world, became

grey and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. The hurt lasts, and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. To

be different for that time grey and my world to be good. Don't you see? It was always Shelley. She left with it.

After that time my world to be good. Hope left was always She, left with it.

After that time my world became grey and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. To be good. After that time

my hope left and my world became grey and my soul aches for the world to be good. Numb by choice. The

hurt lasts, and isolated, occasionally numb by choice. The hurt lasts, and my world to be good; isolated,

occasionally numb by choice.

To be different, for the hurt lasts, and my soul aches for me. To be grey and isolated, occasionally numb by

choice. The left and isolated, occasionally numb by choice.

The hurt lasts, and my hope left with it.

Occasionally numb by choice.”

*page 38 - Relics Of Suzie With Her Sister+

*page 39 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions III; Animals+

37

37 37


38

38

38


39

39 39


Scrapbook Memories & Actions IV; Making A Nest

40

40

40


Miss Bottletop

41

41 41


Scrapbook Memories & Actions V; Headless Voyeurs

42

42


Agape

43

43 43


Slapping, choking, whipping, public exposure. The fetishes of others.

Those times when you simply cannot sexually connect to them, to sexually

synch, makes you an actor on behalf of your lover like any porn

star out there. The only difference is the audience figures. Bums on

seats. And you’re doing it for free. Though we all have our fetishes, but

formed from what? A childhood glimpse of pornography?Erotic

photographs of long-dead people bought from house clearance

traders? A map of your nerve endings and how to damage them? A

buzzing game of “Operation”? Doctors and Nurses?

Susan; “Oh, Ken, please find enclosed in this letter some

photographs for your pleasure. I miss you all over me, Mr. K.”

The Sex-Death;

Kenneth;

The Sex-Death;

“Believe her, Ken. Follow her logical route.”

“You are perfection. Open up for me.“

“Why, thank you Ken.”

Kenneth; “I don’t mean you. I mean to say that Susan is

perfection. Who are you?”

The Sex-Death;

Kenneth;

“Oh, you know me, Ken…”

“It’s Kenneth to you, sir. Susan…you there?”

The Sex-Death; “Look over to your right… That’s it. Come closer… See

those two inkblots of black? They are my eyes. Look into the inkblots, Kenneth.

Let me tell you a secret; a male will always be a violent misogynist in

bed. The feminists are right; males use their cocks on females like guerrillas

use their bayonets on sandbags. You want to stab her. You WANT to hurt

Susan, don’t you Ken…neth?”

Kenneth; “You haven’t said who you are. Your eyes… Hurting

Susan? No. No… not me. You’ve got it all wrong, buster.”

The Sex-Death; “I am the uncontrolled darkness in your blood. I am the

uncontrolled darkness (hereafter known as U.D.) in Susan’s blood. You

want to hurt Susan; the violent lubeless anal, the flowing of your sperm

and urine on her white fleshy body. The hair-wrenching. You want to

degrade her. Treat her like a lowly animal. You want to choke her at that

very moment when you cum. But that’s okay. She wants that too. All that

pillow violence. For about 12 minutes. Until you both need to stop, breathe

again and find your clothes. Haunting you all that time was one clear,

nagging thought; you know you need to drop that faulty 3-in1 tv remote

control back into Argos before the store closes. You have to account for

driving through weekend evening traffic to get there too. And that

normality eats away in the back of your mind as you grapple Susan to the

ground and tear off her clothes. I am the U.D. in your sex. You need my

drive to battle normality and to make you cum into the very fabric of the

universe. And it’s okay. It’s merely a rape-play for today. By mutual

agreement, kind sir.”

The Sex-Death; “Susan is fucking someone else right now, Ken…

neth. It’s just you and I here until she towels-off and returns to us at

this very spot, in your meeting place.”

Kenneth;

“Who are you? I cannot see you – the fog here is…”.

44

44


The Ultimate Kiss

45

45 45


Kenneth;

The Sex-Death;

Kenneth;

Susan;

Kenneth;

Susan;

“No, it isn’t. You are just trying to confuse me. Muddy the waters. I am a good

person. I merely want to feel passion-”

“-YOU want the threat of harm, mister. The tease of death in your climax. The

sweat of annihilation glistening on her body under raw moonlight. That is what

passion is. That is what actual real-life liquid cum embodies. That is the

moment when you become unstoppable in your climaxing rage during all

moments of sexual release. Oh, that is what sex is; “Death”. You know this. And

I am your U.D. Do you hear me Ken…neth? I rule your forbidden moments that

society condemns. I am you then, Ken-neth. I am your fucking U.D.”

“…”

“Sorry my love – are you there, Kenneth? I’m back, but I cannot see you here.

Come closer if you’re here…The fog has descended. I cannot see our tree, my

darling. Ah…there you are. Do you know someone called Davide Bromide? He

says he knows you. He looks just like you too, my love.”

“…”

“Are those your...eyes?”

46

46


Collection IV.

Death

47


Yesterday's Shorelines

*page 47 and 57 - Untitled+

Davide; “I remember you. And I

remember her too. It was almost 25

years ago when you came into my life.

But now? You’re both gone. You wanna

know something funny? I miss you.

Both of you. Despite our wars. Despite

the fallout and your octogenarian sans

pension poverty towards the end.

The bitterness. Recrimination and all

the rest. So there we are. So here I am.

You want to know when I decided that

Death had taken firm hold of our

relationship? Let me get the drinks in

first.”

48

48

48


Yesterday's Shorelines (detail)

Death is something I think about often – every day, to be truthful. Such thoughts are

aspirational ones. Imagine a life without death? A terrible idea. A life with no fucking

ending? Now that’s simple cruelty. Infinite nothing-days with endless false dawns

(you cannot, of course, have a true dawn without a death) and meaningless nights,

the sun’s savage illuminations mocking your existence. Because, although death is

intrinsically linked to nihilism, death is a bringer of hope too, no matter how

fleeting that “H” word may be.

49

49


50

50

50


51

51 51


*page 50 - Akio's Last Summer (isolated jaw version)+

*page 51 - Soon After The Operation+

Maybe, as it is, death eats deep through your marrow with a rage of holes

for mouths at that final moment. A feeling of disintegration through tiny

jaws as your mind and body succumbs to the end. A deafening cacophony

of rots destroys your hearing as an obscene cutting machine, all diamondseethrough,

shreds your vocal chords. And so on. Each diabolical Death

Device taking you one step closer to oblivion upon completion of each

small purpose.

Davide; “It was that time you looked at me after my Mother passed away

all those years ago. You could not understand my loss, my mourning actions,

and so laid the beginning of the distance between us. I do not

blame you. One death begets another, you understand? In this case, if I

may be so grandiose, a skull-encrusted chain of dominoes, falling and

falling onto each other, bringing each other down until the final wretched

piece of “us” collapsed. Yet I miss you to this day and beyond. We could

have made a difference. We could have loved more. Yet the stars were

not for us.”

It was the 1980s.

There’s more than one thing that every living being on this globe shares,

and I’m talking about the fact that none of us – not one human being –

asked nor voted to be alive.

There is a disease – but it’s a hazardous and messy past-time that fails to

fulfil the images in your brain that your very being needs.” There is a

disease that effects your reflection, one that will corrode your memories

to a rust-red brilliance, another disease that will corrode your memories

to a rust-red brilliance, another disease that effects your reflection, one

that will confront you with cancers, pox and breathing difficulties.

Do you have an eternal nagging feeling that someone gave you a pony,

unannounced, and told you to make them feel better about themselves,

and leaving you to just deal with it?

You see, human life and ape logic. It was the 1980s.

There’s a feeling that someone gave you a pony, unannounced, and told

you to make them feel better about themselves, and leaving you to your

own devices as they die.

When we look into our bairn’s smiling eyes, all of those mortal damages

fade away and we smile too.

When we look into our bairn’s smiling eyes, all of those mortal damages

fade away and we smile too.

Wet hair and water dripping down. Drawing nude ladies at the back of

The Sun.

The Pan Book of Horror. Reagan and Thatcher gurning as acidic puppets.

Dissolving into horrid teenage years as Thatcher cries. Be Aware. In my

childhood living room.

The English not giving up their absurd distorted Empire memories. The

headteacher’s trenchcoat over her body as we marched past her to the

assembly room.

Be Aware. Never like her.

And have haunted myself with it for more years than I care to think. When

distant wedding bells chime and a noose swings.

And have haunted myself with it for more years than I care to think. Does

it exist?

I have loved. As the song goes; No, the mystery of love is not for me.

52

52


53

53 53


54

The Death Midwives; Funeral Preparations, Spain, 1985

*page 53 - Of the Erased+

When distant wedding bells chime and a noose swings. For it’s the same thing. And have haunted myself with it for more

years than I care to think. I left...this.

Michelle; “I touched your heart and innocent caring eyes. So why did you get a receipt for it, my love?”


Before The Cull

Phil; “If the gallows ever

had a backstage green

room, this bar would surely

be it.

Rejoicing racists, zestful

xenophobes, beaming

bigots and nationalists

nodding in approval. I let

you go, because – please

admit it – I left your

thoughts six years ago.”

55

55 55


Some erotic photographs of long-dead people bought from house clearance

traders? A “childhood glimpse of pornography”?

Does it matter? Does it matter? How do they form? And you’re doing it for

free.

Susan; “Oh, Ken, please find enclosed in this letter some photographs for

your pleasure.

You WANT to hurt Susan, don’t you Ken…neth?” Kenneth; “You are

perfection. I miss you all over me, Mr.

Come closer… See those two inkblots of black? I miss you all over me, Mr.

No... not me.

The Sex-Death; “Oh, you know me, Ken…” Kenneth; “It’s Kenneth to you,

sir.

Susan…you there?” The Sex-Death; “Oh, you know me, Ken…” Kenneth;

“It’s Kenneth to you, sir.

The feminists are right; males use their cocks on females like guerrillas use

their bayonets on sandbags.

The feminists are right; males use their bayonets on sandbags.

All that pillow violence. All that pillow violence.

The hair-wrenching. You want to choke her at that very moment when you

cum. By mutual agreement, kind sir.”

You need my drive to battle normality and to make you cum into the very

fabric of the universe.

The sweat of annihilation glistening on her body under raw moonlight. Ah…

there you are. I’m back, but I cannot see you here.

I am your fucking U.D.”

Kenneth; “…”

Susan; “Sorry my love – are you there, Kenneth?

Kenneth; “No, it isn’t.”

I am you then, Ken-neth.

Oh, that is what sex is; “Death”.

So there we are. A terrible idea.

Let me get the drinks in first.” Death is something I think about often – every

day, to be truthful.

A terrible idea. You’re both gone.

You wanna know something funny? Now that’s simple cruelty. Such thoughts

are aspirational ones.

Maybe, as it is, death eats deep through your marrow with a rage of holes for

mouths at that final moment.

But now? We could have loved more. I do not blame you.

Davide; “It was that time you looked at me after my Mother passed away all

those years ago.

We could have made a difference.

The Sex-Death; “I am the uncontrolled darkness (hereafter known as U.D.)

in Susan’s blood.

You need my drive to battle normality and to make you cum into the very

fabric of the universe.

You want to hurt Susan; the violent lubeless anal, the flowing of your mind

as you grapple Susan to the ground and tear off her clothes.

The Sex-Death; “I am the uncontrolled darkness in your sex.

Oh, that is what passion is. Do you know someone called Davide Bromide?

I cannot see our tree, my darling.

56

56


57


Appendix I

Blotter Pad

A brief series mixing 1960s/70s home-developed erotic photographs and pages from a 1937 blotter pad with added blue ink

blots and patterns. This series didn’t really fit within the wider themes of the frieze, though I did love the set enough to keep

it alive by envisaging it as eventually being included somehow. PB.

59

59 59


60

60

60


61

61 61


62

62

62


63

63 63


Appendix II

Variants &

Rejects

64

64

64


65

65 65


66

66

66


68

68

68


69


70

70


72

72

72


73


74


75


76


77


78

78

78


Index of Works

Front Cover - Return to September, 1969 *2014+

Page 5 - The Lovers *2012+

Page 17 - Davide Bromide *2014+

Page 18 - Akio’s Last Summer (detail) *2016+

Page 19 - Akio’s Last Summer *2016+

Page 20 - Familial Spaces *2016+

Page 21 - Lists *2016+

Page 23 - Solitude Sometimes Eats *2016+

Page 24 - Solitude Sometimes Eats (detail) *2016+

Page 25 - The Lovelorn Corrosion *2014+

Page 26 - We Are All Geometry *2016+

Page 27 - From The Exit *2016+

Page 28 - September, 1969 *2016+

Page 30 - In This Place We Shall Disappear

Together (detail) *2016+

Page 31 - In This Place We Shall Disappear

Together (detail) *2016+

Page 32 - In This Place We Shall Disappear

Together *2016+

Page 33 - Return to September, 1969 *2014+

Page 34 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions I;

Quondam *2016+

Page 35 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions II;

June, 1967. Almost Airtight *2016+

Page 36 - Sunday Afternoon (Before Mother

Came) *2016+

Page 38 - Relics of Suzie With Her Sister *2016+

Page 39 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions III;

Animals *2016+

Page 40 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions IV;

Making A Nest *2016+

Page 41 - Miss Bottletop *2016+

Page 42 - Scrapbook Memories & Actions V;

Headless Voyeurs *2016+

Page 43 - Agape *2016+

Page 45 - The Ultimate Kiss *2016+

Page 47 - Untitled *2014+

Page 48 - Yesterday’s Shorelines *2016+

Page 49 - Yesterday’s Shorelines (detail) *2016+

Page 50 - Akio’s Last Summer (Isolated Jaw Version) *2016+

Page 51 - Soon After The Operation *2016+

Page 53 - Of The Erased *2016+

Page 54 - The Death Midwives; Funeral Preparations,

Spain, 1985 *2016+

Page 55 - Before The Cull *2016+

Page 57 - Untitled *2014+

Appendices;

Blotter Pad

Page 59 - Blotter Dog *2016+

Page 60 - Blotter Bowl *2016+

Page 61 - Blotter Bath *2016+

Page 62 - Blotter Words *2016+

Page 63 - Blotter Self Portrait *2016+

Variants & Rejects

Page 64 - In This Place We Shall Disappear

Together (prep) *2016+

Page 65 - Memories of Akio *2016+

Page 66 - Solitude Sometimes Eats (alt) *2016+

Page 67 - Memories of Akio II *2016+

Page 68 - A Dying Correspondence *2016+

Page 69 - God Is Love *2016+

Page 70 - Relics of Suzie With Her Sister

(Full Version) *2016+

Page 71 - Paradise Lost *2016+

Page 72 - Family Secrets *2016+

Page 73 - Treating Sheep Kindly *2016+

Page 74 - Water Fall *2016+

Page 75 - Proud Display *2016+

Page 76 - Provision *2016+

Page 77 - Playful Milking *2016+

Page 78 - Mr. Cuddles *2016+

Back Cover - Untitled *2014+

79

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