TRADINGZONE_PUBLICATION_FINAL

TRADING
ZONE
TALBOT RICE GALLERY
26 MAY – 23 JUNE 2018
POEMS BY: TIM CRAVEN
ARTISTS: KAT CUTLER-
MACKENZIE/FRANCES DAVIS/
DARA ETEFAGHI/SAMUEL
J H FROGGATT/HANQING &
MONA/JACK HANDSCOMBE
& JOE REVANS/ASAD KHAN
& ELENI-IRA PANOURGIA/
LOUISA
LOVE/DOUG
MCCAUSLAND/QUENTIN
SCOBIE/AMELIA TAN/
NESLIHAN TEPEHAN/ELLA
YOLANDE/MATT ZUROWSKI/
ALLIE TURNER, FINN
ICKLER & LUIS DE SOUSA
CURATED BY: TESSA GIBLIN/
JAMES CLEGG/STUART FALLON

TRADING ZONE #1
—
I’m waiting for the universe to send a signal
but we’ve not agreed upon its form
so I interrogate each gust of wind,
inspect the degree of lean in every blade of grass
for clues to their own elegant semiotics.
I expect the cipher will be delivered via tarot readings,
decommissioned sci-fi shows, coded gravitational tugs
at my sleeve sent from a molten darkness
that serve to second-guess all that is fixed and human.
To ward off the silence
I read alongside the faint stammer of the TV
right up to the boundaries of my nature,
monitoring the message in Morse
the fist of my heart knocks out.
»»»»»»»»
That’s why I can’t come to the bar tonight:
I’ll be signalling to the self via the self
using all of its terms and trapdoors.
I’m waiting for everything to change.
6

ight up to the
boundaries of
my nature,
monitoring the
message in
Morse
the fist of my
heart knocks
out.
7

and every
three-months
our ten-pints
of blood
are removed
and restocked,
drop by drop.
±
8

TRADING ZONE #2 – GOOD SONS
—
When we’re all together like this
we’re full of shit,
trotting out stories that’ve been told
till they’re all bent out of shape.
But we pass the wine,
we dish the potatoes
we nod at the flashbacks
as though it really happened that way.
It takes about a decade for the human
skeleton to dissolve and replace itself,
and every three-months our ten-pints of blood
are removed and restocked, drop by drop.
As the sun fades outside the window
the conversation turns
to how he worked his hands raw
to give us a better life
and then he complains for the rest of the night
that we have it too easy.
Were it not for the lens of the eye
and a few other lingering foetal cells
we’d be entirely new people by now.
9

^^
TRADING ZONE #3
—
It didn’t matter that it was only a local TV report
exposing air pollution hotspots,
when footage of our stretch of street
between the chemist and the bus station
made the evening news
anything seemed possible.
And when we spotted ourselves in the background
kicking a frayed leather casey down the road
we felt as proud as conquistadors.
Air so rich with diesel you could taste
the locomotives shunting behind the yard,
and the factories that lined the train tracks
their chimneys exhaling thick black stardust.
Dirt, our dirt, rising into the heavens like wishes.
10

11

»»»»»»»»»»»»»»»
12
you were owed
or further back
before the
cognac glow
and the
inexplicable
temper

TRADING ZONE #4 – DUSK
—
so we choose to remember
some earlier version
when you were ablaze
and caught red-handed
stretched and striving
collecting all you thought
»»»»»»»»»
you were owed or further back
before the cognac glow
and the inexplicable temper
before the new claws of winter
began to show themselves
and before the pale creep of dusk
which has always loomed
but now feels bigger
and is getting bigger still
13

TRADING ZONE #5
—
When you talk of a horse and I talk of a horse
are you thinking what I’m thinking?
What about cheval, pferd, perd, zaldi, uma?
What lessons can we take from the first Portuguese
who offered up flintlock muskets
and brass bracelets to the great Oba of Benin,
captor of the sea god, lord of the leopard king,
as swaps for pepper, tusks, honey-coloured coral beads?
We hammer out our discordance–
you on an old oil can, me on a freshly undressed
pig pelt stretched to taut transparency–
and pass through the clashing rhythms of change,
the ceaseless charge towards a common creole
that might, just might reveal
what we’re sure we’ve always known:
hidden within the fragile negotiation of our histories
sits a reluctant victory for us both.
14

15

Vague entities d
the other into a
lexicons
TRADING ZONE #6
—
I think they’re playing our song if this is the song
we agreed is ours, I forget, yet I’ll swear
to discredit all others who consider it theirs.
It’s the meaning that occupies the distance
between us, it’s the unexcavated dirt as two tunnelers converge,
as thin as a cigarette paper, as wide as the sky.
Vague entities dragged by the other into a new orbit of lexicons–
mine tougher than yours, yours better at talking its way out of trouble–
a common language as necessary as bread
to get us closer to capturing whatever absolute truth
is suspended in the air as delicate as hot breath.
16

dragged by
a new orbit of
17

TRADING ZONE #7
—
There’s an overweighted question woven
into the algorithm of the online dating
compatibility questionnaire that imploded
the distance between us. The one about
whether nuclear war would be interesting.
I guess we both answered ‘strongly agree’ –
bored within our skulls,
dreaming of watching the fallout unfold
with someone new and beautiful, reloading
fistfuls of popcorn into our aghast mouths.
***
18

19

20

TRADING ZONE #8
—
How was work? You ask.
I enquire how school went
and we proceed to talk past the other–
our speech slow, pronunciation deliberate
as though we’re back in Spain
and you’re guiding the barman
through the construction
of a Black ‘n’ Tan.
We each make our quiet study
of the other’s sadness:
you the theorist,
imprisoned in a bed-bound malaise,
me the experimentalist,
shitfaced out of my tiny liquid brain.
In what might be a massive
oversimplification of events
we lovingly contaminate each other
with our history of failings.
I sympathise with tall buildings
having to carry the weight
≠
of themselves within their own walls.
I love you and hate you
with the static attraction
of two rubbed balloons.
We stand here in what will be
our slow love to the death–
your monkey claw
versus my eagle’s fist.
21

TRADING ZONE #9 – ZERO
—
You are driving me
to the airport.
How many more times will I see you
in this world?
The answer is scribbled on the back
of an invoice that has fallen
behind the sofa cushions –
a finite number we can’t quite calculate.
We’ve run out of words.
We’re hungover from good Scotch.
The radio says high interest rates & relays
the final scores.
»»»»»»»
I am moving to New York, London,
the Republic of Somewhere Else.
It’s nothing personal.
It’s always personal.
Death guides us by the wrist;
such strong hands.
When the number hits zero
and a phone call tells me it’s too late,
I’ll be standing on the edge
of important work that needs interrupting.
Negotiating a compromise
between theory and the empirical.
The damn radio ceaselessly blaring
as I search in disbelief for that invoice.
22

It’s nothing personal.
It’s always personal.
23

~
liquid ferocity versus
the howl of distance.

TRADING ZONE #10
—
I come here because
I’ve become allergic to my own language;
I can’t bear to write
and the idea of speaking
leaves a great ache in my heart.
I even trap my thoughts
where no light can penetrate.
But nothing stays static for long.
Close inspection reveals the tides are merely similar
and when a wave collapses it’s forever archived
with those that have fallen before.
I watch the slow decisions of the sea,
eavesdropping on the argument
waged between waves and wind–
liquid ferocity versus
the howl of distance.
Two untrained musicians
hammering their detuned pipes
in some unsyncopated surrender of call and response,
like the way all my letters begin,
How are you? I hope you are well. I’m fine.
25

TRADING ZONE #11 – A HILL OUTSIDE SANTO DOMINGO
—
As the last of the afternoon light
Falls off its boil and the moon waits on high
We climb against a Rioja hill
For a better look at the cathedral.
Our panting leaves us
Speechless but we sense the other’s presence.
Small white-headed flowers, fields of yellow rapeseed,
Greens so various each tree stands in sole identity.
The slight disappointment at finding the summit
Crowded with Spanish schoolkids passing around a bottle
Waiting to share in the sunset. From up here
The insistence that we’re the centre of the world weakens.
A self-portrait on a hill staring down at the town.
A form of mass worship in the language of landscape.
In an hour we will all be staring into darkness, obliterated,
Praying into the mirror of the night.
The flat lushness of the valley
Recalls my adolescence spent wastefully
Underground in a basement snooker club;
The acres of lush green felt, the explosions of colour,
A spirits shelf in the backdrop
Inverted bottles rising from their optics like stalagmites,
Being slowly poured dry. Nostalgia: I’m probably remembering
A time that never existed, the way ashes can’t evoke the fire.
I love it here but what is it I love?
The sun’s warm mouth, drinking wine for lunch,
The brine of the olives, no-one complaining about the noise.
Lavish in these perfect austerities.
I know that the small amount of Spanish I’m learning
Will atrophy back home. Synapses weaken
And words slip away along with the taste of the wine.
Slowly, my philosophy of no-regrets erodes.

A selfportrait
on a hill
staring
down at
the town.

Published on the occasion of
Trading Zone at Talbot Rice Gallery,
The University of Edinburgh
Poems by Tim Craven
Designed by Martin Duff
©2018 the artists and Talbot Rice Gallery
All rights reserved. The translation, the total
or partial adaptation and the reproduction
by any means (including microfilm, film
and photocopies), as well as the electronic
storage, are reserved in all countries. The
publishers would like to thank all those who
have given permission to reproduce material
for this book. Every effort has been made to
achieve permission for the images and texts
in this publication. However, as in standard
editorial policy for publications, the publisher
remains available in the case preliminary
agreements were not able to be made with
copyright holders.
Talbot Rice Gallery would like to thank all
the students involved in this exhibition for
their collaboration and artistic generosity.
We gratefully acknowledge the work of our
colleagues within the University of Edinburgh
and Edinburgh College of Art who encourage
and support all of our activities.
Special thanks to Edinburgh Futures Institute
for their generous support in helping to
realise the exhibition.
#talbotrice #tradingzone
www.trg.ed.ac.uk
+44(0)131 650 2210

#talbotrice #tradingzone
www.trg.ed.ac.uk
+44(0)131 650 2210