New Art Projects

FROM THE BRUSH TO THE PEN

Thu 22 Feb 2018 19:00 - 21:00
Featuring:

FROM THE BRUSH TO THE PEN

Thursday 22nd February, 7pm
(free)

We bring you Threesome (The Writers).

The art exhibition, Threesome, 3 artists – Sadie Lee, SJ Moon, Roxana Halls, explore the canvas and the Queer female gaze.

Now, three writers – Julia Bell, Laura Bridgeman and Sogol Sur – explore the page and the Queer female gaze.

Each writer has written a commissioned piece to accompany the show.

In prose, poetry and hybrid forms, each writer uses words to explore one of the artists’ portraits, a self portrait, and a snapshot of themselves in their work. For one night, we read these works next to the paintings, acknowledging the intersections between the canvas and the page.

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https://www.facebook.com/events/700789153458530/

 

Laura Bridgeman

Modern English

it’s a cave it’s a chasm it’s an eye

it’s a coil of pulp it’s a fold of skin

it’s a flush of flesh

it’s a multi-layering of meat

 

of hair

of blood

of adipose tissue

 

it’s a region of glands

it’s a hood

it’s a cleft

it’s a concentration of carnality

 

it’s an inside

it’s an inside made outside

it’s an eruption from the lower body

it’s a release of rock from the earth

or a release of earth from rock

 

it’s the fury of larva

tectonic plates

ash plumes

pumice

rings of fire

magma chambers

 

it’s plate boundaries

it’s the volcanoes across the globe

Mount Vesuvias

St Helens

it’s Krakatoa

Mount Tambora and Nevado del Ruiz

 

 

it’s the swell of cliff

it’s the clutch of weed

it’s the gull’s nest the raven’s nest the magpie’s nest

it’s the dragon’s lair

it’s the moss and the lichen and the algae

 

it has a pink entrance and a red exit

it weeps on your leaving

it sings on your entering

it bleeds from time to time

 

it commands you to come closer

and it traps you

with fullness and form

 

it draws you up

it draws you arrested

it draws you inside

it sucks you in like a vacuum cleaner

it scoops you up through front door of the building

to the sideboard of the kitchen

the fan oven

the counter sticking

with honey fingers and marmalade knuckles

and spicy tips

and ginger rubs

and mottled cloves

 

and

 

outside

it’s the garage door booming bright after the summer’s strength

 

it’s the trap door

in the centre of the floor by the staircase

where all the family secrets are stuffed

all the journals

the jotters

the photo albums

the clothes from yesteryear

 

the straw hats

the flat caps

the raincoats and the broken trainers

the faraway toys that were long since forgotten

 

it’s the sucked ears of teddy bears

the broken bits of dolls

the rubbed paws of stuffed rabbits

the board games and the books

the Wild Things

the Silent Hills

the Snakes and Ladders

the Wendy Houses

with the pots and the pans and the multi-coloured home-made flags and bunting

 

who has gone there?

conquered there?

who has attempted to colonise?

me

you

many of us

 

foolish

haphazard

brave beyond belief

you cannot govern it

it defies you

enslaves you

war beats you

leaves you stinging against the nettles in the field

and the barbed wire fence

 

it leaves you bloated

with its bulbous abilities

 

 

it cannot be taken

or tamed

it falls still in the rosy harvest of its own oneness

 

still in its sour-sweet cherry blossom

still in its Oriental recipe of

Szechwan shrimp

snow peas

egg drop soup

satay

katsu

teriyaki

 

 

sip sip sip

 

on the lips of it

the run of it

the nub of it

the lengths of it

the punctuations of it

 

the full stops

and the commas and the semi-colons

the new paragraphs

and the thumbed pages

 

the rolled up canvases

the cracks of it

the inner labia

the outer labia

 

the mons pudentis and the mons

the buttocks underneath

 

the sloop

the curve

the crevice

 

and all those surgeons

that want to snip at it

cut at it

tuck at it

against the 2cms

the 3cms

the 4cms

the 5cms

 

so that there are no hanging bits

lopsided bits

flaps and hoops and unsightly lines

things that might drip and leak

 

and if you dare

should you dare

to touch it there

press it there

turn it there

see how it makes noises at you?

 

gurgles

splutters

 

and all those others that it might have been party to it

the punters that have passed through

in rushes like torpedoes

in rushes like Concordes

with Olympus jets made of aluminum

 

 

 

and all the boats that sailed in there

loitering in the harbour

swimmers who have found caskets rich

divers who have harvested oysters

razors and mussels and clams

 

mermaids

have lost their way

the sailors that can’t quite find the shores

and sometimes how angry it gets

 

snapping down

snapping off

snaffling you away

 

then it informs you on nervous days

that it has had others that have gone higher

longer

faster

than you

but you still lock into the taste of it

like the tang of

a dank river

ripe tadpoles

fresh marmite

fish

 

and it feels like every season

of the smooth innards of avocado

peaches

figs

 

it feels like snails and snakes

and toffee that has been boiled too long

 

 

 

and you can put your fingers in it

your tongue in it

your teeth in it

your toes in it

your fist in it

your flesh in it

 

 

your silicone dicks

your silicone probes

your ticklers and your scrotums

your real dicks and your long dicks and your fat cocks

 

and you can listen to the musical parts

symphonies

moonlight sonatas

requiems from Verdi

Faure without violins

Mozart in D minor

 

and dreams may issue from it

painted with the swell of stars

impossible to govern

stratospheres of light

impossible to follow

hemispheres of planets

all twirling on it

 

Jupiter Venus Earth Mars Neptune Saturn

 

with nightmares from those planets

Fuesli night terrors

with the golem on the top

and the horse’s

head screaming through the curtain

 

 

 

it has sleep cycles bended

it has branches of woodland

 

oak structures

maple barks

keen fresh ridges of pines

the forests and jungles

 

thick swinging ropes

 

creepers and animal nails

animal bones

skin and flesh

head hair

arm hair

leg hair

shin hair

 

it has filaments and calibrates and textiles

botony

bristles

and crinous

and metal

all tumbled together

 

and the smells emitting from it

are pungent odours

like damp flowers

sweet morning

musk

liquor covering in ice cubes

liquor covering autumn nut kernels

cherry wine

harvest wine

pulpit wine

new beginnings

 

 

and it makes you think of hope

and it makes you think of starting over

going back

right back

to the ancient place

it makes you think of the time that you began on the inside

tiny tiny

small

on the inside

growing on the inside

deep on the inside

 

and who had the first one?

who had the one that started it all off?

 

it feels like we are always looking for her

seeing her

asking to be back with her

between the legs of her

and the lips of her

 

the first female that ever was

 

and the first one that ever was

taken

teased

played with

hurt and pinched and slapped

argued over

 

and the first one that was ever grown and made hairy

winking at the outside with its orifice

and was asking to be

pulled back

sucked up

skimmed over

fucked up

widthways

sideways

anyways

 

savaged into

 

and clung onto

 

and now to

the names of it

and the calling of it

from across history

 

Botany Bay

Chum

Coffee-Shop

Cookie

The End of the Sentimental Journey

Fancy Bit

Fumbler’s Hall

Funniment

Heaven

Hell

A Nasty Name for a Nasty Thing

Itching Jenny

Jelly-Bag

Low Countries

Nature’s Tufted Treasure

Parenthesis

Penwiper

Prick-Skinner

Seminary

Tickle-Toby

Undeniable

Wonderful Lamp

 

 

a bottom

an arse

a Cave of Love

 

in nautical terms

the splice and the rope

and the line and the knot

 

in slang

the bankers

the evil men

the greedy men

the worst kind of woman that ever lived

the snaffling multi-nationals

all the male writers writing it

 

Lawrence

Joyce

Beckett

 

it’s sacred and profane

it’s a self-cleaning oven

it’s a Hindu Goddess still worshipped

 

all the female writers writing it

Faithful

Ensler

Dworkin

Greer

 

and all the mouths of

politicians

the drunks

the wobbly-eyed

the cross-eyed

 

 

 

 

it exists in every tongue

as

 

 

Kunda.

Con.

Kut.

Vittu.

Fotze.

Figa.

Cunnus.

Puki.

Fitte.

Pizda.

Conas.

Chocha.

Am.

 

And in Middle English

as a wedge-shape or

a Kunnard

a Vulva

a Grope

a Kutta

a Kotze

a Gunne

 

and in Modern English

quite simply

and lovingly

a cunt

 

Sogol Sur

Hologram

 

I am in my blackest mood, and she

lies on the whiteness of my sheets in her

blackest bra, staring at the air I am supposed

to breathe, except that I cannot breathe.

 

Her black jeans are as tight as my lungs

I have coughed and fought all my sable life

My visions of her have become holographic bars behind which

I am trapped.

 

Like every melancholic captive, I love my dungeon

Like every claustrophobic patient, I loathe it

at times, I crave escape, but when she turns her pensive

head towards me, the darkness of her eyes hit mine, I

 

collapse to my knees, pulverised under her silver thunder.

Upon being touched by her flame fingers, and her tongues of fire,

I explode. She celebrates my combustion by collecting my ashes

from her cool ceramic floor, warming them in her powerful grip

 

before sniffing me away. Later on, in a sunny concert hall,

she will lie to her envious friends, saying it was just cocaine.

I know I am her drug and it’s what I have wanted to become

since I was a child.

 

Sogol Sur

The Leather Sun

 

It is five a.m. and there is a woman growing

inside my head. Not like a tumor –

but a flower that feeds on power

she makes me tremble

 

Words devour me. I open my mouth,

thirsty for more, this is a sweet-tasting storm

I know someday this bed of hers

will be my comfortable tomb

 

For now, this monstrous bed is a gilded ship,

a surreptitious ship, my shelter,

I stare into her eyes until they are the sun and

I melt, melt, melt. It is true:

 

I am like Icarus in my ridiculous ambition and lack of abstinence

in my love of flight, height, and light,

but she calls me Napoleon, and

laughs in my ears

 

her leather scent fills my throbbing nostrils like cocaine,

she kisses my neck and worships my shamelessness, she says

I am arrogant and licks my lips. Outside, the sun,

a blood red orange, waiting to be peeled by us.

 

Sogol Sur

Two Is Lonely, Three Is Company

 

As my two boys kiss each other, their petal lips

expand into a wine ocean

in which I sink

 

I am sober with desire

soaking wet with thrill

Scarlet rose buds are erupting in our ceremony

 

Now that my natural dream has become my unnatural reality

I am not ashamed of it

Their twenty-year-old tongues dance on soft flesh

 

My breath wrapping around my neck

I gasp for air as I caress the hard trees outside my reality

Their necks entangle

 

A velvet lake I swim in

Eternity is naked

And the three of us are inside it

 

 

 

Julia Bell

 

Threesome

 

It’s a strange feeling, watching yourself being watched,

when she’s not even looking at you.

I mean, you took your clothes off,

but she’s over there, hiding behind her canvas,

typical first date nerves, can’t even meet your eye

while she assesses your curves, fixes you into position.

 

You have the sensation of someone scratching you into being,

You have submitted to adaptation, becoming made with thick

jabs of the brush, every forensic part of you, stroked.

Here’s a thigh, here the breast bone. Here, your vagina.

 

You shift your position, your flesh cold and sagging,

sitting becomes an imposition that you forgot you asked for.

Perhaps some conversation? but language dies in your throat,

the heater makes the dust scratchy, you sneeze. You wonder how much longer.

 

Finally, she turns the easel, and something moves,

in the smooth slick of pigment and way the paint

covers the cellulite of canvas, and the light and line of skin,

and you are alive in a way your cool bones are not.

And into the space between you, emerges a new, third person,

who is both you and not you. A projection, a transmission, art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not Another Dead Lesbian Movie

 

Let this be my confession. I too, have killed lesbians in my stories.

Forgive me, I was too much of a realist.

I thought I understood the chambers of the heart,

that happy ever after never belonged in queer art.

 

I thought it was a plot necessity, an inevitability.

I mean what do you do with the story when you’ve finally got them off?

Now I know I lacked imagination so let me bring them back,

breathe life into their bones. Apologise to those that I have murdered,

to other people’s ghosts, sitting on my shoulders, whispering untruths.

Your mother telling you you’re weird, or your father’s porn magazines.

 

Let me make them fleshy, lucky, give them back their sheen.

Allow them multitudes, personalities, opportunities, sexualities.

So much more exhilarating than tragedies, so much more obscene.

And here’s the edge. If we’re alive not dead we’re different and we’re dangerous.

We’re here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunger Pains

 

I think it must be the worst word in the English language: me.

Like that bad joke about the narcissist,

especially the bit where they turn around

and say enough about me. Let me tell you about me.

& while you are still talking I wonder if the damp ring

where you put your cup will leave a stain.

As a test, I told you I had cancer twice.

That’s nice, you said and carried on.

 

In your mouth the self is weaponised: Mee.

Like the mewling of a kitten,

a kitten that I imagine you want to stab with your stiletto.

There are parties so bored and decadent where people do this.

It gives them a thrill to kill with their heels.

When I read that, it gave me a funny, tingling feeling,

like someone had taken a razor blade and scratched between my thighs,

in a bedroom with pink soft toys piled high against the doors.

 

Maybe it was because I liked to hide in the gaps of your attention.

Maybe I liked to feel abhorred.

Maybe I wanted to crawl on my knees through beige kitchens,

still starving, having forgotten what I’d gone in there for.

 

 

 

For additional information visit: https://www.facebook.com/events/700789153458530/