Transductions

“I box you, I box you, I marm’lad you!”

Yes please provisional hold incident is task at fist. Absolutely necessary temporary structure for speaking into world is punch touch. Cunt facticity is punk atlas streamed directly into renationalised utility culture. Flat out. Strength-test convulsion barbary ape is meat meal is manmade. Whole fist entirely inside is curvature profile for absolutely necessary temporary structure is erasure-restatement of woman shelter. Struggle is lifted lifting the vernacular with it. Back of the hand is holding restraint of aggressive intimation is the arrowhead hurt is the paint stain of bawling vulva. Shut mouth is literally the fuck up and out into the bigger picture with hooks and guide apparatus. Agitated this split second and everything in reach is livid living overcome of hyaline limit hell. Press statement. Rogue state is vibrant emanation out of the ring heat. Breast duress is antislogan is determined object of absolutely necessary cunt-to-cunt punch structure in that same containment. Behind this containment industry is struggle redeemed trustworthy. This is the work of a split minute per life realized. Tumble inversion is kick to plus-size crawdaddy shrink is at last reviled is splay mailbox tumbledown with immeasurable language outputs. Cunt supplants bank statement as matter of fact is flag face bleeds agape. Outfolding fuck atlas is change raiment is bank ulcer printed onto floormat. Spit mortgage. Boot skin is back of hand transaction is account inside union representative anus. J_B reboot individuated statement is anal fact is illegal tender. Fuck is the move shape. Face fact. Bigger picture is louder lived struggle for speaking into world of punch is move beyond metrics for hyaline language outputs. Floor ring area is enlargement cry. Dogs of war beyond street signs is telling the hand at work in the world furnace. Turn in place is feeling beyond given shape. Cunt in face is respite care. J_B hothead is antislogan is tender account is anus common-or-golden treasury to all. J_B anus is struggle cunt is rogue erasure-restatement proviso for workplace punch into livid heat ring beyond reach beyond functional language atlas. Living fall. Floor flaw is anal basis coterminous with flag beyond language in respite work per split half-hour. Woman-on-woman in hold incident is fuck J_B beyond vernacular lingo. Absolutely necessary temporary manmade structure of language shelter is streaming anus in marmalade lingo. J_B is guide dog fuck guide dog. Task beyond metrics is please hold is please continue to hold.

On Friday 16th April, at the Nightingale Theatre in Brighton, Jonny Liron and I performed a dance/theatre piece called World of Work as part of the first annual Sussex Poetry Festival.

The score for the piece comprised 62 cards, each measuring 6×4 in., which were created by a range of poets, theatre makers, musicians, visual artists and allied tradespersons, in response to a brief we sent out a couple of weeks earlier:

There are no formal restrictions on what a card might show, except that we do not want to deviate from the 6″x4″ dimensions and we would like the designed element on each card to be on one face only, with the reverse left blank. Cards might show, for example: text to be read, images to be interpreted or recreated, instructions to be followed, notation to be sung / played / performed, found materials to be responded to, any combination of these, or anything else you can think of along these sorts of lines. Any kind of text / graphic / score / stimulus, however proscriptive or indeterminate, is welcome. As well as textual instructions to be printed on a card and followed in performance, you could also send instructions for designing a card or otherwise securing a design — not a card but a meta-card, in other words: this might be useful if, for example, you wanted somehow to leave the precise content of your card partly to chance or a randomized procedure, or if you wanted it to be somehow responsive to the day or place or moment of performance.

 

As the title of the piece suggests, we are inspired particularly in this piece by the notion of the emphatic presentation of performance as a kind of work or labour (which is what we take it to be). Card designs engaging with themes to do with work, labour, occupation, industry, competence, proficiency, output, endurance, value, power relations, the ethics of work and organized labour, work as movement, iterability, ergonomics, time & motion, health & safety, regulation, etc., and the opposites of all of these, are welcome; this list is not exhaustive, and as the performance will itself in any case be signalling in relation to these ideas, we’re also very happy to receive card designs that don’t particularly touch on any of the topics suggested.

Jonny and I looked through the deck of cards the day before the performance, and briefly worked through any that contained instructions which might be too complex to process in media res. Other than that, the only thing we knew about the performance was this: that it would last exactly 43′20″ (the length of our pre-made soundtrack: an edit of Charlemagne Palestine’s Schlongo!!! daLUVdrone [tiny extract here] cumulatively overlaid with the sounds of heavy industry), plus a brief prologue during which Jonny and I would arm-wrestle to determine who would have the privilege of cutting and shuffling the deck of cards. (Jonny won.)

Following my previous post on the wider possibilities for theatre scripts, I thought it might be of interest if I posted here a few of the cards we received and, largely without preparation or rehearsal, performed during the course of the piece. The same question as before applies, I guess: how would you perform these?

Many thanks to all the contributors: not only the 14 represented here but the other 48 who are not (including Transductions contributors Thomas Moore and Kier Cooke Sandvik).

Lucy Cash

 

Stella Duffy

 

Jeff Hilson

 

Mamoru Iriguchi

 

Elizabeth James

 

Simon Kane

 

Michael Kindellan

 

Dominic Lash

 

Anthony Paraskeva

 

Luke Roberts

 

a smith

 

John Sparrow

 

Nikki Tomlinson

 

Melanie Wilson

 

Singing Bird and Moon by Hugo Ortega

I

Every moment the air grew warmer, the sky brighter, the sea more blue.
Above and below, sky and water melted and disappeared in vapoury mist, and between them the air lay so still, that one might almost hear it throb.
Yet alone, a shadow amidst the drifting light, flew a bird with aching heart and drooping wings.
For two long nights and three long days, had she flown over the silent waves, and now on the third night, she knew that she must fall. With wide and frightened eyes she peered above her; never before had she passed across this sea, not in all her wanderings had she ever seen such transparent clearness in the waves.
Far below her in the depths, grew tall trees of shimmering pink coral, with brittle branches that rocked to and fro lazily with the movement of the sea, long fishes sped swiftly here and there, appearing and disappearing between the jungles of sea anemones, that clung like gorgeously coloured butterflies to the amber-stained rocks, and now and again, deep down under the yellow sand, gleamed pearls, and little silvery shells.
It was now growing night, slowly the blue sky changed to purple; the air grew chill, and the bird suddenly felt the cold breath of Death upon her warm tired wings, and closing her aching eyes she flew desperately on.
Soon the Moon rose and made a long golden path across the sea; faster and faster sped the bird, with a new-born hope in her heart; perhaps the Moon would have pity on her and show her the way to land.
But her strength gave at each stroke of her wings, like an exhausted swimmer she battled on, for Life was dear.
The stars came out and grouped themselves around the Moon; like numberless servants they seemed to wait upon her royal behest, and the dying bird with one last spark of hope in her breast sang to the Moon and said:
“Royal Lady, if you grant me Life, all my sweetest songs shall be for you. With my very soul will I sing your praise. Of your chaste love for the Sun shall be my song. All day will I tell him of your Love, and at night I will fly to you with the warm kisses he lays upon my wings in the morning, and you shall take them from me and carry them back with you to the sky.”
The bird ceased exhausted with her song, slower and slower beat her wings, lower and lower she drew nearer the water.
Below her, the dark waves danced so close that she could feel their spray, strange sounds like whispering swept past her through the night, far down in the moving violet of the ocean, the coral trees sighed and murmured – and the fishes that had been glimmering about like silver torches were now no longer to be seen…….
Then of a sudden, the Moon turned to white, and hung trembling like a ball of snow above in the misty air, and from her very heart fell a star, it rushed like a flame through the air, then lay glittering and dazzling, floating like an anemone upon the waves.
The weary bird saw it, and with a last effort reached it, and sank upon it half dead from exhaustion.
Then the star with the sleeping bird drifted slowly over the sea, down the long gold road that the Moon had made for them.

II

Now it happened that towards dawn Queen Caridad, the newly wedded wife of the King, stood at her casement window, and looked out with dull hollow eyes over the sea.
The Queen was suffering from insomnia; for many nights she had never known sleep, and so pale and ill looked she that the physicians of the Palace said, that if some new drug or spell could not be found the Queen must certainly die.
Now, as she stood at sunrise in the pure morning air, she called her favourite slave to her and said:
“Surely I see a strange ship upon the sea?”
And the slave answered her: “Yes, surely there is a sail.” And together they stood at the casement watching curiously.
Then as the strange ship drew near to land the Queen fell upon her knees saying:
“I know that Allah has answered my prayer, and tonight I shall sleep.”
About the same time, it befell that the guard in the high minaret upon the sands also saw the ship, and summoned his captain, who in like manner spread the report about the town, so that towards noon many people gathered together upon the shore to await the strange vessel.
And behold! as the vessel drew nigh, the people saw a white bird standing upon a star.
With unfurled wings spread out like sails, the wind was driving the strange ship towards the land, and that saw, marveled and were afraid.
But the Queen, who stood watching at her casement, said to her slaves.
“Run, fetch me this white bird, put it in a silver cage and return speedily.”
And the slaves did her bidding, and returned to her, bearing with them the strange white bird, and many hundreds of people followed in long procession the silver cage through the streets.
The Queen herself in her long gold robes of state, went forth to meet it, and taking the cage in her arms returned with it to the Palace, and placed it in her casement window above the sea.
All day long she sat looking at it, seated on eastern cushions, surrounded by her slaves.
At last, towards night, when the Moon rose, the bird began to sing.
At first so sad was its song that the Queen wept, yet so marvelous was the sweetness of its voice, that the people collected under the Palace windows to listen, and many women knelt, thinking it was some God who sang with such divine sweetness.
And below the Palace windows, under the thick shadows of the palms, the merchants came, all white and hooded on their camels, the young men left the bright Bazaars, and the opium dens, and stood entranced at the strange beauty of the bird’s song, and the little children too left their mothers’ sides, and danced, slowly swaying to and fro, the dance they performed before the idols in the temple on great Feast days.
And in the room where the bird was imprisoned, knelt the Queen in a long green robe, shaded with silvery poppies. In her white hands she held the cage with the singing bird high above her head, supplicating Allah to send her Sleep.
Then, as the moonlight crept slowly through the open casement, and fell in a long white ray upon the cage, the bird spread its wings as though to fly, opening them wide and closing them, letting the warmth of the Sun’s hot kiss escape and evaporate amidst the moonlight, and so infinitely sweet grew its song that the Queen suddenly swayed, and sank bank amidst her cushions, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

III

A year passed by, and the white bird still lived in captivity, although no longer she dwelt in the silver cage in the Queen’s chamber.
Now she lived in a marble and crystal shrine in the Temple gardens, with a deep well of sacred water therein that Buddha himself had blest, where she might dip and cool her wings as often as she pleased. Throughout all the land she was worshiped as an idol, and many came from afar to do her homage.
Every morning the young men of the City brought her fresh roses, and in the evening young girls in silver veils would throw her lilies, and so much gold and priceless gems were offered her as presents, that underneath the trees around her shrine the earth was bright with jewels.
And all day long the bird faithful to her promise would sing to the Sun of the Moon, and when night drew nigh and the shadows fell, she would tell the Moon of the Sun, and opening the treasured warmth of the Sun’s kisses, that lay beneath her wings, she would give them to the cold Moon who took them away with her back to the sky when morning broke. And so many and varied were her songs that all marveled at her wonderful repertoire, and everyone declared that not such another bird existed in all the world.
Then at last (for all things must have an end), one golden morning passed above her head a troop of her own family, and she realised that they were seeking for her, and the bird called to them with tears in her voice, for she was touched that they should have missed her, and were searching the world to find her. But her voice had grown changed and weakened by so much singing, and they passed her by and never heeded the feeble cry she gave.
And her head drooped and she forgot to open her wings to catch the Sun’s kisses.
But as noon drew night, she heard the sounds of drums, and much laughter mingled with sounds of weeping and wailing, and presently before her shrine appeared a great multitude of people. The procession was headed by an old priest in a white robe, who read a long decree from a piece of parchment before the door of the shrine, and the bird learnt that she was to die, for the people had proved her to be a false god, for that same morning had passed across the sky many birds like her, with voices sweeter than hers, and the people of the City had decided that death should be her fate, for they were tired and ashamed of worshiping a common thing.
And when the bird heard she was to die, she was glad, for she knew now that her soul would escape the bars of prison, and that she might fly back to the Moon, with one last kiss, and she answered her death sentence with a song so sweet and wonderful that many were moved to tears.
Then they took her and put her in her silver cage again, and in long procession took her to the seashore, to the very place where she had first come. And the Queen watching at her casement wept for the little bird that had given her sleep.
So they took the cage and set it upon a heap of sticks, and branches and some of the branches were still in flower. Then with a lighted torch they set fire to the wood above the cage and the fire leapt up and danced in the morning light.
And the little bird opened her wings very wide so as to receive the last hot kiss of the Sun, and when the cruel flames touched her wings, she sang, for it seemed to her as though the Sun was embracing her with greater love than ever he had done before, and she tried to think of the Moon’s happiness, and so singing she died.

*
That night as the Moon stole over the silver sands, she came suddenly upon the empty cage of the little bird, that had so loved her, and finding it empty, she stood still in the sky, thinking that the bird had perhaps flown away and was lost. For many minutes her light remained fixed and still on the empty cage, hoping that perhaps by waiting the bird would return with the help of her light. But soon the dawn approached and she knew she could tarry no longer, so she said to the star that was within her:
“Little star, fly swiftly to the silver cage that is upon the seashore, and to the empty shrine in the Temple garden and fetch me word of the white bird that is lost.”
And the Star shot through the sky and wandered through the streets of the sleeping City, and it called softly as it passed each tree, “Singing Bird, singing bird,” but there came no reply. Then it entered into the silver cage that stood upon the seashore and when it found the few grey ashes of the beautiful white bird, that has once made sails of its wing as they floated over the sea, the star wept exceedingly. and collecting the ashes in the warmth of her soul flew back with them to the Moon.
And when the Moon saw the ashes of the white bird that had so loved her, she hid herself amongst the clouds and refused to shine.
And she wept many tears, for many days, over the land where her little lover used to dwell and the people of that country were glad, for they said that so much rain would be good for their Harvest, and many said by killing the white singing bird of the Temple gardens, the anger of the Gods had been appeased.

Synopsis: A Japanese student in Paris anatomizes attraction, externally and internally, inside him and out.

Theme, as taken from the director’s remarks on the film: “Of course, the event has also something to do with art, with the responsibility, with the duty behind the work of art that deals with the cursed part of man, his most obscure and terrible impulses.”

Download and watch

Inspiration: The case of Issei Sagawa (best read after viewing)

Source: Spiritual Exercises: 10 Short Films by Olivier Smolders

Summation:
“What is my nothingness, in comparison with the stupor that awaits you?”
– Rimbaud

Dear Thurston,….

There’s this guy that I really like. He tells everyone that he doesn’t even like me as a friend, but when we’re alone together we do things that are reserved for people who think of each other as more than friends. What do I do?
A friend, more, or less? Huntley, IL

The guy’s a jerk. I know that won’t discourage you from liking him, but he’s got a major personality flaw: disrespecting you. Be careful of this kind of butthead, because his sleaze behavior may rub off on you, and then your life will become more and more hellish. Next time you’re alone with him and he tries to get “friendly,” tell him your friend Thurston Moore wants to kick his ass. And then tell him why.

I’m In sixth grade, and I like a boy in fifth, but he’s going out with a ninth grader (total slut). She’s only going out with him because I like him, but he doesn’t see it. I know he likes me because every time I talk about another guy, he gets jealous. What should I do?
Karen, New York, NY

You know, it’s kinda hard to dissuade a fifth grader from going out with a ninth grader. Especially if she’s a “total slut.” But you might want the dude to find out the hard way about the difference between love and lust. Wait until Ms. Ninth Grader drops Mr. Fifth Grader for someone else. He’ll be bent out of shape, and it’ll be up to you to decide if he’s worth helping up out of the gutter. If he realizes your kindness and shows affection, you’ll be lucky. If not, look around for someone a little smarter.

I am 15 years old and have extremely large breasts. I’m not going to get into exactly how big they are, but they’re way bigger than a triple-D. Everyone that I meet, guys especially, wants to get to know me because of that. The girls try to act like they’re fake. What to do?
Big-busted in Brooklyn, NY

Large breasts are a very attractive asset. Some people are turned off by them, but they are a minority. You’re going to have to be proud of yourself and accept the fact that a lot of people are going to give you grief. Large breasts or large buttocks or large anything will attract attention to the person who’s got ‘em, but so what? Laugh all those idiots off and smile to the fact you have something special.

My first problem is that the boys I like who like me back are kinda shy about making a first move. The second prob is that I am like this too! Can you give me some tips on first-move making that won’t be scary for either of us?
Not gettin’ any, Fresno, CA

Shyness is cool, and if you want to hang out with somebody equally shy, a movie is a good idea because then you don’t have to talk so much. And when the movie’s over, you at least have something immediate to relate to. I know asking someone out is easier said than done, but come on, you only live once! I should talk, though. I couldn’t even look at girls I was attracted to without blacking out.

I’m a lonely 14 year-old. I’m not pretty, outgoing or interesting. Why do guys only like beautiful girls?
Anonymous

Because the majority of guys are too stupid and insensitive to realize a person like you may possess qualities of beauty. Become aware of what’s beautiful within you and cultivate it. Don’t be afraid of men. Be true to yourself, and hopefully an honest love will come your way. The more you have confidence and belief in your own beauty, the more likely this is to happen.

There’s this really bitchy girl at my school. I can’t stand her! I really wanna kick her butt, but if I do, I won’t be able to go on the eighth grade trip, and I could get expelled.
Pissed off, Rosemead, CA

Ignore her. That’ll be worse than kicking her butt. She’ll probably be in your face even more, though, so be careful. And anyway, eight years from now you probably won’t even remember her. Either that or you’ll be best friends.

Every time something goes wrong and I’m around, I get blamed. Even people I don’t know blame me for things.
Blamed in Stratford, CT

Next time someone blames you for something, look ‘em straight in the face I and ask, “How may I correct this situation?” This will startle and dumbfound them. Then go up and kiss them lightly on the cheek and whisper, “No matter what happens, I will always love you.” As you back away, grab your head and scream bloody murder and run like the wind.

from Sassy Magazine
source: Dear Thurston

I know a little about personal apocalypses. My parents told me I would never die. There were clauses of course, only god could be invulnerable. I might still be forgotten after all. The end of the world would come like a thief in the night. This is all true. I was always thinking the world was ending. When I stopped believing in God I became very afraid. I had always been afraid though then I realised the world could still end. The first time I doubted God’s existence I was six or seven. I drove my head repeatedly into the springs in my mattress. I exhausted myself trying to batter down the thought. I was red faced, hurt but I had given something up in myself. The thought was still there and my body was now its reflex.
I’ve been reading Blake Butler’s Scorch Atlas.
Scorch Atlas feels like a deformed twin of some sort or a lost sibling of that very specific fear and emotion. This might explain the mixture of attraction and repulsion operating echoic, clattering in the lidded gap of my personal circuit break _/ _
I think the tabloid term is Genetic Sexual Attraction.
Scorch Atlas has been making me sick. Kathy Acker’s writing got me in a visceral way too. Except Kathy’s viscera was made tangible via the emotional and political and there was something transcendent to be gained by tearing the world through the body open.
Butler’s Scorch Atlas is transfiguration through sickness, the body out of control, full of growths, growths which are of course always a digging inwards, an inside job.
I can’t remember who said it, maybe Elizabeth Young (I am sorry I cannot remember), that the body in much modern American fiction represented the last van guard of the real. This is maybe changing. The body is now the site for radical experimentation. We’re frustrated with the limitations of our extension in space.
Scorch Atlas punches evolution in the kidneys. I think I might be projecting. I feel close to the writing. Maybe the writing is uncomfortably close to me, depressing my capillaries. This is an effect of its remorselessness. The work makes morsels of us all.
There is a lot going on in this writing. I’m only five stories in and I had to sit down and make some feverish notes. When something makes me sit down and take notes there’s something in it that I can’t approach. That’s what I look for.

Scorch Atlas is frightening and horrific. This is Horror the way Polanski’s Repulsion was horror, the way ‘the birds’ is horror. In fact what I find most fascinating stylistically, now that I can put a little distance between myself and it, is how Scorch Atlas organizes then slaloms around its influences like checkpoints on a down hill skiing race.
The way a crack will race across panes of glass.
I see Lynch via Hitchcock via Stephen King via Lutz via Cormac Mccarthy via the authors own controlled momentum.

But I’m digressing, making it safe. I’m going to finish the book and then burn it.

(1) Lutz’s language institutes the estrangement of modern life at a linguistic level. In doing so his prose has a curiously paradoxical quality. Oddly embodied and physical in their syntax and grammar Lutz’s sentences are also simultaneously removed and abstracted from their affect. Lutz’s style creates odd shifting channels, each sentence following its own set of gears and mechanisms. The emotional affect of the writing comes from the seepage of these forces acting upon one another. By the end of certain stories it even comes to oil them.

(2) Lutz is a very strange kind of realist-minimalist, the writing is so present, so gripping that the act of reading becomes oddly pressured, your mind gets worked into uncomfortable forms. I remember writing in an essay once that David Foster Wallace’s work was intellectually chiropractic, that it was rigorous and at times painful but that you always got the sense it wanted to make you better, leave you feeling refreshed and limbered up. Lutz’s writing has no such concerns. Lutz’s writing is crippling in affect, he demands our language honestly reflect something both abstract and real. This feels terrible but occasionally I’m reminded of Francis Bacon if one removed the overt ‘drama’ from the paintings, drained the colour and showed them only under the pale fluorescence of office light. His characters while always held at a stylistic distance are incredibly raw, appear always to have been pruned too far back. These disfigurements work because they are rooted in our received language, notions, expectations etc and it is once again a display of the paradoxical tensions at work in his writing. Lutz’s work, I think, serves a particular critique of a society warping under the pressure of its own compulsive mundanity. Often in his writing a cliché is obliquely referenced only for it to be turned on its head because its generic literalism, its acceptedness in the world, requires it to be hammer-locked, turned to honestly confront the audience it had forgotten.

(3)Lutz writing is so disorientating because it reverts the already reflected world back into position and what we see is nightmarish and recognizable.

(4) Lutz’s work belongs to that very special canon of realists that show us a legitimate and real version of hell, a hell all the more hellish and demeaning because we can and do tolerate it. The tax of it is so very stealthy after all. Traditional realist novels accept the representation of the world they are given and make critiques within it. Lutz is like Kafka but divested of his mythmaking narratives (we are not even allowed that now).

Since the start of the year I’ve been on attachment at the National Theatre Studio, taking some time out to think about my practice in theatre and trying to get my assumptions shaken and my habituations disturbed by people who are smarter than me. The most unexpected turn in this incredibly valuable process has been a complete reframing of my anxiety and discomfort around scripts. Often I’ve worked without scripts, except as a record of what’s already happened in the making of a piece — for all sorts of reasons, the model of writing a script in advance which is then handed on to a director, a bunch of actors, a creative team to “interpret” really bothers me. But an early intervention in this reflective process made me wonder if, when I turned my back (mostly) on scripted work a few years ago, I could instead have asked myself a more liberating question. If I don’t like how scripts are and what they do, what else might they be instead? What other models could we turn to, to make a different kind of script that could allay all those political / ethical / aesthetic / methodological concerns by which I’ve been constrained?

I’ve just spent the last week of my attachment working with some of the actors currently resident at the National on this constellation of questions, and in particular, looking at a bunch of possible examples from other areas of artistic practice. It’s really instructive to note the incredibly rudimentary technology of the play-script/text (great at indicating words to be spoken, but tending from lousy downwards at anything else) when compared with some of what’s happened in poetry, music and visual art over the past fifty or more years.

Below is a selection of some of the ’scores’ (a loose word, but serviceable in the circumstances) that we’ve worked with this week. Some of these are intended as works to be performed, one way or another, and some are not; none of them are intended to be realized as theatre pieces, but we found that many of them could successfully be ’staged’ (especially given more time than we had). A whole bunch of other questions about authorship, interpretation and fidelity immediately open up, but that’s fine. There will be other weeks, other attachments.

Asking “what else could scripts look like?” is not specifically or necessarily about breaking conventions or destroying theatre as we now know it, but simply about enlarging currently meagre resources — not only for the writer, but for everyone involved in theatre practice. To ask what else a script can be is of course to ask what more theatre can do, what more can be done with it: and how we describe our ideas in sharing them, how we notate our work, radically changes what we are able to imagine it’s possible for our work to do.

How would you perform these scores?

Michael Basinski, from The Germ of Creativity (2003)

 

Jean-Michel Basquiat, ‘Carbon Dating System Versus Scratchproof Tape’ (1982)

 

Cathy Berberian, from Stripsody (1966)

 

Cornelius Cardew, ‘Schooltime Special’ (1968)

 

Cornelius Cardew, from Treatise (1963-67)

 

Bob Cobbing & Jeremy Adler, from Notes from the Correspondence (1980)

 

Ken Friedman, ‘Center Piece’ (2003)

 

David Miller, Untitled (Visual Sonnets)

 

Franz Mon, ‘Kandidat der Kanalisation’ (1997)

 

Jeff Nuttall, from Pieces of Poetry (1966)

 

Maggie O’Sullivan, from murmur (tasks of mourning) (2004)

 

Cy Twombly, ‘Apollo and the Artist’ (1975)

 

and three by me:

 

 

from Blurt Studies (2009)

 

‘gospel’ from Wonderful Christmastime (2009)

 

from ‘handprint/mouth configuration schematic (ON THE FLY)’ (collaboration with Jonny Liron, 2009)