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This second piece is a more convention blackout poem, using felt-tip pen. Himid’s life-sized figure works because he is named, reclaimed, celebrated in all his individual glory. If I were to do this with an anonymous human form, it would be an exercise in objectification. But that is what the final texture of the piece brought to my mind. Am I the right person to do this? I think not. Then the leathery, bandaged surface might become something powerful and moving. Then it might be possible to think in terms of the literal scars of slavery, or dreadful stories about the use of human hides. Meh.Ĭan it be turned around? I think the only thing that might work is if I were to apply this technique to a human figure or silhouette. I used some of the blackout squares from a previous film to try to create more interest.
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It dried and took on a patchwork leather effect, which looks like a mistake on this crappy bit of cardboard. That was a really revolting mess of a white-out, so I started painting the masking tape with black ink, hoping for a sort of stormy sea effect. I tried first to erase text using a stippling technique, then when that didn’t work I covered over text with masking tape. Birds are bathing happily in the water feature I made from a reclaimed pedestal hand basin, encrusted with Gaudiesque mosaics. Soon I will go out and contemplate the incredible living patterns I have painted on my garden wall in buttermilk and blended moss. My stop-motion filmpoem of hand-painted beetles has been selected for an international festival, and I pen a little celebratory sketch into one of the hand-made scrapbooks I fill each lunar month. On the wall behind me is a huge canvas covered with coral polyps fashioned from water-softened rail tickets I’ve collected over the past decade. I’ve loved writing it, it’s been such a welcome break from the best-selling crime novels.
BLACK OUT POETRY SERIES
I’m relaxing after recording the seventh in my series of poetry review vlogs, and pondering the edits to my fourth collection of poems about geomancy, post-Apocalyptic shamanism and GPS. In my imagined future I sit on a cushion rag-rug-covered in denim blues, looking at the neolithic horses I’ve sculpted out of papier mache and all those toilet roll innards.