GRAND DEMONSTRATION May 21st, 1839 To the Men and Women of GloucestershireTake Notice! That a county MEETING of theInhabitants of Gloucestershire, will be holden on SELSLEY HILL In the Borough of Stroud, on Whit Tuesday, May 21st to take into consideration the best mean read more
‘Referee! You can see what’s going on! Don’t look the other way! You know the history of migration and colonialism! Remember when Prince Rupert sailed to Barbados, To keep the islands Royalist after his defeat at Bristol – A determined proponent of the Royal Afric read more
You thought Redemption was good?
Well, you aint seen nothing yet.
Akoo’s new exhibition is not to be missed:
He is, quite simply, and quite brilliantly, curating an empty space.
There is absolutely nothing there.
Or, denoting everything?
Is there an enigma wrapped within a pink cabbage’s conundrum,
Or is there simply an empty space?
I think Akoo is pointing to the incompatibility of logic and lexis:
This empty space hints at infinity of possible creation:
Nothing is everything.
Conventional exhibitions of objects and art denote creation –
And those very acts of creation contain within themselves
The destruction of infinite possibility:
The angel within the marble turns out to be Lucifer:
To create is to destroy.
But, to reiterate, to curate an empty space is to …
Signpost the incompatibility of logic and lexis –
LOGIC and LEXIS.
Akoo provides another subtle twist on this theme
By keeping the shop door locked,
Even though there is a sign saying,
Culture vultures have to press their noses against the shop window,
Whilst Akoo silently announces:
‘THE KINGS OF ART HAVE NO CLOTHES’.
But wait, all is not lost: Paradise is regained –
Here come Rob and Alison Woodgate,
With Indian summer, golden autumn and Christmas cheer:
So make your way to the Pink Cabbage,
For creative shopping,
For the last few months of the year.
Pluck a number from out of the aether,
Preferably, a numerical palindrome,
Indicating a Janus-like equality:
One thousand one hundred and eleven, for example.
1,111 is a number symbolizing a union
Of the individual and the collective:
A fusion of self and society:
‘I am he as you are she as you are me
And we are all together’ –
Which is where the aether comes in.
Neville Gabie has WOMAD-collected
The exhalations of this number of people,
Bagged them and fused them and released them
From a Brobdingnagian–like apparatus,
In a release of collective air that took 49 seconds:
7 times 7;
And even a solitary 7
Is a magical number at the most quotidian of times –
But seven to the power of seven is an alchemical,
Numerological representation of Interdependence:
The self and society, a harmony of parts,
A state of social beatitude – peace through diversity:
We all share the same air, equally, communally, globally,
With no airs and graces, affectation, and putting on airs,
No pollution, respiratory problems and global carbon-credits.
So Neville Gabie’s Malmesbury collection of breath,
Is nothing like the exploits of the failed aerial flight
Of the medieval monk of Malmesbury,
Instead the Connemara release of Collective Breath into Atlantic skies,
Over an ocean’s waves, breakers, currents, spume and spray,
Echoes the wireless pioneering of Gugliemo Marconi:
The sound of our interconnectedness:
‘I am he as you are she as you are me
And we are all together.’
Not Sherwood FOREST
Nor Lincoln GREEN,
But FOREST GREEN;
Not Robin Hood and Little John,
But Dale Vince and David Drew;
Not outlaws and poachers,
But leftwingers and goal poachers;
Not the pollution of ‘The Gas’,
But the clean power of the wind;
Not the lawlessness of ‘The Pirates’,
But the traditions of the handloom weavers and spinners;
Not the slaving profits of Bristol,
But the anti-slavery arch of Archway:
COYFGR Levellers and Diggers,
Let’s try to turn the world upside down.
My seat was down the front, right by the pitch,
With a view right out to open fields, new leaf trees,
Scudding clouds, a grand sky horizon, and two billboards
That tried to send their message down to the New Lawn:
‘Neil Carmichael, A Better and More Secure Future’,
But David Drew was oblivious to this as he walked around the pitch,
As was Dale Vince, applauding the manager at the end,
After the news came through that Macclesfield had only drawn,
And so this team from the little market town of Nailsworth,
Was definitely through to the play-offs.
The afternoon was a great reminder of why football still counts:
The awards to the women’s team denoting some equality of status,
The name Ecotricity, the union jacks in green,
The banner referencing Martin Luther King,
The ground on a street called Another Way,
The vegetarian cuisine in a meat free zone,
The minute’s silence remembering the fire at Bradford City,
Broken only by the sound of a solitary aircraft flying high above,
The boys walking around, rattling their buckets:
‘Any spare change for the youth teams?’
When it’s like this, I can like football again.
See you Wednesday.
Along a primrose path from Paradise Bottom to Davy Jones’s locker,
We discovered five beached boats within the coppiced forest:
Gloria Jean, Joanne Marie, Martha, Seahorse and Grey Gull,
All marooned on the bone dry, tinderbox, cracked earth of a covert
(Like so many Anthropocene marine fossils),
Vessels that once rode the foam flecked tides of time,
Far beyond the confines of the Avon Gorge,
Wheel and rudder high above Bronze Age sunken forests,
Writing a wake for each Great Flood’s chronicle,
With a spring tide song of the sea, a siren song in the leaves,
A maritime threnody, recounting long lost worlds:
A shingle-shape of submerged churches, merchants’ houses,
Quays, wharves, inns, alehouses, pilgrims’ paths, abbeys,
Cowled ghosts, cursing sailors and bleached bones,
A tidal daily meal for ravenous crabs and eels.
And over there, amongst the hearts of oak, flies Ariel:
“Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Hark! Now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.”
And there, amongst the forget-me-nots, stands Prospero:
“The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
I walked down to Stroud Valley Arts through Rodborough Fields,
Medieval ridge and furrow still just visible in the April evening light,
Cracked earth and shallow stream talking to me with John Clare’s voice,
Lamenting the past and fearful of the future –
And so along the industrial archaeological edgelands of Stroud,
To John Street: ‘Where its only bondage was the circling sky’.
Twenty or so of us gathered here, to discourse on Captain Swing,
Mechanisation, new technology, loss of jobs in the here and now
(As well as the autumn and winter of 1830),
Blandscape, enclosure, the poetical legacy of John Clare,
All the while listening to the ska sound of ‘The Guns of Navarone’,
In a typically Stroud post-modernist mashup.
We then processed to the Swing/Clare film at the Brunel Goods Shed,
Thence to the River Frome, via blue-brick Midlands Railway,
Discussing Clare’s anthropomorphising of landscape,
Pondering on the palimpsest implications of wood anemones,
Until Captain Swing letters were left by Capel’s Mill,
And the sky blazed red in Sussex in the winter of 1830
(Whilst all the while the dogs frolicked cheerfully in the water).
Readings of Clare were collectively shared, hedgerows were dated,
Tolpuddle’s legacy was juxtaposed with that of Captain Swing,
The history of allotments and common land was pursued,
Until we ascended to the peak of Rodborough Common,
Where Clare’s incarceration within the asylum,
And the possible causes of his madness were portrayed
Through presentations, performance and readings,
As the sun set red across the tide full River Severn.
Dogs played, toddlers played,
As the red light silhouette shift
Changed us all to a band of gypsies,
At Helpstone, in 1830,
While John Clare read to us,
Gilded by the glowing sun.
And the tricks we played with time.
John Clare and the Swing Riots A poetic and historical walk and talk with Stuart Butler, Johnny Fluffypunk and Bill Jones, Tuesday 14th April 6-8pm SVA, 4 John Street, Stroud GL5 2HA Starting at SVA John Street followed by the Goods Shed with an explanatory, contextual read more
Miniature Museum of Museums Take the imagination of two Blakes, Add the wheels and cogs of Newton’s physics, The electric magic of Frankenstein – Then secrete the Stroudwater cloth mills, Within the shadowed drawers of a table; Take a metaphorical orrery, Together read more