What is colour — without Language?

‘Like an auditorium built by the Bauhaus on the edge of a park, all green and green swans.
Green swans, she said.’
—Quinn Latimer

—Jude Walton, The return of Nadja-Léona

‘The title of this project has been adapted from a poem by the French writer Jean Follain. The project started out life in Follain’s use of language—his sense of the miniature, the modesty of his subjects, and the relationship of his poems to memory. These continue to influence its overall scope. By starting out from one of the texts selected for you to study we would like you to explore the subject of colour and make an artwork from your discoveries.’ (from the Project Brief)

The writers
Baudelaire, Charles A Carrion | ‘Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire’ translated by Geoffrey Wagner (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
Bishop, Elizabeth Sandpiper | ‘Poems’ (Chatto & Windus, 2011)
Brecht, Bertolt On Thinking About Hell | ‘Poems 1913–1956’ this poem translated by Nicholas Jacobs (Methuen, 1976)
Connolly, Geraldine The Summer I Was Sixteen | in ‘Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry’ (Random House, 2013)
Follain, Jean In This Light, The Key & Works | ‘From Elsewhere’ translated by Ciaran Carson (The Gallery Press, 2014)
Glenday, John A Difficult Colour | ‘The Apple Ghost’ (Peterloo Poets, 1989)
Houellebecq, Michel Veroniqué & Grey House | ‘Unreconciled: Poems 1991-2013’ translated by Gavin Bowd (William Heinemann, 2017)
Longley, Michael Telling Yellow | ‘Angel Hill’ (Cape Poetry, 2017)
Oliver, Mary Blue Horses | ‘Blue Horses’ (Penguin, 2014)
Pizarnik, Alejandra le temps tombant … | ‘The Galloping Hour: French Poems’ translated by Patricio Ferrari & Forrest Gander (New Directions, 2018)
Ponge, Francis The Umbels & The Magnolia | ‘Unfinished Ode to Mud’ translated by Beverley Bie Brahic (CB Editions, 2008)
Sappho Fragment 6, 34, 54, 151 and 152 | ‘If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho’ translated by Anne Carson (Virago, 2002)
Södergran, Edith The Colours’ Longing & Violet Twilights | ‘Love & Solitude: Selected Poems 1916-1923’ (Seattle: Fjord Press, 1992) & ‘Dikter’ both translated by Stina Katchadourian (Helsinki: Holger Schildts Förlagsaktiebolag, 1916)
Woolf, Virginia Thursday 4 October 1934 | ‘The Diary of Virginia Woolf’ Vol. 4/1931-1935 (The Hogarth Press,1982)

Reading | Resources:
Marguerite Duras, Albert of the Capitals (Rough Draft) Translated by Linda Coverdale: ‘Wartime Notebooks’—the Pink Marbled Notebook—in The Lover, Wartime Notebooks, Practicalities (Everyman’s library, 2018)
Derek Jarman, Chroma: A Book of Colour (Century, 1994)
Quinn Latimer, Like A Woman: Essays, Readings, Poems (Sternberg Press, 2017)
Maggie Nelson, Bluets (Jonathan Cape, 2009)
Mary Oliver, an interview with Krista Tippet first broadcast as an edited extract on Radio 4’s ’Short Cuts’ programme by Josie Long. Find the full interview here: https://onbeing.org/programs/mary-oliver-listening-to-the-world-jan2019/

Visual Art
Stan Brakhage, The Text of Light (1974): ubu.com/film/brakhage.html
Aleks Danko, Here we turn everything into fun to kill time, 2003 & No! No! No! No More Museum of Créche Art – cut the boredom (after Bruce Nauman), 2019 https://suttongallery.com.au/artists/aleks-danko/
Graham Fagen, Our Shared, Common, Private Space, 2011 & Scheme for Consciousness, 2014: http://www.grahamfagen.com/works/year/2011
Derek Jarman, Blue (1993) https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/jarman-blue-t14555
Yves Klein, IKB 79 (1959) https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/klein-ikb-79-t01513
Ana Mendieta, Selected Film Works (1972-1981): http://www.ubu.com/film/mendieta_selected.html
Carolee Schneeman, Interior Scroll (1975): https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/schneemann-interior-scroll-p13282
Carolee Schneeman & Mary Beatty, Interior Scroll – The Cave (1975 – 1979): http://www.ubu.com/film/schneemann_interior.html
‘When Home Won’t Let You Stay’: https://www.icaboston.org/exhibitions/when-home-won%E2%80%99t-let-you-stay-migration-through-contemporary-art

Untitled|two nineteen — Krähe, laß mich endlich Sehn / Treue bis zum Grabe!

As the birds moved around and around on a curtain rail hung between wooden posts, one obstructed another. Not two but many, one after another . .

Silver, white, green, green
Green, silver, green, green, viridian, viridian, purple, purple
Green, grass green, orange, white
Viridian, silver, green, purple
Orange, purple, white, green, green, purple, green, green.

The blackbird tapped at a string with seed-fat hanging from it trying to get it to swing onto the floor of the bird house. It flew off, returned, tried again. I watched something leave its hungry body. The house was in the shadow of a bigger house.

What is colour – without Language? | project reference and notes

‘The title of this project has been adapted from a poem by the French writer Jean Follain.
Follain’s use of language, his sense of the miniature, the modesty of his subjects, and the relationship of his poems to memory have influenced its general outline – A project that asks you to think about colour as the material of art.
‘A small painting of seven apples by Paul Cézanne arrived in England in 1918. It sat in the hedge at the bottom of the farm lane leading up to Charleston, while the economist Maynard Keynes, who had acquired it from the sale of Edgar Degas’s collection in Paris, carried the rest of his luggage up to the house. Duncan Grant ran down to fetch it. From then on at Charleston, where Keynes left the Cézanne for a period, and then in Roger Fry’s studio, where it also lodged for a while, it became the object of intense scrutiny. ‘What can six apples not be?’ Woolf asked, miscounting the apples in her amazement at the attention this small painting attracted. She wanted to understand its power, for as her diary entry records, the apples seemed to get redder and rounder and greener, while the other paintings in the room seemed to recede, to pale into insignificance.’
(Frances Spalding, Virginia Woolf: Art, Life and Vision. National Portrait Gallery Publications, 2014.)

By starting out from one of thirty (30) poems/pieces of writing selected for you to study (by John Berger, Charles Baudelaire, John Berryman, Elizabeth Bishop, Paul Bowles, Geraldine Connolly, Jean Follain, John Glenday, Geoffrey Hill, Michel Houellebecq, Kathleen Jamie, Jane Kenyon, Hester Knibbe, Michael Longley, Mary Oliver, Francis Ponge, Marion Poschmann, Rainer Marie Rilke, Edith Södergran, Katherine Towers, Natasha Trethewey and Virginia Woolf) we would like you to study the question, what is colour? within the context of a fluid understanding of the landscapes of language and technology, and in particular, the visual and critical languages of fine art … … and make an artwork out of your discoveries, the only stipulation is that it starts out from your response to one of the pieces of writing provided.’

(from ‘What is colour – without Language?’ The third of three first semester Fine Art studio projects; General Foundation in Art & Design, DJCAD, University of Dundee.)

And complementing my reference to comments that Geoffrey Hill made in an interview:

‘In my view, difficult poetry is the most democratic, because you are doing your audience the honour of supposing that they are intelligent human beings. So much of the populist poetry of today treats people as if they were fools.’
And Hill continued …
‘We are difficult. Human beings are difficult. We’re difficult to ourselves, we’re difficult to each other. And we are mysteries to ourselves, we are mysteries to each other. One encounters in any ordinary day far more real difficulty than one confronts in the most ‘intellectual’ piece of work. Why is it believed that poetry, prose, painting, music should be less than we are? Why does music, why does poetry have to address in simplified terms, when if such simplification were applied to a description of our own inner selves we would find it demeaning? I think art has a right—not an obligation—to be difficult if it wishes.’

… further related arguments may be found in this article by Rebecca Watt – https://www.pnreview.co.uk/cgi-bin/scribe?item_id=10090 – taken from PN Review 239, Volume 44 Number 3, January – February 2018.

Untitled|eight seventeen

Black caterpillars
Blue washing lines
Mary, mother of Jesus, sings of her grief at the loss of her child
Midnight meadow-verge wild flowers

Sneezing white sheep
The colour of the absolute
Vanilla sponge cake
White magic
Withered clumps of thistle fluff – for the pillows of the dead

‘Indefatigable dazzling
terrestrial strangeness.’

New Music

March| Viridian, viridian, green, green, green
March| Silver, silver, green, viridian, turquoise …

‘Sharp stripes of shadow lay on the grass, and the dew dancing on the tips of the flowers and leaves made the garden like a mosaic of single sparks not yet formed into one whole. The birds, whose breasts were speckled canary and rose, now sang a strain or two together, wildly, like skaters rollicking arm-in-arm, and were suddenly silent, breaking asunder.’

‘In the garden where the trees stood thick over flowerbeds, ponds, and greenhouses the birds sang in the hot sunshine, each alone. One sang under the bedroom window; another on the topmost twig of the lilac bush; another on the edge of the wall. Each sang stridently, with passion, with vehemence, as if to let the song burst out of it, no matter if it shattered the song of another bird with harsh discord.’

‘The birds sang passionate songs addressed to one ear only and then stopped. Bubbling and chuckling they carried little bits of straw and twig to the dark knots in the higher branches of the trees. Gilt and purpled they perched in the garden where cones of laburnum and purple shook down gold and lilac, for now at midday the garden was all blossom and profusion and even the tunnels under the plants were green and purple and tawny as the sun beat through the red petal, or the broad yellow petal, or was barred by some thickly furred green stalk.’

‘The birds sat still save that they flicked their heads sharply from side to side. Now they paused in their song as if glutted with sound, as if the fullness of midday had gorged them.’


March| Green, silver, silver, green, yellow, green
April| Turquoise, silver, turquoise, turquoise, green, turquoise
April| Silver, yellow, green, green, green, silver
May| Green, turquoise, silver, silver, turquoise, silver
May| Yellow, turquoise, green, green, silver, green
January| Turquoise, silver, green, silver, silver, turquoise
January| Silver, silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, turquoise
January| Green, green, silver, silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, turquoise, yellow
January| Green, green, green, green
February| Silver, turquoise, turquoise, silver, green, yellow
February| Green, green, silver, green, turquoise, silver, green …

Children roll our hooped hearts away.

‘In Clara’s hand the flowers smell of iron and grass. The same smell as the grass behind the wire factory after a rain.’ (Herta Müller)

‘The Groats were the last family on the island, and had thirteen children. Under the decaying stairs, I find coat pegs marked with their names: Bessie, Isobel, Alice, Eva, Ethel …’ (Amy Liptrot)

‘Share a Coca Cola with Aggie, Ahmed, Barasa, Dorcas, Joe, Mona, Nelly, Patel, Winnie …’

Aggie. Scotland Kissed
Soap washed out your dreams of borrow-pits,|invisible fingers drumming on wet sand, your|childs heart raced|after hoops of rubble, burned the sky down with it.|Some things were not there: your favourite|
place, watching|from the window; your lunch box made of smoke and air;| and the pedestrian, over your shoulder, who did not|exist, alone – relative to the last king of Scotland.
The banks of carriageway were high and overgrown,|running your dreams of bitter grazing on|the verge of light along Thirteen and St. Peter;|in decline, your night career of sleep played and,|in the morning, eyed a city mad with fever where|you chanced to be among houses and lawns burning| in feasts, the mating pit in their mangled hand ­– Kissed.

Ahmed. Fata Morgana
Light repeats itself travelling| shipwrecked; wall and charcoal| and you, Lord, on its horizon|
cradling a head of bison.| A childs footprint is six red dots.| Your body is a child swimming.| Light answers itself.

‘If we lack grace / it might be because we’ve never known our place / among the elements.’ (George Szirtes)

Barasa. List
‘Wraps x 2 Bread Tiger loaf x 3 Wedges x 2 Frie’s x 1 Mozzarella Balls x 4 Greek yoghurt x 1 mixed peppers x 1 O Rings x 1 Tomatoes Punnet x 1 Fairy liquid x 1’ —There is a shop in Perth, in the pale of the town. A sign above the door spells out what you can buy: ‘VHS Tapes, Stornoway Black Pudding, Tattoos.’

‘3 Milk grapes yogurt Bananas Cold Meat Frozen Carrot Small Pies’ —Her hair on a naked shoulder, on a carmine red overcoat. His head on a plate, always with her.

Dorcas. A State of Blood
For Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007) it was the allied bombing of the supposedly ‘open’ city of Dresden during World War II, ‘… the largest massacre in European history, by the way. And so what?’ For my parent’s generation, US military action in Vietnam, and Pol Pot’s genocidal Khmer Rouge in Cambodia will likely be at the top of the list. For my generation, born in the 1960’s, the Gulf War (1991 – present), ‘the longest humanitarian airlift in history’ during the conflict in Bosnia and Herzegovina (1992 – 1996), the Kosovo war (1999 – present), the war in Afghanistan (2001 – present), the second Gulf War (2003 – present) and the civil war in Syria (2011 – present) are all likely to be indelibly etched into our minds.
Until recently Europe has enjoyed a relatively long period of peaceful co-existence, while not always covertly flexing its consumerist ambitions and murderous tendencies in other, far away parts of the world. Some believe that the consequences of this are finally ‘coming home’; the supposedly distant world of ‘over there’ not so hard to get to and from as the political elites once thought. Perhaps it was just down to the small coterie of sadistic teachers I had at secondary school, perhaps it was my age, fear, lack of confidence and anxiety at the world around me (a mostly cruel, brutalising and unforgiving military school), but there was one other name that remains indexically linked to this malign human, largely male, tendency towards brutality, torture and extreme acts of individual and institutional violence: Idi Amin, ‘the butcher of Uganda,’ who came to power in a military coup in 1971 during a steady and ruthless campaign through the ranks of the King’s African Rifles’ (Britain’s colonial African troops.) I’m not going to go through the catalogue of human rights abuses Amin should have been charged with, instead, if you’re interested, I would urge you to read Henry Kyembe’s account of Amin’s rule in, ‘A State of Blood.’ Amin died in a hospital in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia in 2003 where he had lived in exile after ten years in Libya. He was never brought to trial for gross abuse of human rights—The Saudi ruling elite and the British Government should be held to account for this.
I hadn’t thought about much of any of this or particularly followed news of post-Amin Uganda since he fled the country in 1979, until very recently that is. That is, until my stepdaughter intended to travel to Uganda on an adventure trip organised by her school in July of this year.
She is sixteen, and knows nothing of Amin’s post-colonial dictatorship. Knows nothing about the war in the north of the country with the Lord’s Resistance Army, and her teachers have, as far as I’m aware, never brought the subjects up. Should they have done? Should I say something?
Despite recent fraudulent Presidential elections, the on-going war in the north of the country with the LRA, the current refugee crisis in South Sudan and the sometimes brutal suppression of Gay rights, freedom of speech, the freedom to express political opinion, etc., Uganda still appears to be trying to re-brand itself internationally as a modern, thriving East African society ready to do business – promoting in particular environmental tourism, and outdoor adventure opportunities for those who can afford it. That is, it’s pretty much like any other place in the world. But it wouldn’t take much for it to be pushed back into its darker past. That’s the feeling I have when I think about what’s both already happened and is currently going on in the region. Uganda is a landlocked country bordered to the east by Kenya, in the north by South Sudan, to the west by the Democratic Republic of Congo, to the southwest by Rwanda, and in the south by Tanzania. It is the second largest landlocked population in the world (after Ethiopia) and that means a lot of mouths to feed. And revolutions start, as Brecht reminds us, not because of politics but because citizens do not have enough to eat and drink.
Fifty-five bottle caps are used to make this souvenir. It was bought from an elderly woman at a market stall in the Ugandan city of Jinja and given to me as a birthday gift, and I’ve fallen under its spell. (A massacre in 1972 of troops in Jinja barracks during a purge of the Ugandan army of men of Acholi and Lango ethnicity was followed by the disappearance of over a further 5000 soldiers and twice as many civilians by the end of the year. No one knows what happened to them or there whereabouts.) Each candy-pop coloured cap is from a 330ml bottle of Fanta, Coca Cola or Stoney and I imagine each freezing cold bottle in someone’s hand, and the bolt of ice and fizz as they tip it into their mouth; quenching their thirst as they stand, ecstatic, on a dusty, bone-dry city street; the sun splitting everything.As Vonnegut writes in his introduction to ‘Mother Night,’ the moral of the story he is about to tell us is a very simple one: ‘We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.’
This particular giraffe has eighteen and a quarter litres of fizzy juice in its veins. No bad thing, I think. Perhaps screaming that you have something other than blood running in your arteries (your mothers tears, engine oil, black ink, laundry liquid …) may be your only chance, if the boys with the knives and automatic weapons kick in the door.
Did I tell my stepdaughter about Amin and Uganda in the 70’s before she left on her trip? No. I decided that on humanities current form she would have enough to deal with in the decades ahead. Fear, because that is what such a tale would create, is pernicious, and absolutely no amount of reassurance would set her young, understandably anxious mind to rest, as she prepared to travel to east Africa, and away from home, family and friends for the first time in her life. I’d talk to her about it afterwards, when she was home.

‘Are you an assassin?’ | Willard: ‘I’m a soldier.’ | Kurtz: ‘You’re neither. You’re an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill.’ (Apocalypse Now)

Joe. This is the end …
The first line of Lachrimae Verae – the first of seven sonnets that make up the poem, Lachrimae or Seven tears figured in seven passionate Pavans – reads: ‘Crucified Lord, you swim upon your cross / and never move.’ Published in 1978 by Geoffrey Hill, it is one of the great opening lines in English poetry – complete; unadorned – unforgettable. The voice goes on to say: ‘Sometimes in dreams of hell / the body moves but moves to no avail / and is at one with that eternal loss.’ Our nightmare – my own; these lines, spoken by Colonel Walter E. Kurtz.
Where are we in relation to the figure of Christ in the image Hill has made in our mind’s eye. Drowned – underneath, looking up. On our knees, at his feet. Stood over the scene, looking down? Wherever we choose to be – in time, in space; in our imaginations and our emotions – Christ remains still, we move; we are alive, for the moment. In one of the painting studios in Edinburgh College of Art in the early 1980’s I came across David Mach’s sculpture for the first time. (During the Edinburgh Festival and Fringe, the college was often used as a venue for contemporary art.) My recollection of the work is a little hazy – it was thirty years ago – but I remember it consisted of a large collection of clear glass milk bottles, arranged in a rectangle, some of which contained quantities of a dark, grey-blue dye – creating the image of a shark, in water, motionless. While searching for a picture of this I found a more recent work by Mach in an exhibition called ‘Post Pop: East Meets West’ (Saatchi Gallery, 2015). It’s title, Undressed, uses the same method as the shark but with red dye, and depicts a female figure lying on her back, arms and legs spread wide; the image, created in a collection of 1666 clear glass bottles of HP Sauce. It’s a striking and chilling image. (Perhaps seeing the shark some thirty years ago gives me a better sense of what it might feel like to be stood over this splayed, crucified figure, despite having seen it only in photographs.) I say, ‘crucified,’ but I’m not sure if that was in Mach’s mind. The figure is ‘arranged,’ helpless and vulnerable taking the shape of a saltire cross; held down by a violent design; she does not represent the bloody deformed mess of the barrel bomb, more the summary execution. And yet the title at first seems a bit perfunctory, artful, and perhaps even harmless: Undressed. The use of HP sauce bottles – icon of Englishness; ‘By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen’ – further discolours the water, as does their number, which places us in London in the year of the Great Fire. And what is this works affect on our understanding of voyeurism? Do we stand and look at a representation of our seemingly insatiable desire for public ‘execution’ in a culture that is mercilessly confrontational, reductive and condescending to those to whom it purports to want a response from? Mach’s work relies heavily on contingent circumstance. It is usually made – using magazines, postcards, tyres, bricks, coat hangers … the stuff of the everyday – to court the spectacular, but it is in the quieter reaches of these less spectacular works that I think he touches the nerve.
I’ll append another image here, one perhaps as memorable as the picture of Christ swimming on the cross. I wrote above of the atrocities committed by Idi Amin in East Africa in the 1970’s. European history has its genocides too. In a circuitous discussion with a friend over coffee recently (taking in amongst other topics the investigation into the disappearance of Madeleine McCann) my friend talked to me about a nephew, N., a forensic anthropologist who has been working in Spain on the exhumation of mass graves from the era of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). N. directs the archaeology, to assist in identifying the skeletal remains of victims for living relatives who do not know where their husbands, grandparents … their loved ones are buried, and who are left ‘not knowing.’ (The poet and playwright, Federico Garcia Lorca, is one of the ‘known’ disappeared although his body has never been found, but recent estimates suggest that there is in the region of 2000 mass graves which may hold the remains of 150,000 victims of execution.) Many of these graves are by roadsides, victim’s shot into shallow ditches. Others, in fields.
N.’s description of what he saw in this one grave is vivid. Each skeleton had a bottle around its neck, held on with a bit of string; and inside each bottle, there was a scrap of paper with the persons name written on it – milk bottles, olive oil bottles; bottles of all shapes, colours and sizes – the dead must have been covered over with soil by people who knew them; by people who believed that one day, their loved ones would search for this grave, and find it.

‘Catalog of Horrors / Descriptions of Natural disaster / Lists of miracles in the divine corridor / Catalog of fish in the divine canal / Catalog of objects in the room / List of things in the sacred river’ (Jim Morrison)

Mona. List —for a Sculpture
‘Lotto card| 15/40 diesel oil| wash powder| milk| face wipes| bottle water.’

Nelly. A Lot Older
The only moment we were alone, with things – pictures, objects, words – in the mirror of the history of art: the privilege of two forms of silence.

Patel. ‘Mistah Kurtz – he dead.’
‘We are the hollow men / We are the stuffed men / Leaning together / Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! / Our dried voices, when / We whisper together / Are quiet and meaningless / As wind in dry grass / Or rats’ feet over broken glass / In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour, / Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed / With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom / Remember us – if at all – not as lost / Violent souls, but only / As the hollow men / The stuffed men.’ (T.S. Eliot)

Winnie. Looks On In Wonder
Finally I wonder at the motivation that brought the giraffe into being. What prompted or necessitated its creation. Why was it made. Was it made out of a profound sense of wonder at the natural world and the creatures that inhabit it. Was it made, say, for the same reason as the inscribed images of bison, horses, and buffalo were made on walls – deep inside the earth – in the Chauvet cave; the caves of Lascaux. Or is it a piece of tourist exotica, an ‘objet-souvenir’ made only to sell to foreign visitors? From here, in rural Perthshire, I can only speculate, while I like to imagine that whoever took the time to make this small figurine, did so for all of these reasons, and more besides.

I close my eyes—on all my certain things.

Stay with, or abandon you? This is what the stars are saying to each other, up there, above the garden, in the dust of centuries.

The glow behind your eyelids is a painting without title, shows you open the bruise blood bending over in a field, an orange vendor at a fairground, your elephant, Eden (you sold your car to buy her) joyfully stripping leaves from trees in the garden—Angel Mugler, Miu Miu, Chloé drafting from the aircon of cars as they pass you on the verge of a dual carriageway leaving town; in your chest, mixing it with a silage of cardamom, sweat and lamb’s wool the sky feels closer than usual, the outskirts of the city, counterfeit. There’s something of the sky in you tonight, a dirty uneven breath. You were loved more than once but were in fear of … Well. What? Behind your eyes who now sleeps?

‘I rode down to the street floor and went out on the steps of the City Hall. It was a cool day and very clear. You could see a long way – but not as far as Velma had gone.’ (Raymond Chandler)

The rubber is discovered under a foam mattress in a child’s wicker basket at a recycling centre. It’s oblong and rounded at each end, covered in small dark spots where the end of a pencil or pen has been pushed into it. Some of it is shiny and a darker shade of grey. It feels smooth and cold in my hand. On two of its sides the words ‘elephant’ and ‘Sky’ are tattooed into the silky smooth surface with black biro. On another, ‘I am all alone Dear Emily …’ again, done with great care, in blue biro this time. One side is clear. Outside it’s raining heavily, has been for days. The sky is the same dirty shade of grey.

To one side is a squat, unremarkable church (of Scotland) in a simmering lake of tarmac. A woman lies face down in the rain weeping in its comfortless shadow, her turquoise skirt and pale blue cardigan bleed into the foreground—that it’s not Queen Victoria, you know already. The car you arrived in has pulled up in front of a tall building made of glass— ‘… for the best’ silences: It’s not what you said, but it was what you wanted to say. Yellow leaves flutter to the ground as you step away from the car, your one tear, your only possession, slips down your cheek and falls onto the woman in the turquoise-blue shadow, pure enough to calm her—your childhood sentence: normcore corduroy; a brutal cult.


There’s no door on the building, no door on the day, no glass in the windows, no wind to speak of, no blue in the sky. ‘With A Pure Heart’ is marked up above the sink—in Matador Black filled with Elizabeth Pink. ‘slowly, meditatively’ a peach scar in the woodchip. ‘Our Laws Are Still For War’ in a New York ghost-cap Soviet Red across an electrical panel. On the ceiling ‘I Did Not Know’ in Pineapple Yellow seeping through ‘My Heaven’ in Aspen White. ‘AUS DEM KOPF’ by the window in a single pass of Iced Vermilion. The buzzing of bees in a nearby bush and the spectral echo of a fat cap breathing a chord of paint into the future … hohhhhhhhhhhhh … the only sounds in the room, for it is still a room of sorts. You swept the floor of rubble and glass because writing over someone else’s work wasn’t an option and concrete like this is porous and soaks up paint not like the walls. ‘PLEASE Me’ is in pink, ‘Don’t Leave’ in blue. Who were you writing for? Who was to read this?
‘PLEASE Don’t Leave Me’
‘PLEASE Me Don’t Leave’
‘Don’t Leave PLEASE Me’

‘Love is time travel—still I dream of your arrival’ (set against a sky blue background in ‘Epitaph,’ a serif face influenced by the types cut by Jessica Möll between 1449 and 1516)

‘Don’t Leave PLEASE Me’
‘PLEASE Me Don’t Leave’
‘PLEASE Don’t Leave Me’
You implore your sanity. You are prostrate, weeping for your God. You are still in the room leaning on the windowsill with one knee resting on a chair looking out towards the sea. You are still in the room—there is no voice that the sea will not put in its mouth. This is the first line that your body longed for, words without much use now that you are unable to remake what followed. It is the room speaking. This is Eden. You are like a cat delivering a dead mouse, in control over what you give. It is the room speaking, the room is cruel. This is Hell.

Next to the door outside (it’s been painted over but you can still make it out) you’ve written ‘Trust me I’m the Doctor’ in Mercury Yellow. Perhaps your name is Emily.