'A View from Nowhere', Original Collage Collection, A4
Each collage is £40 each +pp, the whole collection is £250
(Will ship anywhere in the world)
This collection was something I completed during my time travelling Australia. I ended up in a small town called Emerald that was nothing but a dust town and endless suburbs that seemed devoid of life as I wandered through them in the afternoon hours. The images are original prints from old textbooks on the history of Australia, each collage features writing while written on the road, much of it tries to encapsulates the essence of travel, the longing for home, wild imaginings of days of old, folklore, and just plain spontaneous nonsense.
All collages are signed.
Email me on email@example.com if interested
• 30 January 2014
'Lost Times on Cherry Hill', 2013, A4
Email me if interested in buying original artwork
Original collage made in Australia ft. spontaneous writing and various old images that were collected while travelling, while on the run. These are personal works that I completed during furious bursts of creativity to counteract homesickness and the boredom that is rarely documented in the zeitgeist of the road.
• 30 January 2014
Myself and Matt
The top photograph is from when our tutor group went bowling on one of the last day’s of college, it all kicked off when people started chucking the balls into other people’s lanes and generally going off throwing slush puppies all over each other.
Below is Matt, who I studied philsophy and literature with, the sonofabitch is at Cambridge now, it was inevitable anyway, he used to carry around the entire works of William Shakespeare around with him and he’d never drunk a beer in his life until we made him.
• 15 January 2014
After returning home from a 5 month stint of travelling around Australia, living off tuna & rice and soup kitchens in Melbourne, experiencing some pretty raging highs and lows while documenting the trip in any way I could- through my own writing and about 35 collages, I came home for christmas. For the second half of the trip I kept thinking about these dozen disposable camera’s that I had sitting beneath my bed, and promised myself that once I was home I’d develop them, which I did.
These three are from a Blood of the Young zine/photography show from way back in May 2011/12? On the bottom photo on the right is my dude Casson, a good friend of mine from the USA who creates a lot of great art, in the independent spirit of DIY.
On saturday night I’m flying back to Australia, for another four months, I’m really just putting these up for myself to look through during the quieter times of travel.
• 15 January 2014
Peripheral Highway Moon
The sun disperses the last of it’s supreme light over thousands of homes and highways a little beyond the dessert plains of old, places that no one goes to anymore for there is nothing there, when for the few; the reason for going would be just that. Lover, I love you not for what you are, but for what you are not, and I forever will, so long as your unspoilt eyes that have blossomed here, shine, in this beautiful place called Nowhere. A blind man holding a cattle prod stumbles through the pastures kicking up dust, while a young girl (that’s your mumma there son, wasn’t she beautiful) stands on the front porch of a suburban house, watching the man with tentative steps. She doesn’t have a southern drawl, she isn’t the daughter of a farmer, she doesn’t dream of the bright lights of Broadway’s distant call, for if she did- I’da had to asked her to kill me now, on that doorstep. Out yonder the last cowboy casts a lonely shadow beneath the dried branches of a poplar tree, as the opal moon’s begins to take its eternal place in the sky as the backdrop for the cowboy’s final destination in his lifelong journey to the centre of the night, and tomorrow morning with the daylight break there will be no ache, just the mourningful silence of the railroad earth in the cold air.
Ramshackle drives through the pines of Cherry Hill, and all the sweet times that never were.
Soft melodies of various songs carouse through the avenues and alleyways and little old lady’s you saw across the high street when you were a child later become old maidens within your dreams, and first loves become beacons in the nighttime, as you realise your hands were created to open old wounds and rekindle even older flames. Selves are shedded like stale skin kicked to the side of a ditch as you pause now and then to die a little death and stand as witness to the colossal NEVERNESS/EVERNESS of life and death entwined as one and the path opens two ways; the Cheshire Cat beckons you to the left, where you will dance through the sin soaked darkness of black space, ruminating multitudes and forever searching for the words. With a sly grin he weans you to the right also; where the words are simple, they are so simple in fact- that there are none. Your hands will submerge in the slow rhythms of time you will feel the water, the sun, and the evergreen pines that line the horizon. But your brother (the imposter) has already came and hurtled through the right and is already stealing your woman, tracing the letters of your own words into their snatches and hands grip tight and her mind is skyrocketed through the mountains of Nepal to the peak of Everest on the day the first man made its ascent, in less than a second she fully comprehends the loneliness of standing there alone, looking into the misty void with the death freeze gnawing and the whole world watching the first man on Mars, who spent thirty years alone in a spacecraft with only enough fuel to get there, and everything he thought about up in the galaxy.
Time passing // Strange new feelings (in the sin soaked black of deep space)
Dear Doris day, I promise that if I ever could stand in it again, the feeling of rain would take my breath away. Dear Ulruru, what makes a man a man in the raw form, forlorn now and growing older with searches for lost time in the weather beaten realm that points northward towards- my first sweetheart is she still somewhere, so far now, my hands press against my face at times and sometimes I can still hear the melody out here like I used to when I felt it carouse through June, my dying father’s last words through the intercom, ‘Moose! And …and Indians!’, so I thought of you and hoped that you are doing ok, Doris Day. Farewell MONTERRAY, the holy lonely Alice- don’t go, stay for a while, there is so much to tell you sweetness and I can’t think to hold it all in for a second more, shotgun tunes that I been makin’ for you that will make everything alright, the granite grey won’t grind your cartilage anymore, because the blue mountains are melting into the trees while all these people dance, after an absence of good news. Their luxuries are two bottles of brandy and Eyre, the Great, who welcomed the hero at the inn in the best of spirits, Kevin Arnold was there too, and he wasn’t growing OLDER, miming pine grass and wild-flowers and fresh water in its abundance, the sonofoabith never had to experience the horror of crossing that stony purple plain in a time of draught. Dear Graceland, we have reached the Cloncurry River where the trees are twisted like night horrors with a dense, dark foliage so he had to twist up some yarns that the inhabitants had left behind in good spirits to us (very good to eat roasted in the ashes of a campfire actually). Salinger is sick now, he makes me sick to my stomach and he keeps asking for chicken soup and saying that he’s suffering from delusions that the other people are going to attack soon…but Kant is pacing around and creating a force field around us, he weighed some 101.6kg when he joined the battalion but has dwindled to just nearly 50.8kg, the most gallant undertaking of his career was surely satisfaction in this mercenary type of work. GodDAMN that bump in the road sure was a bump in the road, it’s always better for Bank’s to be left to his flightiful fancy especially when he turns unreasonable at simple criticism of methodical questioning, but clearly he deserves the credit of naming this constellation which is the birthplace of my second son, that never was- he attempted with no land or profession, with good family, but the father caught them before they had travelled more than a few hundred miles, red handed, picking apples from the orchard is Ms. Mac’s lot, but I’ll get him…may god strike me if I don’t get him.
Doris, I’m correlating one end of the tunnel to the other, as ever; am entrance, and an exit. A ride inbetween through darkness and passenger seat silence beneath artificial illumination. What lies on the other side of the ride, enough of that, more focus on what lies in the awake moment of current open eyes. To move to any point with swift and skilful footing, a gift of the divergent mind digging and erratically shooting around like electrical stars and points of light in the night. Where to stop, which moment to pause in and say there! as though flicking through a whole deck of cards and never quite knowing if you are going to get a lucky hand. So there, I stop the constant shuffling of mind and that is when I begin to write these letters from outer space, to you, but know that it could have gone any other way, a thought not unfamiliar to the mindfulness of wandering; if I walk down this road, who will I meet Doris(?) to potentially turn my life upside down for better or for worse, even a subtle notion of a face across the street that will lead my mind to begin thinking of ______ and then to ______ (constant and impossible scientific sum) that lead A to act on this whim, which affected B to the degree of wondering about C (enormous domino run through endless roads), sondering my time.
He (the space cowboy) awakes on a cold bathroom floor, naked, surrounded by an azure light reflected off the peeling walls. The girl, she’s still there with her radiant auburn hair (to warm you) and a moonlit gaze (silent) looking down at you with the softens of gazes that have melted the harsh winds and blue skies. Outside the sun sets a beautiful red across homes and highways and inmuerable goodbyes. The Homecoming Queen waited for you; her man, she knows that only a few harken to the awakening call so the West, who have hands that will put fire in the hearts of men, wisdom in the eyes of the sage, rhythm in the hearts of the dancers, enormity in the kingdom, and paint ballroom interval scenes when ageing hands press against a lonesome sense of becoming. Hands that alone will leave just one alone, her, and never let her grow another day older. She, the girl with the red hair smoulder, southern drawl and daughter of a farmer of the rolling pastures, who killed you on her doorstep, that June evening.
Her hands soak your weary bones in the bathtubs warm water, the soft rhythms of time, and listen to you speak of all the people that you came to be within your lifetimes, all the unremembered seasons in which you sowed your seed. From peasants that toiled through the daylight hours to Kings that sat atop thrones in castles beyond imagining, your thread ran through life’s entirety. She smiles throughout your telling, never forgetting the day day you junebugged on the skirting road of Cherry Hill. And after washing you, cleaning you of the weather beaten harsh wind you fought through, she lies down next to you on the cold floor of the bathroom and you both look up at the Opal Moon and indigo sky. Pressing those lips next to your face she whispers for one last thing before the day breaks and you have to leave once more- a dance, a slow dance.
When your body moves with hers the blue mountains begin to melt into the skyline’s ebb and flow, and you know you’ve never been so close to home. The last thing you see before you awake is the peripheral highway moon, from the mirror of the rear-view.
And then you open your eyes
To a perfect sunrise, in June.
• 5 December 2013