Houses have eyes

Houses have eyes – Houses have hands – Houses have spirits – That can haunt the land – Houses have eyes – Ones that reflect the skies – And houses know nothing – Of perceptions and of lies.

Christ sneezes too

I was inspired by Ross Barber’s poem ‘Material’, to utilise handkerchiefs as my material to work on. It focuses on the bygone era where hankies where respected, taken care of, almost worshipped, almost spiritual. These little bits of faith we have that we carry in our everyday lives interested me as a subject. I believe our faith in these little bits of life culminate as a product of modern spirituality among all of us despite which faith you identify as.

If I have my hanky I’ll be fine.

If I have my faith I’ll be fine.

I puncture and wound the Hanky with every word I stitch, I solidify my words by bringing them into the physical realm. I poke hole in precious things to make my words valuable, substantial, impactful, visual, and altogether mor spiritual. The needle poking holes in the Hankies reminds me of the nails hammered into Jesus’ palms. It reminds me of ‘HINDSIGHT’ where I hammered nails into the wall to spell out the word. The abuse of the material to create a piece makes me feel like a persecutor, as if I’m using violence to generate meaning.

I have empathy for my material – and the simple act of sewing should hold no guilt, but when I view it in the context of my religious upbringing, I feel Christian guilt. This has become a spiritual act for me, every stitch and the stigmata is seared further into my mind. Sewing isn’t spiritual, but I find myself at peace, with hope, and developing faith in the action – rather than in a religion.

Manifesto of fear

Modern spirituality and the Anti-religion of a Catholic school girl.

I watched an interview with Ewa Partum who exhibited Active Poetry at the Tate in 1971. She scattered letters on the streets of Warsaw, drawing inspiration from ‘Our party will lead the nation’ or ‘Socialism is our idea’ and other such political slogans. She would throw her letters into the sea, which really resonated with me, as I’ve grown up in a seaside town. As I’ve grown older, I’ve witnessed non religious relatives scatter ashes to the sea of those whom we loved and those that loved us.

It got me thinking about why we feel better after these rituals, these glimpses of spiritual belief, but the belief is in nothing but the rituals. We feels connected to the world, whether it’s funerals or weddings or scattering ashes. A practise in personal religion, one that does not have a deity, but a hanky tucked up their sleeve and the necklace they always wear on Wednesdays, and the perfume has graced their neck since it first reminded them of their mother.

I believe new age spirituality is more precious and more elusive than any other. Where can we find these corners of our lives where rituals become religion? I’ve created this series to explore personal spirituality through text.

Ros Barber, “Material”

My mother was a hanky queen

when hanky meant a thing of cloth, not paper tissues bought in packs from late-night garages and shops,

but things for waving out of trains

and mopping the corners of your grief: when hankies were material

she’d have one, always, up her sleeve.

Tucked in the wrists of every cardi,

a mum’s embarrassment of lace embroidered with a V for Viv,

spittled and scrubbed against my face.

And sometimes more than one fell out as is she had a farm up there

where dried-up hankies fell in love and mated, raising little squares.

She bought her own; I never did.

Hankies were presents from distant aunts in boxed sets, with transparent covers and script initials spelling ponce,

the naffest Christmas gift you’d get –

my brothers too, more often than not, got male ones: serious, and grey,

and larger, like they had more snot.

It was hankie that closed department stores, with headscarves, girdles, knitting wool

and trouser presses; homely props

you’d never find today in malls.

Hankies, which demanded irons,

and boiling to be purified

shuttered the doors of family stores when those who used to buy them died.

And somehow, with the hanky’s loss, greengrocer George with his dodgy foot delivering veg from a Comma van

is history, and the friendly butcher who’d slip and extra sausage in,

the fishmonger whose marble slab

of haddock smoked the colour of yolks and parcelled rows of local crab

lay opposite the dancing school

where Mrs White, with painted talons,

taught us When You’re Smiling from a stumbling, out of tune piano: step-together, step-together, step-together,

point! The Annual Talent Show

when every mother, fencing tears,

would whip a hanky from their sleeve

and smudge the rouge from little dears.

Nostalgia only makes me old.

The innocence I want my brood

to cling on to like ten-bob notes

was killed in TV’s lassitude.

And it was me that turned it on and eat bought biscuits I would bake if I’d commit to being home.

There’s never a hanky up my sleeve.

I raised neglected-looking kids,

the kind whose noses strangers clean. What awkwardness in me forbids

me to keep tissues in my bag when handy packs are 50p?

I miss material handkerchiefs, their soft and hidden history.

But it isn’t mine. I’ll let it go.

My mother too, eventually,

who died not leaving handkerchiefs but tissues and uncertainty:

and she would say, should I complain of the scratchy and disposable,

that this is your material

to do with, daughter, what you will.

Whether or not you believe in a God, you can still be spiritual in many non traditional ways.

Do you feel safe?

Do you feel safe walking down the street at night? Do you feel safe watching other girls being harassed, but still not wanting to start a fight? Do you feel safe in art school, where you’re not meant to be mainstream and you’re not meant to be cool? Do you feel safe doing all the things boys feel safe doing?

Yeah, me neither.

There are moral consequences to proclaiming yourself as a freedom fighting feminist. How could I possibly identify as an advocate for women’s freedom when I live in a first world country, with the right to vote, the right to wear what I want, the right to exist.

It is estimated that 70% of women worldwide have experienced physical and/or sexual violence from an intimate partner in their lifetime. Worldwide, almost 750 million women & girls were married before their 18th birthday, and about 1 in 7 were married before age 15.

Fuck.

How could I possibly call myself a feminist, unless I do something about the 200 million women and girls alive today that have undergone female genital mutilation? The majority of girls were cut before 5 years old. (UNWomen.org facts and figures: ending violence against women). I can’t sit happily, comfortable, and safe in my studio making fucking art about vaginas and think I’m making a goddamn difference to any of these women’s lives who need difference.

Mondrian isn’t a woman.

A response to being labelled a feminist, is what you could call this series. I wish to exist as an artist without the prefix of ‘woman’. I do not want to be put in a box where context blinds the audience from experiencing my work. Without words, without judgements, without the word feminist.

I want to relate to people on a human, personal, level. Preconceptions of what I may or may not believe in are irrelevant to my work. I had to move away from the colour pink , as I believe it was part of the reason I wasn’t being taken serious. The monochrome pieces are a personification of my anger, a subversion of all my work so far.

The monochrome was meant to be a subversion of Mondrian’s work. It’s bold and bland, to protest the assumptions colour can create. I feel safe in using the colour pink now, as my work is abstract and even if the ‘F’ word was attributed to it, it cannot be proven. I like the idea of appropriating a mans style, as I can hide my work behind the connotations that come with it.

I watched Tateshots of Judy Chicago that particularly struck a chord with this series. She explains that she ‘moved away from (her) natural tendencies, and in order to be taken seriously as an artist (she) tried to make art that did not reveal that (she) was a woman.’ I feel like that is what I was trying to capture with the monochrome pieces, however, she goes on to admit ‘ I want to be myself as an artist, I’m not going to hide anymore the fact that I’m a woman artist.’. She inspired me to not be afraid of exploring things that are naturally feminine such as the colour pink.

Pink to make the boys think.

Don’t call it feminism

Because that’s not what it is

I’ve spent my whole life trying to get a handle on all this fucking shit

The colour pink has no connotations

And my art does not celebrate particular liberation’s

So don’t call me a feminist please

Have you any idea what’s happening overseas?

But that’s not quite as feminist as me

According to your expertise

Your ego is catching

Like an infectious disease

And I won’t ask anymore

Now I’m telling you

Despite your misguided altruism

Don’t call it fucking feminism

I am a woman therefore I am (not a feminist)

Stop calling me a fucking feminist

Does my mannerism say activism?

Does my stoicism say liberalism?

Does my alcoholism say feminism?

Are you talking to me or my fanny?

I’m not a feminist but he still says

Aye that’s canny

Not to get me wrong I think equality would move us all along

But you just keep imagining her in a pink feminist thong

Forget about oedipus you fucking hedonist

Stop calling me a fucking feminist

A Critical Friend

A Critical Review of Hannah Mallaby’s Artistic Practise

https://humanbotanical.wordpress.com

Hannah’s work ‘Cosmic Egg’ manifests a affinity with Pollock, her technique imperative to the process. She manipulates syringes to compose a distinctive and overt example of abstract expressionism. Examination of mediums is forefront in Hannah’s work, with pearlescent gloss, glitter, and eggshell just a few examples of her diverse practise.

Galactic pretence seems to be the subject and context of her practise, and despite the lack of subjectivity, she commands the idea of outer space with professional ease.

Painting has a definite dominance in terms of Hannah’s processes, which is not lacking in its robustness, nevertheless, I think her work could take different forms and constructions, adding to the depth to her already intense compositions.

Eve

My work is about being powerful, frightening and overall feminine. The first two traits being the ones normally not associated with women unless the prefix of ‘bitch’ is included. My pieces also explore kink culture, and how the ways we explore our sexual identity also relate to who we are at a physical and artistic level.

This series of pieces is named Eve, after the first female to ever trespass against a mans will in the story of Genesis.

To bring this sexual expression into a piece of art it to bring it into the public sphere, and therefore inspires a narrative on what should be private, and what should be expressed. Sexual expression and liberation is important in thinking about identity, because who are we if not our inner most drives and desires? The ego, the Id, and the superego arguably control our drives, so when thinking about identity and such, I automatically deferred to sexual expression, as it’s also been important in the development of my sense of self and personality.