JUL 2017 | My not-for-profit Up Your Creativity workshops were designed for anyone looking to kick-start their creativity, and culminated in an exhibition of work by students and guest artists.
Exhibitors included A.A. Moore, Adesuwa Edebiri, Ayshe Gul, Charlotte Wakerley, Hayley Cannon, Jennifer Sanchéz, Julian Sanchéz, Kev Kelly, Laura Barnicoat, Lizzie Sturm, Nathalie Kamber, Róisín and Gabriel Lonergan.
Thank you to Jordan Cannon for DJ-ing, and to A.A. Moore and Ufuk Uyanik for helping set up the space at MostArt Centre, London.
For my DJ friend by A.A.Moore
This one doesn’t plug-in the mains, must adapt to fit the mould,
Not as straight-forward as the rest, not the connector you were sold.
Mad intensity because he knows it, you can’t ignore the sound,
LOUDER and it will find you, on the commuter belt of the underground.
Trying desperately to tune it, pumpkin-eyes open to the noise of escape,
Your pupils are small but the light seeps through, in some multi-dimensional shape.
Stick your head inside the sub mate, rattle atoms till there’s no more thought,
Eyes closed but your cells still jumping, no real blindness to what you’ve bought.
BANGER the girl is screaming, a blonde jumpstart and explosive spark,
High off tangible sound waves, muscle that pulls you from the dark.
The adaptor isn’t needed, just heart and mind as you drop the track,
Rocketed up there somewhere, as the sky and her cheek bones crack.
Terror in a tent by Kev Kelly
I was wide awake and shaking in the silence. The sub-zero temperature made my teeth clamp together and tremble. Wearing everything I could, but frozen to the bone and cursing the fact I had bought a tent that cost £4 on sale at a discount sports store. Roughly the price of a pint for my shelter in the middle of the Patagonian winter wilderness, miles from the nearest tiny town of El Chaltén. I was paying for it now with insomnia and the first stages of pneumonia.
Eventually I willed myself to clamber out and light a cigarette. Only a smidge of light came from the heavens, just enough to make out a pale rock in the distance, like the dark side of the moon.
I then spotted a small yellowish light in front of me, perhaps five metres away in the darkness. My guess was a firefly. But there was no buzz and it moved slowly and smoothly. Then the light changed shape and was joined by another beside it. Then I realised. It was a pair of eyes. A puma.
A bowel-churning, electric, big cat growl ripped through the barren outback. I quivered and froze. The puma hurled another growl. I dropped the cigarette and slowly backed into the tent. The zipper stuck as a semblance of the silhouette came into view as it approached. I forced the zip, triggering an aggrieved roar. Back in my tent, no light, on my knees, cowering, waiting for it to tear through and finish me.
It snarled inches in front of me, with only cobweb-thin material separating us. I smothered my backpack hoping to block the smell of food, and began to rock backwards and forwards. The animal circled, growled, hungry and angry. I rocked myself gently to another place.
Reasoning and fear slowly evaporated and muted the heavy breath of the predator beside me. "Everything will be OK " was on a loop in my jaded consciousness and I hugged myself into a timeless singularity of disconnect.
I woke up. I was alive. It was morning. There was light, vision and gentle noises of nature soothing me back to reality. I anxiously unzipped enough for a peeping hole. The coast was clear so I slowly peeled it down, and squirmed out into the damp wild paradise. I wondered where he was. But I didn't stick around to find out.
Tootie's Tarot by Laura Barnicoat
Opening the old stony doorway
on a May feathery morning
up the Pole and now with Babe in arms,
the Postman points to said Baby and says:
“That’s a right little Tootie!”
Named by a passing Postman
in the twilight of the War,
a late Baby Boom
born in a seam, a fold
and flickering in and out with signal failure -
Go ahead -
unexpected frog in the bed,
upturned in the rainy earth
looking about, exposed, for where to go.
Along the Taro river,
water slips over,
finding Turuq ways,
falling through cut away paths and gaps
fingers parting hair, tracing lines on maps
and large stones emerge.
Dealt in Ancient River Formation,
turned and set into Oracle position.
The Fortune Teller Tootie settles
in a nest, elbows out, unfurling her tentacles
strings holding note in an orchestra
of swords, staves, cups, coins,
luminating discs and spinning pentacles
Waiting to hear what news of the cards,
the Great Sitters of Fortune Past,
Mistresses of Miseria, Papesses, Hierophants
with glowing red ears,
flapping to hear,
all eyes up,
dogs at the heels of divination
for tidbits - for trumps?
The Fortune Teller Tootie considers,
her cigarette alights,
the greater secrets
the lesser secrets -
Laid out in loose leaves
are the old Cardinals of Virtue:
Temperance, Justice, Strength and Prudence
encircling the Tower, locked up in Avarice
and running through the middle,
bolted by horses trundling with chariots of money
and 3 Spades,
is the Tor-Path Ro-Royal.
Tinkling there further by and by,
The Fool with his things and cider
Leaves behind the town he omits
to make his ways
on the sometimes hot
and sometimes wet