artisjustaword reviews

Matthew J Clark's "Conversations" December 2005 Marmalade Gallery Oxford

2006-01-17T15:51:00.000Z

Well these are my thoughts as I approached a wooden structure. I'm like 2 hours late since the opening which was 6.30pm. Theres noone around, a few people sitting around tables, no one I know, I walk into the gallery space hoping there are people still hanging around. Not a soul.

'Shit Ive missed it, theyve taken it down already', i am looking at a empty space towards some kind of construction. Theres a light coming from, looks like a alley way back door, leading to a sqwat. I can hear muffled voices. 'Is that it, how do I get in'.

Expecting it to be like a pub, real pub., with people sitting around with a pint of guiness and a packet of crisps. I was not expecting what would happened next as i entered the Matt Clark Zone.
*********************************************************************************************************
TWIGLIGHT
I push open the door. Kind of dark, shady looking. I could hear familiar but distant vioices, people saying hi, couldnt quite recognize anyone at first. The whole scene had changed from the Cafe inside of Marmalade to another era, which then changed personas into certain characters from different ages. I look over towards the left, I can see the executioner serving drinks at the tavern bar. Woww

by viviane fallah

artisjustaword reviews: September 2005

2005-12-16T05:18:00.000Z

could've been romantic could've been so nice

this lotus lake they told us was full of sweet delight

yet as we grew near we new too well

that all familiar classical indian smell

theres something in the lake, stirs in the night

could it be, a poo monster filling me with fright!!!!!

paddling thru the lake, just me and you

beneath a star filled sky in a lake full of poo

paddling thru the night in our canoe

but the waters brown and lumpy, not clear and blue

paddling thru the lake, with so few cares

till that firecracker almost set fire to your hair

then we heard a voice ' Come, sleep with me!

I think you are so very nice, I think you are lovely!!!'

but to accept that offer would for sure be a mistake

think i'd rather sleep here, on poo lake!

then came the wedding, they ate and sang all day

then sat on the toilet and flushed their food away

and from the lake arose a nasty stink

was it luck that all those mutton balls, don't float but rather sink!!!

like a soup full of croutons or a malai kofta stew

little did we know, dahl lake was full of poo!!

this story is no lie nor is it a rumour

but i know it will appeal to english toilet humour

my song writing talent, i don't like to waste

nor do i like to sing songs of poor taste

but this request, i just could not refuse

to sing a song about our stay in the lake of poo

2005-12-07T08:52:00.000Z

lonely love is a loss but no toss with a little pee wee on tost you may fine some marmite on tost in the cupbord that your lips are love weith no remote a little dew wet your lips that kind of new talkin wetting the cold winter sky

love is a triangel that makes you sick
love is a triangel that makes you sick
love is a triangel that makes you sick

little poem

2005-12-07T08:48:00.000Z

When Wendy Watch an away game frankie bonked the nextdoor niebour and ran away to to win wendy hart again but the plan plutty plonked pecause wendy wanted wonderful winetta who played wounderd football the moral of that story is Wendy is gay

Forgotten Hope draws an uncanny slope

2005-11-30T13:15:00.000Z

A far away star is breathing near
A speed-ridden car forgets to steer
Alas not now she spoke in creed
The dream once felt has disappeared
Hark not once but thrice
Independence is a dish served twice
Once more you hear the soft lace fall
It marks the end of a far away call
Pierce thine tear and shed the rust
A picket fence has turned to dust
Oh no wise man, that is not for thee
But suited best to the man from Galalee

Francis Caberwood

Once around the block

2005-11-13T18:35:00.000Z

Under no circumstances can this exhibition be described as "a calling to the comrades who forgot to live". These were hurtful words of sorrow printed by a little known (but widely read) local newspaper.

Little is known about the man behind the picture, and less is known about him once it has been viewed. At first glance the picture looks to be nothing but an A1 white sheet of paper with a small stain in the left hand corner (the origin of the stain is unknown but I suspect its marmite). Howeve on a closer inspection the picture speaks not only on one, but two levels. It is not for me, nor indeed is it for anyone, to identify what the second level exists, or even what this level is attempting to communicate. However as the famous Woking poet John Kinshipasip once commented "once you look, you start to find, and once you find you know what has been found". This quote surely, but not neccessarily, sums up what can only be described as a work of art.

The man behind the picture first broke onto the scene in late 1999 with his visual art piece "Nothing to See". Nothing to See made headlines in many of two papers and one internet site (no longer available to view due to a nasty virus). The piece was not only evocative but also deeply fustrating.

Juggling both a frantic worklife and a troubling family life (he has no wife and no children [he believed for an undisclosed amount of time that the Wiltshire playwright and part time blacksmith Simon Coppledinger was his long lost son]) he finds it hard to fit in his other commitments namely fly fishing and amatuer boxer.

In sum he confides with his audience (four people saw his last show) as if they were not his friends but his brethren.

Thruppence for the piper, penny for the dog

2005-11-10T22:59:00.000Z

Vaselin Topalove's run of victories came to an end but he retained a two point lead over the field after eight rounds of the Klide World Championships being held at Liply Village hall, Stanton-by-Bridge. The man is on course to take home the title and the £3 first prize and only needs to avoid defeant (and billy the fish) to complete one of the greates victories of all time, His curren tournament rating performance, or LGT, is 3020.

He was overheard as saying "I also told the students that for the sake of humanity's future that I hope that they were all sterile"... a lovely comment from a lovely man.

olives for breakfast - or listed memories from Istanbul

2005-11-08T12:46:00.000Z

apple tea with a carpet seller
taksim square
the pickle man
pomegranate juice
egyptian spice market
grand bazaar
deserted homes
stray cats
"yes please"
the cons
nothing is certain in istanbul
hikmet
fish market
stuffed mussels
aghia sophia
the cisterns
the smells
hammam (turkish bath) x 2
music pouring into the streets from the many many many mosques
jedi mind trick man
the rain
ferry down the bosphorous
rammadan
"knives and forks"
old abandoned powerstation - bigli university's ambition
istanbul modern
taksi
"meze!"
"pretty necklace for pretty lady"
"special price for special customer"
efes
women only sections
esperanto
rice pudding in the venician tower
teeth drawings with scenes in
lanterns
huukas
"lady"
the snapping singing naked bath woman
"that kebab is eight million lire"
i had a lovely time.

'My Place, My Street' at Agnes B

2005-10-10T09:14:00.000Z

Antique cameras clustered in a bed of unwound films cushioned the autumn/winter collection in the window of Agnes B, which hung below a cacophony of snapshots.

Agnes B was the setting for the finale of the 'My Place, My Street' exhibition series organised by the artisjustaword team. Anonymous windows into an array of lifestyles and some peep-show insights into a spread of cultures around Oxford.

The venue worked well as a promotive exhibition space knitting together the independent artists and art-based companies with an established clothing brand, which sells on its personal and individual style.

The setting encouraged conversation amongst very different people with the encouragement of the complimentary champagne. There was no arrogance to the event allowing a calm atmosphere filled with personalities.

Swimming in the pleasurable intimacy of good setting, conversation and installation art a treat was set upon guests when the Vault and Gardens Organic Cafe at St Marys Church invited guests of the exhibition to an organic buffet of salads, home-made breads and organic wine.

Taking to the garden of St Mary's the evening was closed with an acoustic set from the Dead satilights, a two piece band with a hybrid sound of Spanish guitar backing deep rock-esque lyrics. The open-air gig completed the evening as something I could only describe as quintessentially Oxfordian.

The intimacy and attention to detail along with the plethora of open personalities from both the hosts and the exhibition and the venues gave every guest a feeling of contribution and pleasure.

The final exhibition of the My Place, My Street series is currently showing in Agnes B, The Highstreet, Oxford.

artisjustaword reviews

2005-09-21T15:29:00.000Z

A review of my thumb...

I started looking at my thumb expecting to see something boring, I was right.

My thumb is both emotionally shallow and purely charlatan in nature.
There was something about its smugness and a general feeling of its self-importance that left both a sour taste in my mouth and a feeling ofbeing conned.

I am no stating that the self-importance of my thumb is not justified, it clearly is (my hand would be useless without mythumb), it is just the way in which mythumb communicates this importance which is extremely detrimental to my previous conceptions, and contrary to the general stigma attached to thumbs which I had not only grown to like... but grown to love.

In sum, my thumb is not worth seeing. It had so much potential in every way, but, alomst inevitably, failed on every count.

Franky

WELCOME TO REVEIWS

2005-09-14T22:26:00.000Z

My name is George O'Shaughnessy and I would like to explain exactly what 'ARTISJUSTAWORD REVIEWS' is all about...

If you like writing and would love the opportunity to have your creations exposed to a wider audience (for free) then get in contact. Reviews is completely open, your subject is your choice. Write about anything, an exhibition, a play, a poem, an idea, a thought, a design, a person, a newspaper article, and animal, a television program's, a world event, a radio broadcast...

This space is open for everyone and supported by everyone. The more creative writing we receive the more people will read your work and the more exposure you get.

If you are interested then please contact me on artisjustaword@hotmail.com

Thank you,

George.

Muddle of Love and Faith.

2005-09-10T19:02:00.000Z

Dream....

Dream like you have dreamt a death,
dream for the lovers and their makers,
and hold on to the sweet breath of cupid.

But you will cry,
you will cry that stinking tear,
the tear to end all years,
and you will never forget.

Time passes with every day gone,
life diminsihes to leaf dry functions,
until one night you dream,
and you see a world no worse and yet no better,
just different.

and then it dawns,
it dawns as the day dawns,
and it sets as the sun sets,
that all you are is a reflection of what you are not,
and for that reason you are beautiful.

by Tangle Rainbowwitch

We Are All Myths

2005-09-05T22:18:00.000Z

We are all myths.
Legendary life experts.
Experience monkeys!
Given thumbs
For grasping theories,
Making methods,
Telling tales...

Can you feel my presence?

The role of our characters,
As stories within each other's
Stories, becoming simply
Moments. Symbolic, personal
Idols merely froth
On the legacy of the wave.

In the story of your life?

Should we stand dear friends,

Or dance honored, grinning
At the swell of laughter,
Remember experience
Kicks, spinning stories
For personal myth.

Leaving memories,
For legend lovers to
Tell storytellers...

We are all myths.

James Lock.

The Sound of Symbols

2005-09-05T22:13:00.000Z

Listen to the sound of symbols,
Figure a mountain to find zest;
Loin fruit to joy juice! All the best
Highs to the lowest fools; follower
Flat on your face like a slap!

Flutter your feet to find wings.
Fall from your arse, beware!
The smell of experience. Time
Its departure, to weigh meaning
For a soundtrack when you die.

James Lock

Clumsy Humans

2005-09-05T22:07:00.000Z

Clumsy humans, with your big hands
Grand dreams.

Clumsy humans, seen you impaled on stakes
For God's sake!

Clumsy humans, you spin with the planet...
But only know it.

Clumsy humans, with your diagrams for change
Image on image named.

Clumsy humans, with your brick like desires
Faith found, home liars.

Clumsy humans, with your beauty loss eyes
Caught fast in your visions,
and goodbyes.

James Lock

artisjustaword reviews

2005-09-03T16:24:00.000Z

a rhyme...

Mary had a little lamb
It's fleece was white and whispy.
Then it caught Foot and Mouth Disease
And now its black and crispy

artisjustaword reviews

2005-08-29T19:25:00.000Z

A poem...

The sexual urge of a camel
Is greater than anyone thinks
In moments of erotic excitement
It frequently buggers the Sphinx.
Now the Sphinx's posterior passage
Is washed by the sands of the Nile
Which explains both the hump on the camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile.

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-25T09:30:00.000Z

In my village, small though it seems
Is wild and full of coloured dreams.

The people here have more to say
Than the rolling hills or the stone facade.

For me, I find it's gone not come,
but life rolls on in the Wheatley Slum.

Lucy O'Connor

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-25T09:26:00.000Z

The houses full of peoples lives,
No dogs, no cats, no cars,
No wives.

No china tea-pots
From the stone,
The antique one
Not there before.

No swimming pools,
Or neat cut hedge,
No garages
No bike nor sledge.

Lucy O'Connor

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-25T09:22:00.000Z

Whata
Life
One could lead
Among the
Spires
And the ledges.

Whata
Face
These surroundings could
Sustain.

But the reason for me
Leaving
Much as heart in chest is
Heaving,
Oxford
Pulls me
Like a web-
A fly in Pain.

Lucy O'Connor

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-25T09:16:00.000Z

Write off- another car and 'cycle crash,
'Blighters'- another kid who's stolen cash,
Might've- known that
There's no turning back
For the junkies whose
Help is second to none- dubious.

Beauty- as the birds circle the towers,
Sky-blue- paintings in the old museums,
Fabulous- as the students make their way from
Hall to library,
Library to home,
Home to hall.

Poem by Lucy O'Connor

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-25T09:11:00.000Z

What can I say
Of a place, where
Inspiration
Spills, where nature,
Woodland
Age and intrigue
Ran... Wild
And untamed?

The colleges
-man made
The woodland- also
Sustained by man
But
All
Together
Gives man his life
Here in
Oxford.

Lucy O'Connor

A Poem for My Place, My Street

2005-08-23T12:20:00.000Z

My Lane is Long & Winding by Lynn Andrews

My lane is long and winding
it has no shops
or factory tall
it's edged with leafy hedge and tree
a rabbit hops there and
the sheep munch cantentedly.

my house is long and low
it has no stairs
no up o bed
or down to breakfast
it's door is welcoming
and when i return home
it wraps itself around me happily

my place is my space
my little piece of england
but best of all
i love to share it
open wide door
welcome family and friends
into my house so strong so safe
and then love turns my house into a home

By Lynn Andrews

"Its Particularly poignant time to be thinking about our home when the news show
us people in Gaza being forced out of their home - how lucky we are"

Haire Island

2005-08-23T11:51:00.000Z

Haire Island is a sparsely endorsed dream-land of simple functions. Practicalities, which in the real world would buy time, have become a hinderence. On my morning walk I stroll past a telephone box padlocked and empty. This shell of deceased function was evidently unnecessary on this seasonal Island with few tourists. Another redundant luxury is the abandoned caravan or the contemporary orangery. The caravan lies sadly on it's side and currently houses a thousand different shrubs and ferns. In it's glory days the caravan served the Turkish delicacy, Kebab. Like the telephone box the food van was unrequired.

I carried on walking down the single mud track road that runs across the island. On my right I see Donkey Beach. Her stretch of sand scoops gently as if purposely trying to impress itself on passing ramblers. It wants to be seen in one huge portion. Donkey Beach rarely has company so when she does she is an exhibitionist and a well practiced one. I am drawn to her.

I climb off the newly rocky path and leap onto the beach. The sand is untouched and naturally rippled. I do what any normal person on their own would, I kick and prance branding my marks everywhere. The cold Irish wind is sharp and salty. My long hair is curling and whipping across my face and I am splashing in my own romanticised image. Panting I pause and breathe in the expanse of water crushing my confidence and making me feel small and vulnerable.

Then it starts, I hear the murmuring. I listen, listen to the ocean, the gulls, the wind but it is not coming from them. Shrinking I notice my progressively twisted interruptions to the sand and I see how rude I've been. The boats are frowning at me, tutting as they shake their masts slowly. I have disturbed the peace of the objects. On this tiny holiday Island the only permanent residents are the objects and they are in charge. The land and the objects have built a relationship to comfort each other. Their conversations are incredibly alluring but only from a distance. I realise the Donkeys impertinant manipulation of me. She pulled me in only have me pushed away again.

I walk off of the beach onto the rocky path and watch as they resume their grumpy banter. Donkey is scourned but apparently doesn't care, she has had her dose of attention. The marks I tickled her with are blowing away and in the same gust the smell of bacon hurries me home.

Jennifer Brown

Conversations on Haire Island

2005-08-23T11:34:00.000Z

Does anyone know how pineapples grow?
Eporer Solassi
You're such a nice cousin
I can't help but give you cigarettes
And these cool boots
You making lists?
Force her to chat
Edward Parkinson
E.Fredwin
Ah, sweet
Get out of my way you lesbian
We're gonna go sailing
Only male without a mask tow
(Musto)
Who's never seen a boat?
Like Fulham wear
Boat Shoes
Dan Wilkins
Yeah, yeah, yeah, no
Exactly like my parents
Get on the ground in the rain
Dom Faye
Just gone to Japan
Mug me
Who was the bloke?
Next thing this bloke was on the floor
Isn't it out of Juve?
What? Dom Faye
Glad I finished with him
In year seven
Mr Puff's wife
Bus stop
In the yard
Well safe
Nice, the really rich one
He waves at me
His sisters Brownie t-shirt
Oxford Channel.

Conversation samples recorded by Amy when relaxing with friends on Haire Island, Ireland.

Nine Desks, Rachel Whiteread

2005-08-22T08:06:00.000Z

Space and time are predominant themes throughout Whiteread's work. Whiteread herself refers to her pieces as 'recordings' implying each sculpture is a notation of a past or a memory. Nine Desks is a fascinating piece for me to explore these themes in response to my own experience of the piece and my own memories.

Three rows of three identical forms have been placed in the gallery in a grid formation. Each block is spaced equally from its neighbour. On closer inspection I notice two identical indentments, running parallel to each other length-ways across the top of each block. These concrete forms are alien to me so I read the plaque displayed by them. It reads 'Nine Desks, Rachel Whiteread, 1993'. Returning my eyes to the piece I recognise these sculptures as the negative space created by the underside of a desk. These forms are a literal solidification of the area created by the table itself.

I now fully realise what is before me. Concrete casts of the negative space created by, what I recognise to be, nine school desks. Now I can trace the endentments of the extruded metal frame of the desk in the concrete with a sense of the familiar. I can note the perimeter of the blocks which mark the desks ownership of its own space, the space cast.

When I first stood before this piece the blocks were innocent. They showed me nothing but the neatly laid out forms of a formalist artist with beautiful duplication and a touch of sensationalism. Now I have identified the sculptures they have become a surface for my memories to project themselves on. My eyes have pushed into my mind and together they see a familiar scene released from my memory.

I see the exact layout of my year nine geography class. I can see myself on the back row shying away from the teachers attention. I recall running my fingers along the underside of the tables frame as I pushed my chewing-gum deep into the nook of the frame. I play through my past antics with these objects. My memories of being educated, my peers, my classroom and my teacher. In the space of a few seconds I have changed my experience of these objects. I no longer see the sculpture, I feel my familiararity with it.

The desks are not innocent to me anymore. I will never regain the neutral opinion I held them in only a few seconds ago. Each one of the desks are my objects. I know them.

Tracing my last line is strange. I am claiming an ownership over them yet I can guarantee the person standing next to me does not 'see' these desks as I do. They will see through their own memories. Whiteread's sculpture is unique to each spectator, she has created half-formed objects which are completed by memories.

So Whiteread plays on our familiararity with the objects to comfort us, or perhaps to lure us into a false sense of the known? These desks are not intrusive of threatening in fact they are quiet and still. Stagnant space solidified and displayed as sculptures. But concrete blocks are heavy and in description do sound threatening. Why, when faced with this piece do we trust it?

Concrete is a man-made material. It is another element of Whiteread's work that we are familiar with. Concrete is a major component of modern environments. It holds together buildings, it provides a secure foundation for our homes, it paves our roads and bridges our settlements. We are accustomed to concrete and know its positive properties very well. It is a predictable and controllable material that we trust and in turn we trust the work of Rachel Whitread.

I have taken a third step away from the desks. From this distance I can see that my trust was exploited. These blocks are not threatening but they are invasive, they are formed from my space. The environment created within the table-legs is the space that I occupy, it is where my legs slide in my memories. Concrete is not fluid, I cannot penetrate the area below the desk-top. I feel a loss as all my sweet recollections I had attached to this piece vanish. Again I find myself before a mass of duplicated strangers who are hostile and intrusive.

I am back, my past is lost. My eyes dislodge form my mind and revert back to the gallery. Back at the beginning I wonder if Whiteread is making a larger statement than the nostalgia of an object. Perhaps a future rebellion of a man-made entity?

Whiteread has transformed space presenting the viewer with objective forms which operate for, with and debateably against us.

Nine Desks by Rachel Whieread is part of the permanent collection on display in the Tate Modern, London.

Johannes Itten

2005-08-22T08:04:00.000Z

Matter represents the usefulness,
non-matter represents the essence of things.

Lao-Tse

2005-08-22T08:01:00.000Z

Pots are formed from clay,
but the empty space within it is the essence of the pot.
Walls and windows and doors make the house,
but the empty space within it is the essence of the house.

Yves Klien

2005-08-22T07:56:00.000Z

A flute player played nothing but a single note. After he had continued to do so for about twenty years his wife suggested that the other flute players were capable of playing entire melodies. The monotonous flute player replied that he had found the note which everybody else was searching for.

The Work of Lewis Saunders

2005-07-30T10:54:00.000Z

'The Work of Lewis Saunders'
Lolapoloza Gallery, Blue Boar St, Oxford.

Saunders work confronts you with emotionally raped women forcing you to question whose perspective you have adopted. The titles tend to be written with a knowledge of the scene portrayed confirming the images as memories rather than documentations. The acidic colours work in favour of these memoirs and re-enact the scene through a narcotically enhanced mind. Stepping in front of Saunders work made me wonder how much of the prints were based on his own experience, are these the artists regrets? Is Saunders publicising his private happenings and exposing these 'women' at their most broken? It is hard to say without asking him directly but you can be sure these images are private. Every print is based on women of comic strip proportions printed in a Litchenstein-esque style adopted by Saunders. These are fantasy women, women who are created to dominate male attention with their remarkable proportions and their implied sexual dominance. But Saunders heroines have lost their charisma. They are the same characters but disabled by exploitation. Yet these women are not devastated, a sense of future triumph lays in the ambiguity held in the eyes of each protagonist. Each woman appears to be learning how to handle herself. This is how Saunders captivates his audience. Image and title create a scene helped along by the spectators assumption based on their own experiences, be it their own or a cinematic one. It is the space for interpretation and the images ability to mould to your own scenario that has enabled the work to be so well received.

reviewed by Jennifer Brown

Umbrellas, Sun, and artisjustaword in Santiago, Chile

2005-07-29T12:04:00.000Z

by Poppy O’Shaughnessy

It’s late autumn in Santiago and the Andes are white with snow. Driving to work each morning I gaze eastward and marvel at the colours and clouds which frame this impressive mountain range.

A backdrop for this capital city is created every day, and momentarily I find myself sitting at the top of these mountains, in between the snowy peaks and thunderous clouds and soaking up the warm morning sunlight.

Below me, the cars and buses pump black smoke and honk their horns but I am lost in the sky and cannot hear them.

Last Wednesday I woke to the sound of rain; the mountains were invisible and covered by a white mist of haze and nothingness. The streets were lined with electricity; a buzz of people and a collective huddling of togetherness.

Trying to stay dry set the rhythm of the day. Smiles of shoppers crowded in tiny bus shelters as noses dripped with water and soggy jeans stuck together.

As I made my way home I walked passed the “Instituto Cultural de Providencia”, a grand building with white pillars either side of the main entrance, reminding me of places in London. I walked up the steps, through the grand doors, dropped my soggy umbrella in the stand and shook the water from my boots.
Peace
This museum space was utterly silent.
Chilean artist Jose Garcia Chibbaro is exhibiting his work here. I am the only person in this building apart from two security guards and a small, mouse-like woman who sits at a desk squinting into her book.

Oil painted figures fill large canvases each containing it’s own narrative scene which evoke within me memories of biblical stories. In many paintings female figures are blindfolded with a piece of coloured cloth, or faces are simply missing altogether and replaced by either an inanimate object or nothing at all; the landscape behind the figure occupies the space where the face should exist. In three paintings an enormous sunflower takes the place of women’s faces.

Chibbaro has reproduced a number of his painted figures into bronze statues. A painting entitled “Adam and Eve” is flanked by two bronze statues of both characters, and their faces are replaced by apples.

I like Chibbaro’s paintings but I conclude that my appreciation of his work is heightened by the atmosphere of the museum which is still and discreet; a far cry from the buzzing rainy streets outside.

Upstairs two sisters, Macarena and Angelica Montero are exhibiting their work. Macarena paints flowers; fields of poppies, bluebells, sunflowers and tulips burst colourfully from the walls, and a summer light fills the room. She dabs her paint onto the canvas reminding me of Monet’s “water lily” series and I am transported into a garden rich with smells of succulent, overgrown greenness!

Macerena’s sister Angelica paints on canvases twice as large, and although nature is the predominant theme she doesn’t concentrate only on flowers, her scenes are much wider. Angelica’s paintings are vibrant and guide me further away from my cold, rainy city. I am surrounded by David Hockney shades of blues and yellows, the skies she paints seem almost three dimensional and despite the colours being blocked and strong there remains perspective and contours.

A women walks towards me and begins speaking Spanish, I blush and smile. Realising that I’m not a native the woman asks slowly if I like the exhibition. I nod enthusiastically and we both say in unison “muy alegre no?”

posted by brighitta for poppy o'shaughnessy