So, firstly, thanks to those of you who have joined, and we will be throwing some indoor sparklers around very soon. Secondly, thoughts about this new discussion space linked up with others I had this week about endings.

Online conversations never really end (although, it’s true, they can also have very short memories). Things bounce around forever. There are always more comments, other perspectives, retweets etc. I have received four emails while writing these three paragraphs. I’m also half-listening to music. Maybe I’ll check the football scores. I wonder if Julian Assange has published my diary yet. Half a dozen tanks have arrived in Tahrir Square…

Right, so reading a relatively new collection of poetry this week I felt similarly to how I do when I step into one of those online rivers. On first read, Ben Lerner’s The Lichtenberg Figures, which will take me a while to digest, works not by taking the reader through any kind of argument or even progression, but, or so it feels, by throwing a load of avatars into a pit and letting them interact. It feels like a large system of elements, an economy, a field. These things don’t conclude, they tend toward entropy; no, that’s not right in this case, they tend toward ever-greater complexity (at least that’s what it feels like – it’s more heart than head at the moment). But where to end? Where the first-book-competition’s page guidelines say to end? When it feels tiresome?

I’m sure that I’m not saying anything new, but a resurgence of interest in so-called closed forms might be a reaction to this kind of open-endedness. The book is all sonnets, but I reckon they could all be thirteen lines long instead (much as I’m attracted to the sonnet’s fourteen-ness), in that they don’t, that I can see, have much to say to the history of the form, except that it proves these really are poems. Every new line is a volta. The point of the form is that there must be something to end the undendable verse.

The Lichtenberg Figures is really exciting and part of its excitement is the feeling of having somehow found some new dimensions curled within our normal planes. Writing like this privileges individual phrases, marked shifts in tone and subject, in relation to a whole. Except there isn’t really a whole, that I can see. There are a limited number of words, but they don’t give you a new place to sit.

Drawing an analogy with information society is probably a limited way of understanding Lerner’s poetics. But the connection has been explicitly made by other writers, notably the Informationists, a group that included Likestarlings poet Richard Price. He wrote that

one of the ideas of Informationism was to rewire the new of the everyday to itself: as it were, to cross wires, to hot wire, to short-circuit the text-ology of the present. By this I mean to engage with the new worlds and jargon of the information society; to find poetic analogies in form as well as content to technological invention and global discourse.

Price’s poetry, although disjunctive and seeking to rewire, has lyric and narrative elements which allow for more of a sense of coming-to-some-kind-of-end at the end of a poem than do those which make up The Lichtenberg Figures. But I am working my way back through Lerner’s work and will report more on the end at the end. In the meantime, if anyone has any thoughts, I’d love to hear them…

the editors contend that nowhere else in print or on the web can such a concentration of these particular values be found. Various strands of late 20th century thought have done much to problematize these values, but the writings collected in The Winter Anthology are neither sentimental atavisms nor naive attempts at reconstruction.

The scope is international, with writers including Yves Bonnefoy, Jack Gilbert, Lucie Brock-Broido, Karl Ove Knausgaard and Vuyewla Carlin. The editorial intrusion is minimal, the site simple and elegant.

I’m always impressed by people who can define clearly what they value in literature, particularly literature of the moment. But I’m also wary of, in doing so, drawing unnecessary lines between insiders and outsiders. Wary, too, that such decisions might cause us readers to miss precious other things.

Then it occurs to me that that that is precisely what an editor does, isn’t it, choose some things over others. And inside that most general of definitions, there are very different sorts of editorial projects. There are editors looking to represent the greatest possible variety of styles and concern. There are editors who publish things they aren’t sure of precisely because they find that being off-balance exciting – and hope time might prove them right. There are editors deliberately seeking the obscure and esoteric. There are those who, like us here, encourage and facilitate new work through a common process. There are editors seeking to consolidate in order to rectify what they perceive to be a wayward focus in literary taste, a category into which those of The Winter Anthology fall.

The results are exhilarating. There is a consistent sense of the poetic line here; there is History; there are angels, though not rosy cherubim; there are words I had to look up in the dictionary; there are some works that have their arms open, some which offer only a cold handshake. But they all ask for more time to be spent with them. They are works which I will read again, and I heartily recommend them.

Some argue that the internet weakens the role of the editor, as anyone can publish and anyone can search. That doesn’t seem true to me. Indeed, I’ll have, as the internet often allows, both: the possibilities of editorless, or self-edited, content are great; but judicious editing, like that of The Winter Anthology seems as valuable as ever.

joint commitment/ joint responsibility/ full accountability// most importantly: the desire and need to make something useful – to as many people as possible – that serves some kind of a purpose now, and, ideally, onward into the future – whatever that might be. This seems ambitious. I hope so. It stems also from a (sometimes desperate) sense of urgency, in the main pertaining to what we might broadly but vexedly term ‘the environment’. I say ‘vexedly’ because I very much agree with James Sherry that to make any real progress it’s absolutely essential that we scud under the (basically Romantic) separation between ‘Humanity’ and ‘Nature’. Any more advanced and holistic (i.e. Gaian) viewpoint doesn’t allow such easy distinction and disambiguation anyway. However, I realise that saying these things so simply is perfectly reductive as well. Still, as the best poetry pushes at the bulbous glassy edge of reality and attempts to chart undistorted its findings we may as well try and get on with things as best we can. It’s only language, our chosen(?) medium. I would rather a restless, risky poetics than the majority inertia witnessed where apparent ‘realism’ is a stultifying virtue. Documentation doesn’t seem like enough, and didacticism is nearly as worrying as the thought of failure. Coaxing and honing the edges of imagination somehow seems to be the thing. Because it’s a failure of the imagination that will let us down eventually.

Some of these ideas also link to an essay on (the impossibility of) closure by Lyn Hejinian (also) in Jacket. The idea of us existing on and in a continuum I find helpful. This echoes the calling out of the artificial division (the default, atavistic us&them) between humanity and nature/the environment. And again the idea of a collective effort comes through.  This is fitting for Likestarlings and for a collaborative clean-up and rescue operation. It points the way to poetry that is less definite in assumptions (but no less definite in its quality) about its immediate purpose (autopilot) and more expansive in its aims – an investigative poetics so to speak. This is poetry that can embrace anything, evolve, adapt – survive (yes). It acknowledges its own transitory nature, the impermanence of its medium and situation, and presents a permeable interface allowing multiple interpretations, trajectories and implications.

These concepts of investigative poetries with permeable edges takes me on to the first-mentioned phrase: poets as filters of information/sensation/ revelation … as a linguistic organ rather like a liver or kidney. Decisions about what to pass over in silence are highly important in this context. Because poetry is open-ended doesn’t need to mean it’s unclear in its aims or convictions. Peter Reading of course, with his wholly linked, inter-referential and remarkably coherent oeuvre, springs very spikily to mind. He’s predicted a great deal of this.

Poetry, it seems to me, is the medium most adept and fitting for considering the ecological crisis occuring now. This is because as a communicative and evocative vehicle  it is the most mobile, the most nuanced, the most capable of being honest thing we have. It most closely reflects the fluxious nature of experience. So, poets as semi-permeable membranes creating permeable, evolving works in an impermanent medium! Sounds difficult.

This is much longer than I intended. Does it make any sense? As ever, I fondly (but not complacently I hope) await your elucidation and better ordering of these fuggy thoughts…

DEH

Last year I began sending e-mails something like the following to a number of poets whose work I admire:

I am hoping you will consider contributing to a new project I have in mind. Basically the inspiration for this came when I was at a painter’s studio and he mentioned to me that a particular painting had come about when the artist in the neighboring studio was throwing out a canvas she had given up on. He took her abandoned painting and painted his own painting on top of it, but you can still see her painting coming through at certain points. Well, this gave me the idea to ask a number of poets whose work I like if they have a poem that they’ve abandoned that they would consider giving me to work on—to write on top of it, so to speak, the way that painter painted on top of his friend’s painting. So give it some thought and let me know if this is something you’d be willing to do. If it seems too uncomfortable or whatever, don’t worry about it, I completely understand. It’s such a personal thing. That’s why it interests me of course—an opportunity to delve in a different way into the work of some people I admire in the process of, I hope, coming up with something of my own, or maybe of both of ours, but anyway in part my own. Of course, I may not end up being able to do anything with some (or maybe even any) of the things people send me. But I’m curious to see what happens. Let me know what you think.

The origins of my desire to work with the “failed” or “abandoned” efforts of other poets undoubtedly lie deep within the history of my work. I have always been fascinated by the obviously self-contradictory notion of a text whose final form would nonetheless be predicated on the suggestion that it could easily have been otherwise. My first chapbook, The New Lessons, whose form was much affected (as I seem to recall) by my then-recent discovery of the books of Jack Spicer, was a sequence of poems with, at the foot of each page, some sequences of words that seemed to suggest the reader could substitute any one of them for certain words in the poem above. Two subsequent sequences, Fate/Seen in the Dark and Hidden Figure, with their parallel texts, were undoubtedly influenced by my reading of the alternating voices in John Ashbery’s “Fantasia on ‘The Nut-Brown Maid’” and above all on the “simultaneous but independent monologues” of his great “Litany,” but even more so, I think, by the parallel text editions I had used during my failed years in graduate school, books in which the 1805 and 1850 versions of The Prelude or the A, B, and C-texts of Piers Plowman were juxtaposed—that is, although I hadn’t worked the idea out fully, I was struck by the notion that my parallel texts were somehow versions of the “same” thing, no matter how different they appeared. That only happened later, with my four “Opera” poems, where the second, third, and fourth poems were presented as remixes of the first.

The remix idea could have led to the idea of working with material gathered from other poets, and arguably should have, since it is standard practice to remix the work of another artist, not one’s own. But that didn’t happen right away. The idea made me nervous. Working with someone else’s material evokes considerable ambivalence—is one honoring the other person’s work, vandalizing it, or both at once?—and I wasn’t ready to handle it. I remember not long after the publication of Opera giving a reading with a friend whose poetry I admire greatly—am in awe of, frankly, having always to ask her, “How the fuck do you do that?” She had written a long poem taking off from a line in one of mine and presented it at the reading. I was furious; I couldn’t bear the sense of competition, the feeling that she was outdoing me. Today I would react very differently. It would probably cause an incurable crush or something. That’s how much I’ve become caught up in the pleasure of the text of the other.

There were two things that finally gave the idea to undertake this project. The first was a request from Kasey Mohammad to contribute to a magazine issue he was editing on the theme of “Do Your Worst.” He wrote, “Would you consider sending me the worst poem or poems you can possibly concoct? Or, alternately, an essay on some aspect of poetic worstness? Or a review of what you believe to be a consummately dreadful book of poems, etc.?” The issue never materialized, but I spent a long time thinking about the idea of failure—whether and how it was possible to present it as a positive force. I thought a lot, too, about something the painter Marlene Dumas once said: “A big mistake is better than a small one.” So, a good rule of thumb when revising would be, “Correct the small mistakes and amplify the big ones.” Anyway, sometime later—as alluded to in the e-mail I quoted at the beginning of this text—I found myself in Tel Aviv, visiting the studio of another painter friend, Tsibi Geva. Among the paintings he showed me was one that, he explained, had been painted on a canvas he’d obtained from the painter in the neighboring studio. He saw her throwing out a painting she had given up on as a failure, and he asked her if he could use the canvas. So Tsibi painted his painting on top of hers, but certain traces of her painting still showed through his.

Bingo. I knew I could do this: I would ask my fellow poets do give me their failed or abandoned efforts, the wretched refuse of their teeming shores. I would try my best to make them citizens of my own poetic country. I did this knowing full well that there is something uncomfortable about the whole idea—both of showing someone else the work one has decided isn’t good enough and of letting go of something that really one just might be able to do something with, later. That’s why I am so grateful to the poets who agreed. They’ve done something that can’t have been easy. (And many of those I asked could not do it, which I understand.) I started calling it “the abandoned poems project,” and when I’ve published a few of the results it’s been as “from The Abandoned Poems” but whether that name will stick, I’m still not sure.

Some of the poems I received already seemed almost good; they just need more or less extensive improving. (One poem I had to return to sender, saying that I’d have felt like a thief taking it: It was already perfect as it was—except for that title.) But others hadn’t been finished for good reason. There was something fundamentally wrong, self-defeating, about their underlying impulse, insofar as I could make that out. Without that impulse I could see nothing to work with, but something about it was almost intolerable to me. All the wrong notes are right, as Charles Ives said, but some music is just wrong no matter how many right or wrong notes are in it. To see this project through, I would have to learn to let some of that wrong music into my work and I would have to learn, somehow, to right it. This turned out to be the hardest part of the job I’d set myself. By the way, although I’m sure I won’t be able to use every poem I was sent, the unused poems are not necessarily “worse” or more problematic than the ones I use. It’s just that their problems, sometimes quite superficial, were ones I couldn’t see a way to solve.)

Something else that feeds into this project is my long-standing envy of musicians and the way they get to collaborate with each other, providing mutual inspiration. It always seemed like so much more fun than working away in a room all by yourself as we poets usually do. Until now, I’ve never seen a way to overcome this isolation. Not that I would consider these poems to be collaborations, mind you. However much or little of the original poet’s writing remains in them, I alone am responsible for the final configuration. The poets who contributed to my project had no say in what I would do with their words. I’m still not ready to give up that much control. (As Dumas said about her collaborations with fellow painter Bert Boogaard, “I don’t try to become one with someone else. I wanna be two.” Or as I recently heard Charles Bernstein read from a not-yet-published piece of his, “I want other voices / but I want them always to be / / My own other voice.”) And yet I’ve given myself something of the pleasure I imagine I would get out of a full-scale collaboration—the pleasure of getting closer to another poet’s manner of working, his rhythm, his sensibility for the texture of words. At times I get an almost physical satisfaction out of being able to work with language that seems to bear the traces of having passed through another person’s ears, eyes, hands, nervous system.

There is no special methodology to how I’ve proceeded. Each poem seems a special case, demanding its own improvised response. In one case, where a poem was built around a repeated phrase, I started by substituting a new anaphora for each case—then I started looking for what to do to make them work with what was already there. In one case, I used the original poem whole, in a form only slightly changed from the original, but doubled the length of the poem by inserting a new line after every one that I’d been given. Often enough it’s just a question of working on the poem much in the way I normally would work on one of my own, just worrying at it line by line, trying to hear its inner structure and bring that out. Of course I know that inner structure is one that I’ve imagined, not one that really came from the poet who started the poem—but it’s also one that I’d never have found on my own, which is why I continue to find this process fascinating.

Poem

We’re heading in the right direction. We don’t know

what we’re going to know but we’ll open a bottle and taste

agave. Heading in the right direction: my latest

near-death experience, as a stand-alone

or as an add-on. In the right direction, fact fans:

seeing things and then getting wicked ideas. I’ll top

whatever I see. The right direction: to live

to 80. I try and stretch all the time and do some sit-ups and

push-ups. Yeah well, if you’re heading in the right direction:

We have more silence in our ears, a poem

I never knew was mine, loud songs

in memory of a hairline fracture. It better

have some pretty damn amazing gameplay. You’re heading

in the right direction: getting into the meditative state as many

moments in the day as you can. Is this just madness? I don’t know,

man! You’re heading in the right direction so who am I

trying to protect? But don’t forget

last night: I love the drama

of role playing. I’m a drama queen, and that’s what

we do. It’s like bottled liquid sunshine, and heading

in the right direction: my kids. I want the kids

to do what they truly want to do, but heading

in the right direction. We’ll hold hands and never, ever

look back. I always mocked your game

because my whole game is speed, while yours

is obviously jumps and ramps. The right direction: where words

go missing. Sentences between leaves. Made-of things

won’t hurt you. And one more thing, Batman, about what

we are trying to achieve, about us getting better. I’m doing

what I feel the need to do. Slim, lethal, the ghost

of an absence, you’re heading in the right direction:

equality. If we’re going to be equal, then let’s all

be equal. New visitors forever, heading

in the right direction, despite rumors

the place was haunted: parents and animals.

It’s a bit bitter. It was her long hands

I couldn’t stop looking at. This is not about me being unhappy

with what I’m being paid. I signed a contract

and I’m going to live up to it. Everything I see or hear

reminds me of the poem I’m working on, reminds me

you’re heading in the right direction. But I

figured something out for once: that heading

in the right direction, toward an inability

to see the universe, in all its glory, as a total accident

that came from nothingness all by itself: impossible.

I’ve got a pretty good work ethic, I can say. I will be fine

if I get a job but totally not fine if I don’t. That

sucks. I need money, the source of most

of my problems. We lead symmetrical lives, both heading

in the right direction: live performance

as you can probably tell. The right

direction: the music. The live stuff, it sets me free. It’s

that hour. We go up to the door. And in the right

direction: to avoid a violent confrontation. I’d rather

back off. Some guys’ll grab hold of you and bust you up. So

I guess it’s time for me to catch up with myself. Maybe I’m a bit

anxious, and my whole “deal” is paranoia, what’s my bag

you ask? Well, all you cool cats promoting Bigfoot’s existence,

fly away with me in the right direction: fishing slow

and just having confidence in what we’re doing. We’re kind of

the new kids on the block. These words in memory

of Electrelane, the only band we ever heard

in the last world. Goodbye. Okay okay—they’re heading

in the right direction: “Fuck work” is the slogan

that started this company. It may not seem simple,

but practically, it is. I believe you should stick with the religion

you were born with. For me that’s Judaism, and so that

is the only religion I’m against. The others don’t even exist for me.

My photo shoot alter ago, you’re heading in the right direction:

to get these guys paid. Then, I’ll go back to the planet

where I came from. I feel kind of like I just

wasted a lot of time giving someone else pleasure but

we agreed to do this and we’re doing it. With poppy seeds

between my teeth. You watch them slowly

and you’re heading in the right direction: looking

for a good fuck. The next day I couldn’t walk. Pop stars

for breakfast. The kiss that almost killed me. Well, in a way,

but not really, because of heading in the right direction: I never

even buy clothes because I get free clothes from all of my friends

who make clothes anyway. Whatever. Keep heading

in the right direction: promote tools that allow people to organize

and communicate in groups, particularly in local communities

around the world. I have no desire to be a pop

crossover artist. I wear a hat and I’m heading in the right

direction, playing my guitar. But I want to hear more hymns

that were done that way. To have my cadence considered

for centuries. Can anyone point me in the right direction?

After K. Silem Mohammad

(Originally published in With+Stand 2, 2008)

Barry Schwabsky is an American poet living in London. His books are Opera: Poems 1981-2002 (Meritage Press, 2003) and Book Left Open in the Rain (Black Square Editions/The Brooklyn Rail, 2009) and he has also published chapbooks with Burning Deck and Mindmade Books (formerly Seeing Eye Books), among others. He is art critic for The Nation and co-editor of international reviews for Artforum. You can read further examples of his abandoned poems here and here.

Collaborations often emerge from relatively separate artistic communities who, while their policed borders discipline their form and concentrate their fields of energy, thrive when the authorities are given the day off. Under such circumstances smugglers from the different arts meet to exchange what they hope, or assert, are premium goods. Sometimes the meeting becomes a little rough, a little disorganised, or a little too enthusiastic: different merchandise spills into each other in the swap and a new contraband is formed.

I first worked with the artist Ronald King in the 1990s, first getting to know him on one of those days when the border guards had been told to go home early: a small press book fair on London’s South Bank. At these fairs there is typically a range of different arts represented: visual artists, conceptual artists, sound poets, academic poets, lyric poets, visual poets, performance artists, political activists, fine press experts, book artists, and so on. At that time I was co-running Vennel Press, which published early poetry collections by W. N. Herbert, David Kinloch, Elizabeth James, and Peter McCarey, and Southfields magazine, a cultural review. I had a stall at the book fair and so did Ronald King, who was representing his book arts publisher Circle Press.

During the course of the day we started to talk about our shared enthusiasms for the book as a visual object. Once the fair had closed we took our discussion to the bar.

Ron, who has always worked with poets, collaborating with Roy Fisher over many decades, was receptive to an idea of an artist’s book that featured the white horses of the southern downlands. I had already written a single poem for it and imagined this poem as the entire text for the book. The fluency and ancient mystery of the Uffington white horse particularly fascinated us both and it seemed to anticipate Matisse’s jazz on a grand scale by millennia. I was also interested in the endurance of the shape of the horses over centuries, generations of care from their neighbouring communities sustaining these beautiful figures on the land.

The poem just didn’t work for Ron and he very gently declined it. He didn’t say why and I was swallowing my pride too much to probe. I am not sure if it was the poem as such or if it was that he just couldn’t find a way of reacting to it within his own form. Looking back, I think the poem, which works across the whole of a single page’s white-space and collages different kinds of literary register within that page, was actually doing too much spatial and typographical work for Ron to manoeuvre around and through. In a way it was asking Ron to be a printer not an artist and that should never have been the deal. I think this is important about collaboration, so important it’s a cliché – that each has to move towards each other and gain in the collaboration by, if necessary, appearing to ‘lose’ within ones own form.

What happened next was that really the horse itself grabbed me. Unusually for me, I couldn’t sleep: I kept hearing a kind of ghost beast running the hills and that imaginary stallion’s rhythm became the start of a strongly stressed poem that was not pictorial or typographical but a poem of movement. No doubt this was a romantic trope borrowed from tales of Ted Hughes’s thought-fox experience but the pulse seemed real enough to me.

This new text proved to be the catalyst. Ron conceived the book as a series of openings in which a single horse figure would move from standstill at the beginning of the book to gallop by the end. Using blind embossing, in which uninked metal is pressed on to dampened paper to produce an indented form (uplifted on the next page), he began to plan what eventually became a kind of slow motion flicker book that was extremely tactile. By using the centre of each opening to bisect the horse, Ron was able to ‘move’ the horse from zero to its greatest speed. It was fascinating to see that Ron avoided in any way copying the Uffington horse: in the course of the collaboration we had exchanged several images of it and it was certainly the horse we had in mind but Ron’s is taller, more slender, and at times more gentle (I think there are comic effects, too). I guess Ron had also been collaborating with the artists of the Uffington horse in a way – allowing those ancients their own space as well. Finally, Karen Bleitz, who years later I worked with on laser-cut books, typeset the poem in a clean looking sans serif font. Together, finally, after a serious false start, gift horse was made.

Richard Price’s Rays is published by Carcanet. He recently collaborated with Luke Kennard for a Likestarlings conversation, here. His website is www.hydrohotel.net. He is Head of Modern British Collections at the British Library.

Tell us a bit about ‘If You Could’, if you would

If You Could started when Will and I were in the second year at Brighton University, and was initially a way to help raise funds for our final year degree show. The first question we asked was: “If you could do anything tomorrow, what would it be?” The project has grown from this question into lots of different incarnations and projects and we are now in our fourth year.

What’s happening for this year’s project?

This year we’re asking 40 artists who they’d like to collaborate with on a project. They don’t necessarily have to be creative  – it’s acting more as an excuse for artists that we admire to work with others with whom they’d like to create something. Who they choose to work with, and what they choose to make is entirely up to them – we curate the show according to their pieces and their wishes. It’s all about facilitating exciting pieces of work from practitioners we admire, with no hidden agendas.

If you could pair any two people, who would it be?

Alex: I’ve always love David Shrigley and would love to see him make a piece of furniture, or a product – so I’ll go for a Shrigley with the quick wittedness of Martino Gamper.

Will: I think the idea of any two creatives at the top of their game coming together to create original work is exciting. I like the idea they are being pushed slightly outside of their comfort zone and there’s potential to see work they otherwise wouldn’t have produced.

How do you think the designers and illustrators benefit from this kind of collaboration?

Well they get to do something that they want to – so the benefits of that are easy to see. Any break from commercial work that facilitates experimentation in someone’s everyday practice can only be a good thing. Especially when they are as talented as they are.

What was the best possible outcome you could imagine when you first thought of doing this?

That it would happen and as many people as possible would see it and gleam something from it.

Please tell us a bit about It’s Nice That

It’s primarily an online resource of creative things we’ve seen but we also branch out into the offline. It’s Nice That is a way of us being able to provide worthy primary content to an audience that we respect.

Will, tell us about Alex / Alex, tell us about Will

Will: Alex does all the things I can’t do.

Alex: Will does all the things I can’t do.

There are a number of things neither of us know how to do, so we find people who can.

What different roles do you bring to your work?

It depends project on project, but in general I guess I do a lot more of the management and organisation, and Will does the design and finishing. The idea and direction is always driven by the both of us and to be honest we cross over quite a bit, and every decision is spoken about, so it’s not really too important what either of us do individually – it’s more about a final outcome.

How does the fact that you’re designers yourselves affect the curatorial work and commissioning you do? Does the fact that you curate and commission affect your own design work? Is there much overlap, and where, and how?

I think any background knowledge in the area you choose to make your living is a good idea. So I see our background as designers as the reason we became interested in what we do. We are very much still designers, whether we are commissioning, curating or working on commercial projects – it’s irrelevant what stamp you put on it.

We have an appreciation and respect for the talented people around us, and that’s the most important thing.

http://www.itsnicethat.com/

http://www.ifyoucould.co.uk/

© Ian Hamilton Finlay

Whilst there are obvious connections to be made in the way in which images have historically (both conventionally and radically) been layed out on pages, my thoughts turned towards the way in which a sequence of images is hung on the wall, in particular Paul Graham’s installation at the Deutsche Boerse Prize at the Photographers Gallery this year. Graham’s works in the show, an excerpt from his 12 book series a shimmer of possibility (2007), rise and fall on the gallery wall in a collection of fleeting verses which force you to move in an out from the wall, and even stoop to see some of the lowest pictures. Images seemingly repeated – but actually incrementally different – also have considerable effect in the reading of the whole work. Graham specifically cites a literary reference for a shimmer of possibilty,  Chekov’s short stories, and though not specifically poetry it’s still a good case point in which to consider the other devices at play when presenting both photographs and poems.

© Paul Graham

Installation Week Two by students from London College of Fashion, ‘Read the directions and directly you will be pointed in the right direction’, is up now. Website here. Real life here. We’ll be keeping up with the collaborative installation-in-installments over the next few weeks.

‘I think computers have something to do with it’, says co-curator Joe Coppard of Pat and Trevor