issue five....January 2011
contents **** * page 3 - 6: preface - Jez riley French - four furnitures * page 7 - 11: Laura Naukkarinen (Lau Nau) - photographs * page 12 - 29: posters for Ali-Fib concerts, Paris * page 30 - 35: Patrick Farmer - a short piece * page 36 - 39: Vanessa Rossetto - three photographs * page 40 - 43: Ashley Payne - three photographs * page 44 - 57: Cinder Flame (Cindytalk) - the poetry of decay * page 58 - 65: Ishbel Murray - cups * page 66 - 71: Julian Thomas - pappelalle * page 72 - 78: Labbé Aela - photographs * page 79: Ruzena Nejezchlebova * page 80 - 96: Marcin Biesek - ʻhumberʼ * page 97 - 99: Yol - posters * page 100
JrF - four furnitures
posters from the ali-fib concerts, Paris - France
Behind the ali_fib moniker (a little wink to Robert Wyatt's 1974 classic album 'Rock Bottom') is an ongoing concert series founded in 2003 by Maxime Guitton. â€˜During the past seven years, ali_fib has organized some 70 shows and 4 festivals in Paris, Bordeaux and New York City, nomadically and independently, and in a variety of spaces: music venues, squats, churches, crypts, art galleries, and museums. ali_fib has never emphasized any particular genre: psych rock, free folk, blues, electronic music, spoken word, improv, electronica, noise, garage, no wave, acousmatic, avant pop, ambient, lowercase music, etc. have made appearances in the lineups. Instead, ali_fib simply seeks with an historical approach, the thread that ties mavericks, overlooked pioneers and iconoclasts to rigorous modern composers and illuminated creators of all kinds within the realm of music. Right from the start, the visual identity of ali_fib has been of the highest importance, as it was clear that talented graphic designers would be the best allies for trying to arouse the curiosity of people who had no idea of who I was inviting to play, no matter how interesting these musicians were. The embracing of viral promotion tools has never seemed to me contradictory with the dissemination of paper flyers and posters. Somehow, it looks like there's actually a parallel between my attachment to the traditional poster that you stick on a wall, the flyer that you hand to people at the end of a show, and my love for vinyls: these are tangible objects, memorabilias that you can collect. Hence the point that I made to print out most of the posters that were designed and occasionally sell them, when they were silkscreened. As to the idea of working with a rotating cast of visual artists, it came up naturally, since the ali_fib series was thought of as a "vagrant" project, which wouldn't be associated to a single spot. A few names have been associated more tightly with the ali_fib project, though: zeloot, vesolt, Darryl Norsen, Rowan Forestier-Walker, Nur Abbas, Marion Hugoo, Bill Kouligas, Filipe Felizardo, Christelle Gualdi to name a few. I would like to take this opportunity to thank them all for their continuous support and enthusiasmâ€™ - Maxime Guitton
posters by Rowan Forestier-Walker / embla quickbeam
by other artists:
by darryl norsen dnorsen.com
by darryl norsen dnorsen.com
by christelle gualdi
by Robert / Vanishface www.youtube.com/varnishface
â€˜I drew this one in my notebook at the time, it was a few years ago so i can't remember what the motivation behind the image was, but i still quite like the look of it. I do remember that the concert was brilliant. Hamilton Yarns were excellent as always but Cooper Jones couldn't make it in the endâ€™
courtesy Franz Vesolt
courtesy Franz Vesolt
by Stacie Willoughby This 11"x17" poster was created by handÂ entirely with magic marker. Â Stacie is also the poster artist for (((FolkYeah!))) Presents, California, USA notesfrombelow.com
by Filipe Felizardo myspace.com/conjecturesandrefutations operationstowardsinbetween.blogspot.com
Patrick Farmer - A short piece presupposing thought in Wales. At 4am I went for a walk, I can’t tell you how much I am enjoying sleeping in an empty house, it is one of the most glorious things, it’s been too long. Did I say to you how yesterday it appeared to me that I could not tell when the houses on my street finished and when the sky started? This morning I felt autumn and winter in the air, and it brought back many memories, in a sense, a memory enhanced by taste, the air was felt around my whole body, not knowing where it began and where I ended. As if I could touch the air around me and was becoming acquainted with infinite amounts of particles, fleeting relationships, each one of them starting and finishing something. The feeling of walking in the AM with a permanent smile on ones face, as one experiences the past in the present, and realises that all three, past, present, and future, don’t exist as individual concepts, not truly. It was wonderful. Then my path, as I was walking down Barnfields, came across a gulp of Magpies, and as one of them opened its beak, I heard a dog bark in its place. I experience moments of tense hyperbole like this most often, never failing to surprise me, and during this time I was considering why I play my drums the way I do, perhaps arising from the fact that I had just sold my two drum kits, leaving myself with next to nothing, (next to nothing is always very liberating, I find). When I heard this Magpie barking like a Dog, I thought of my drums, and how, for me they aren’t really drums, they are microphones, they are microphones that capture and amplify other sounds that I place, and that are placed, within their immediate field, they are omni directional instruments of hyperbolic internal and external sound. This Magpie, his call was obviously still uttered under the harsh yap of the Dog, which was actually some distance away, bending sound around corners, must still have altered how I heard the Dogs bark, just as the sound of the Dogs bark must have altered the call of this Magpie, within the bounds of my own perception and ideals. If the Magpie called, the Dog silent, heard as a metaphor, in relation to what preceded it in my thoughts, this would appear to be a drum, played the way tradition can so often dictate, and what is wrong with that, absolutely nothing. I shall miss place. To have that.
Twain To read the same two pages of the I-Ching every day, for a week gleaning a difference from the same two pages everyday, this will raise apparent after the week in question has moved on. One can be surprised, and, it is said, I say… That is good, warm, helpful, to recite, elicit familiarity, with pages, words not your own, through constant interpretation and post reflective thought, what is then said to be your own and the opposite of such?
10:23 18.10.10 Too coincidental, whatever that means, that the words contained on these two pages, opened at random, should articulate yet further a good deal of thought myself has been entertaining, whether formed or observed, internal or external. To list these parallels I would have to resign to copying out the pages in question. That it is enough this morning to write with the book in front of me, as the week moves on, the book, the pages, will develop in an capacity, who knows, as I am want to stop direct thought as soon as I put the pen down. Perhaps this to be a study, a reflex in signified and unconscious pre determinism, is my mind already made up as to how I will comment during the week, my week is already decided somehow. I don’t seem to find that comforting, to feel justified, does that negate openness? To be subjected to a rush of noise, accept the nausea, balance on one leg as it pumps… “It furthers one to have somewhere to go.” I feel like I wont stop until my mind stretches outwards, manifold tentacles, the roots of a tree. What is the human equivalent of fungal threads? Perhaps it is just that. At what point did human kind begin to detach itself from nature? I always say that the present time is the period I would most like to live in, I do not wish to escape, given a chance however, I would consider it my good fortune to witness such an era that presupposed the aforementioned question. 21:00 19.10.10 “A gentleness that nonetheless penetrates like the wind, or like growing wood with its roots.” In striving to be an empathetic person, treating people with more kindness and respect, not things that come easy to me for some reasons, I feel I am much more open than I once was, people can always surprise you. So easy to give up, to dismiss others because they do not fit into a tacit puzzle, one I surely partially fit out to. Lucidity whistles and I blindly follow, swallowing pipes, and breathing through rivers, I find a calling by the hour. Time up, I move on, by my lack of judgement. Influence that never lapses, a one enduring and complete. I find in such words what I want to hear, in accordance to the events of the days, I wonder, if these two pages, stored, or in plain sight, I wonder if they have any say in the matter at hands, indirectly, one must have a clearly defined goal, is that it? The ever escaping simplicity, the inner trickster. A bond need be forged, a trust, a ground where simplicity and I meet, locked in an embrace, forgetting for a moment, what we are. 15:50 20.10.10
A deviation, commenting on two pages not wholly familiar, though instant familiarity in mind prompted such a thing. Writing on the train to March, not from the table in my room, two days have formed an age long habit I am loathe to break. Commenting an external situation, but resting my head against vibrating glass, realizing I am internally situated, so am I commenting? Self involved, a slip, moving into my own self more and more again, doubt ever moved out, so simply that I am a burrow burrowing deeper? Away from who knows what and everything else. Divest of the ability to harness my own hands, hands that canâ€™t except anything except for the dirt that swallows them, hands willingly place. The virtues of not thinking, eradicated in writing.
21:03 21.10.10 â€œAction without preparation of the ground only frightens and repels.â€? And a friend said she is at her best when drawn out of her comfort zone, forced to experience things a new, where the same event that is commonplace in ones own achieves a status of bewildering complexity elsewhere. Opening up a passage of environment that is far-reaching. I marvel at the parallels, thoughts drawn forward, tinged with the salty lick of ambition, something I am often reluctant to taste, a result of this prior unformative knowingness, where the book and thoughts are one. Such a task as this however, inevitably leads to such diverse patterns of thought that one is bound to see traces, elements, in the words on the page.
Upon uttering, ‘ I don’t understand it,’ lightly placing my hands on the table as not to spill tea, repetition, the ground, this morning, I open a biography of Beckett, looking under the lines of Krapp’s last tape. Commenting on a realisation of the benefits of impoverishment in his own work, his re-location to France, ‘the ground had been well prepared.’ So many paths, which is the right one. It is as if the words are commenting on the situation, they are commenting on their own affects as they are being written, manifest. “Penetration produces gradual and inconspicuous effects, it should be effected not by an act of violation, but by influence that never lapses.” An influences that never lapses surely refers to the gradual morphology of the insane, such a thing is not altogether conscious, but then where is that to be left? To stop asking, thus negating an answer. I often feel, consideration of the wider page, a weight that my head will stick to the table, how does one affect the other, am I stuck to the page now? Mind races for metaphor and jape, wordplay and wordsleep, down the monotonous ladder of lines lines, travelling along the peaks of meaningless words and shapes. Think of growing antlers, learning to write with them, losing arms to inactivity. Life bent double on ground, losing sense, living through antlers, never to be cast off. My floor vibrates. The road outside. I vibrate.
19:56 23.10.10 What or who or why or when is to say that one moments feelings pertain a dominance like that the other pre-subsequent and post-developing images and sets of foul actions, where to separate the differences, assuming we are. Remembering ride them out until a location is found felt to be akin to ones developing needs and desires in relation to an arching and constant state of developmental time. What about, when about, the located in the middle, there, there, in there, where does the languid man sit? Assuming capacity or inkling for action, action would do, a glimpse, within earview. Cataloguing events and subsequent turn of developments changing the patterns, drawing new water, up from the same overused and gasping spring. If so, it has no dimension, so where is start, eradicate language, gesture? Very exercise in documenting the unobserved and overstood. I could go up and down in circles, day in night out, documenting my existence the very same moment placing it aside. What about the block? The shift that eludes to eluding myself, the sudden remembrance, a task feels done, though it merely is. I wish to stop asking questions, to leave answers, a question must be an answer somewhere along a line. To stem, shutting ears and seeing what I seeing before the cut, growth in inactivity, I feel now that I feel less, less than I recognise and such why such a struggle? This will all be forgotten in time and with gratitude must rest at attempt and reattempt. The layers within the shadows, the burnt images of reflection and refraction that travel within the light, sitting in a space not just existing, everything and inert-thing. Knowing that ones knows nothing a great weight is exaggerated, and what is more transitory, a human or a river? Well to surrender to all over calamity, to guide and be guided, accept a possibility that nothing never makes sense, not to nothing, as nothing is in everything. Who or where what makes sense? Does it have an origin? If something starts then it could end, repeat, divert, rip, everything inhales exhales, including everything, the vast worlds between, liminal space, time and time, inside out. The odour of desire and reeking of habit, best one moment closing, that it has been stopped and stopping to several developments, crying over, a worthless start, never forgetting to forget. A scale, plying with heavy feet into a remembrance of the form dismissed.
13:00 24.10.10 “It furthers one to have somewhere to go.” Was this meant to be understood in one? The idea behind this that inference is free? One cannot stop divergence in interpretation and principle, the fields of factors. I keep returning, “One does not feel strong enough to advance resolutely.” The gentleness, doubts, repeat oneself time in and out, change hourly. Lament lack of middle ground, to bathe in indecision, heated breath, advancing and retreating at once and the same because one is not moving towards anything, move towards we move away. These thoughts and scrawls reek of middle grounds archaic fetor, indirectly straight or simple, am I feel as I hear. The fridge turns off the pipes are silent to my ear, now I hear them. The pipes that connect my room to many others, not something that experiences or is experiences, outlasting and insideout, the spanning of every breath from the first to the last, such undertakings of the irresolute principle, not give up or give down, to learn realising learning is only that, to be everywhere at once one was.
15:45 25.10.10 I seem to have stopped direction, which word directly, is all it is, it must be there, in this, over there, over the course. To beneficial in knowing how to think and how not to think, feeling the echo, the residue, cleaning up after thought for the next. When is not truly awake.
Ashley Payne - three photographs
cinder flame / cindytalk the poetry of decay
psychogeographical photographs taken between 2003 and 2006 in hong kong, osaka and tokyo as visual accompaniment to cindytalk albums in progress "the crackle of my soul" and "up here in the clouds"...Â http://www.cindytalk.com/
Ishbel Murray - cups www.ishbelmurray.com/
Cha tig e gu buil - It will never come to pass. Bidh ceannach aige air – He will live to regret it. Eathair ur, sean chreagan – New boat, ancient rocks. ‘S i bu lugha a leigeadh a leas – She who would need to least. Suarach sin acasan – Little do they care. A’ call an toinisg – Losing their minds. Thilg e a dhorn air – He swung his fist at him.
The images are of scenes on the island of Lewis, where I come from, and are inspired by snippets of Gaelic dialogue overheard often in the past when my mother and aunts would be deep in doom laden conversation over endless cups of tea.
Julian Thomas - pappelalle
images composed whilst under the influence of the music of Andrea Neumann
labbĂŠ aela photogra phs
holy days in syros - the sun is burning inside and outside. eros...
searching for lights
by Ruzena Nejezchlebova Prague, Czech Republic
Marcin Biesek - ‘humber’
Yol - posters
published by engraved glass / jrf *
all content is p&c by the artists involved * content by jrf unless otherwise stated * material from this publication should not be reproduced in any way without prior permission from the artists & jrf....thanks
Published on Jan 1, 2011