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B oome r s , Doomers & Zoomers Plymouth College of Art BA Fine Art Class of 2020 .pdf


‘Just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, grasping,…Stop it and just DO!…’ (LeWitt, S. 1965) Doing is a key word here. The act of creating, of showing up for your practice each day is critical, and essential. Great art can come only from deep, focused attention– attention combined with the discipline of doing. Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers is a collection of passionate, disciplined and determined individuals. They know that a truly radical response is to continue making art. They persisted through the struggle and anger of the COVID-19 lockdown, and the grief of lost spaces, connections and resources. Makeshift studios were created in bedrooms, kitchens, garages, gardens, on tables, on floors, on screens, forgotten spaces and tiny corners. The fundamental nature of practice was challenged, as these artists pushed through doubt, failure, fear, and success to stay true to themselves. We commend them for their tenacious spirit and resilience to keep doing in extraordinary circumstances. Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers are the artists and thinkers of our future, who will keep pushing forward, asking the difficult questions, and refusing to take no for an answer. We would like to wish each and everyone of them good fortune and success for the future, we know they will do great things. The Fine Art Team: Sarah King, Huma Mulji, Antigoni Pasidi, Paul Hillon

The class of 2020 would like to join together in thanks and celebration. We’d like to thank our tutors and technicians who have worked tirelessly and sensisitvely with us over the years, and shaped who we are as people and as artists. We’d like to thank Dr Dave Beech, for his time, criticism, insight, and for his incisive thoughts on contemporary art practices today.


Contemporary Art: Condition and Technique Dr Dave Beech What is contemporary art? Do all Fine Art courses in universities and colleges around the world that teach art today necessarily teach contemporary art by virtue of the simple fact that they take place now? Or does art have to have a certain character – a specific set of characteristics – in order to count as contemporary? What, if anything, are the tell-tale signs of contemporary art? Or, to use slightly more technical language, what is the “period eye” - “the mental and visual equipment brought to bear on works of art in a particular place and time” - of contemporary art? Contemporary art is characterised above all else by the belief that there is no limit to what art can or ought to be. In other words, art is contemporary insofar as it acknowledges the principle that art can be anything and anything can be art. Since the radical openness of art to an unlimited repertoire of materials and techniques stands in contrast with the history of art (and the kind of art that is presented within national public museums of art as exemplary of art as such), and so the overriding impression given off by contemporary art is that it is illegitimate or provocative or bogus or elitist. Ironically, then, it is when art is at its most open that appears to be closed off to most people, and when it reconfirms the high arts of the renaissance palaces that it appears to be most populist. Art’s institutions are not in agreement on this score. Contemporary galleries and art magazines may take it for granted that anything can be art but most of art’s institutions contribute in some way to the subversion of art’s contemporary condition. The art room in schools, the museums of painting and sculpture, state art collections, the art market and in some cases the art school itself can use different mechanisms to load the dice in favour of certain recognisable forms of art (painting, sculpture, printmaking, plus one or two other “disciplines”), but these institutions cannot fully revoke the underlying principle of the infinity of art’s forms that has lodged itself within the specific institutions of contemporary art. Let’s put this in context. Everyone having the right to vote is commonly understood as positive, and yet the statement that everyone is an artist remains unpopular, as is the assertion that anything can be art. (And remember how reasonable it seemed - and for so long - to refuse demands to extend the franchise to women, labourers and immigrants, as well as the mentally ill and prisoners today.) So, the contemporary condition of art (ie art’s infinite possibility) is haunted by an interminable dispute over whether art is in fact open to unlimited and unlimitable activities and objects or art ought to be limited to a familiar group of Fine Arts (in the visual arts this boils down to drawing, painting, carving, printing, casting and a few more recent additions such as film, video, graffiti and digital imagery). However, the specific controversy over the contemporary condition of art - namely that anything can be art - is nothing but the latest in a long line of disputes over the nature of art that began with the Renaissance project to elevate art above handicraft. Every distinction and differentiation that sets art off from everything else ends up as a division within art itself. This is evident in the long history of the avant-garde from Futurism


to postmodernism, particularly in Pop’s embrace of commercial culture and Conceptualism’s replacement of the image or object with words or ideas to the cynical or ironic love of spectacle in yBa to Arte Util’s advocacy of usefulness over aesthetics. In these and countless other ways, art internalises disputes over art’s boundaries and definitions within itself as a the a set of disputes not only about the category of art itself but also about the techniques, experiences, knowledge and institutions appropriate to it. These questions are given a different emphasis depending on whether one considers art from the perspective of art history, art criticism, art theory, aesthetic philosophy, state policy, sales or tourism, but in the artist’s studio the issue that is stressed above all others in these matters is the question of technique. If traditionally art consisted principally of acts of drawing, painting, carving, printing and casting, today these techniques survive within contemporary art both in their original technical sense but also in an extended, stretched, performative sense. Drawing, in contemporary art, not only refers to dragging a pencil or stick of charcoal across a flat surface but also hanging rows of coloured pom-poms, making a mosaic spiral, pushing dirt across your own body, and arranging digital shapes into 3D patterns. These are not metaphorical examples of drawing. As much as we might admire the skill and beauty of art’s traditional techniques, drawing has always existed in other forms. Drawing the curtains, drawing water from a well, draught beer, drawing a comb through your hair: these activities are not admired but they are legitimate examples of drawing and, in that sense, reveal something about what drawing is. The same is true of carving. We not only carve statues and carve the turkey we also carve out careers, carve up Africa and carve our way through a crowd. From a certain perspective these seem like metaphoric applications of the literal meaning of carving exemplified in the production of sculptures, but the word is older than that and it is more accurate to think of carving as a much broader set of activities. Etymologically, carving is connected with cutting (corfen), scratching (kerben) and writing (graphein). For artists today the standard definition of carving is a point of departure not a recipe to follow or a truth to uphold. Contemporary art follows a path laid out by Carl Andre when he stopped carving wood and acknowledged instead that placing pieces of wood in a room carves through the space. This is evident in works that are constructed out of found materials or images of the landscape that are extracted from their original context either physically or with the use of narrative and dialogue. Photomontage is a form of carving. The artist does not draw or even take the photos that they use but assembles them and rearranges them on a new page. Montage, like so many other techniques of contemporary art, does not begin with one’s own observations or experience but with the world of images and things as a great reservoir of materials and meanings. Montage traditionally uses scissors or a scalpel in place of a brush or an axe or a camera to make pictures by carving up existing pictures. Digital assemblage, which includes the use of digital “brushes” and other tools and filters, not only allows the cutting and pasting of existing images but also processes of re-sizing and manipulation that separates the image from its multiple sources more radically than conventional montage. This means that montage is closer to drawing today than ever before. We might even say that montage, in one form or another, replaces drawing as the core technique of art.


Montage is central to appropriation, copying, quoting, Dj-ing, curating, documenting, archiving and other so-called “post-production� processes that characterise so much contemporary art today. Despite the value justifiably attached to the traditional skills of drawing, painting, carving and so on, what makes the techniques of contemporary art preferable is not only that they appear to be critical of the older established techniques but that they seem to disclose something important about them. The techniques of contemporary art substitute all the romantic conventions of picture making and object making with a repertoire of procedures that emphasise mediation, displacement and context over the modernist myth of the origin of aesthetic experience in isolated, subjective, self-sufficient individualism. Mark-making gives way to procedures of mark-marking or economies of mark-making; composition spills out of the art object to include spatial and social forms of organisation, transport, management and world-building; and, artistic style is upgraded to an ethically consistent way of engaging with the world. Even contemporary painting itself has adopted procedural methods or has become a living archive of its own history. Contemporary art has spurned artistic labour, if by that term we mean a certain group of techniques such as painting, carving, drawing and so on which are in themselves artistic, aesthetic or creative. While some artists continue to paint, draw, sculpt and craft their works, they do so today in the knowledge that art is not limited to such techniques or traditions or that such practices are artistic on account of being those crafts most prominent within the history of art. Contemporary art has opened itself up to an infinite variety of techniques such that no specific set of skills can be categorised as artistic. It is not that all activities are now regarded as creative in some general sense and therefore suitable for art, but that the distinction between artistic and non-artistic practices no longer holds. Contemporary art is differentiated from traditional and modern art by affirming this infinity of techniques.


R E S I L I E N C E

Autobiographical digital sculpture exploring the nature of resilience through growth and trauma.

Jemima Aviss

2018 (2020)


Created under the wider context of lockdown and adapting processes of making, software such as Blender and also the website Skribblio, utilize digital substitutes for absent and desired physical interactions.

2020 (2020)

Jemima Aviss


This feeling of struggle can be found in these digital sculpt u r e s , w h e r e emotional memories govern texture, form and composition.

With the spine as an enduring symbol, its tense interaction with objects form independent and unique relationships in each s c u l p t u re .

Jemima Aviss

2018 (2020)


Whilst the work is fundamentally autobiographical,

the restraints of its formation in adaptation to a developing pandemic, and

the theme of resilience has great collective relevance outside of the work itself. 2016 (2020) 2015 (2020) 2011 (2020) 2011 (2020) 2014 (2020)

Jemima Aviss


Eleanor Daniels

Studio space, Feburary 2020


Finding the balance between visual expression and embodied meaning is imperative in my personal working process. My practice, at its core, centres retrospectively around my experiences as a young woman living through a digital age with fluctuating mental health. Frequently referencing themes such as social media, body image, self expression, trauma and existential fear - I use my portraits as vessels to explore my identity, and to begin interrogating my existence altogether. Here are some examples of my previous work, as an overview of my practice.

Eleanor Daniels


Sacred Space

‘Sacred Space’ is a retrospective glance into my lockdown experience. This work is a depiction of my physical surroundings, and ultimately a delineation of my visceral space during this time. My practice aims to explore how the media we consume and the characters we watch, can be subconscious vessels through which we attempt to comprehend our own circumstances and experiences. By analysing my own choices of media as a means to uncover my deeper subconscious fears and speculations, each element of this work has been carefully crafted to represent a real and integral part of my life. The practice of meditation is also an intrinsic element of this work. The meditative process enables us to regain majesty over our thoughts and feelings, and in such powerless times; it has been essential for me as an artist to hold onto whatever strength and tenacity that I can.

Eleanor Daniels


Eleanor Daniels


Children and chaos, throw in a heavy sprinkling of sarcasm and a dash of swearing. Mixed up with a massive mess of mum brain, an explorer of crossing the two worlds of art and mothering, the divisions between the sexes and feminine issues. Taking traditional feminine crafts derived from keeping housewives sane and keeping my own sanity intact by getting incredibly stressed over the stitching of rants (work that one out). When I’m not in the kitchen or wiping bums, I’m writing, despite the brain fog and the other million things I have to do at the same time, put them to the back of my to do later list that goes on and on. Or I’m embroidering rude words onto different fabrics. The contrasting sides of motherhood and having to be mumsy now and still, actually just being a very normal human being that has too many opinions on other peoples opinions on what a mother should be, being exhausted from another day of unpaid care and how I should act and essentially telling them to all get fucked, in the form of colourful embroidery. Is that mumsy enough for you?

The piece is translated from nonsensical poetry, written about the everyday mundane chaos of motherhood, stitched onto baby vests to create a comforting contrast of the bitter truth of motherhood and the warmth of a patchwork blanket. The idea of the “anti” mum, the societal views and expectations of how a mother should be whilst facing gender inequality in unpaid labour that should always be performed to immaculate levels to avoid judgment by people not contributing to the raising of your offspring. The work and writing is a personal reflection of my own experiences of motherhood, and as the piece itself is titled, it’s the most wonderful shit show.

Hana Eastment


Hana Eastment


A Stitch in Time 2020 Photography of ongoing knitting, yarn, wool Hannah Farrant


Memories form a major part of everyone’s day to day lives. Reminiscing about places, events and family or friends can be very nostalgic. With the recent unprecedented circumstances of Covid-19 and the lockdown, these past memories have become more important than ever when experiencing today’s landscape. During this time in lockdown, we have all learnt what is most important to us, alongside friends and family, for me it is the outdoors, living close to the sea. It provides a chance to escape the norms of everyday life, the ups and downs and the monotonous continuation of how lockdown feels. Capturing these moments from life and memory, alongside preliminary sketches and photographs forms an important constituent of my art practice, with the process being of key importance. The work I have created is to highlight how we can lose track of what is important: get lost within the chaos which surrounds us virtually, via social media and constant broadcasting. All of which has been amplified during lockdown, by the repetition of routines, the blur of time passing and the sense of alienation. Hannah Farrant


Endless Continuation 2020 Photograph

Hannah Farrant


Hannah Farrant


Today’s Landscape 2020 401 pom poms, yarn, wool, recycled t-shirt

A Ritual Route 2020 47 pom poms, yarn, wool, recycled t-shirts

Hannah Farrant


Gareth Ian Goodchild


Gareth Ian Goodchild


Gareth Ian Goodchild


Gareth Ian Goodchild


The COVID 19 pandemic has changed the outcomes of this show considerably. Having worked on a large scale installation with light projections, I had to change my work quite drastically. Four self portraits, all digital, and a physical, digitally manipulated collage with a lock down theme, attempt to express the frustration of not having a physical show.

Gareth Ian Goodchild


Jessie Lewins


Jessie Lewins


Jessie Lewins


Girls shopping trip, 2020

Date night, 2020 Gabrielle Lillywhite


The continuous theme surrounding my work is race and culture. My current project focuses on cultures taking ideas from one another and altering them. For example, dreads are now worn as a fashion statement rather than being worn for spiritual reasons. I have been presenting these ideas by creating pieces of surreal objects. Using found/second hand tables and chairs, I’ve taken them apart and rebuilt them in a way where the object is still in one piece but no longer functional for its original purpose. We live in a world where some cultures are not seen equal to others, when in reality there is no hierarchy.

Gabrielle Lillywhite


Kids playing in the park, 2020

Gabrielle Lillywhite


Gabrielle Lillywhite


Fractured siterite,

cas1882

We’s paid by th’ton. Can y’imagine? ‘Owe’er much ore ov tha’ tin we ‘s deliverin’ by th’end ov ‘e day... So ’s it ’s awl rahver slapdash an’ ’urried, tbh... “Dun ee awl a stan’ there a daryzackin’!” ee sez. “Oo’s ’ungry ’t ’ome?” ee sez, “oo’s waitin’ vur a meal?” S’pose’s t’be expect’d. Well… We didn’ care much vur safedy. Would ye? M’kin awl shar’d one bed: slept in shifts: whoe’er wer’n’ down th’ shaft. So th’quickest methad’s th’best: callin’ it stopin’. Funny word that stopin’, ey? Virst ‘en, we ’d bore out an ‘ole vur th’ black powdar, awl ‘en pack ‘tin tight an’ cap ’er off wiv granite waddin’. I renember m’ partner, uh… m’ partner Webb, holdin’ out th’ light vur me awhile I ‘s workin’: an ol’ candle wedg’d into a ball o’ clay. He ‘s a scrorny lad, ol’ terror’s tremors’s Webb ‘s ee: amade th’ light spread shadders ‘cross th’ wall ov th’cave, like, th’ wall ov th’tunnel like… Wa’s th’ word? Eh.... Dun to awl ees budgetary cuts ’n ‘at, I’s ne’ giv’n th’ c’rrect equipment, y’know, vur th’ tampin’ an’ th’ sealin’, an’ on tha’ day, ‘t coulda bin any, coulda bin any wun’o’vus, by whate’er rule o’ law, gone awl backsivore, ‘en I struck tha’ buttend of th’iron rod ’s I’s using for m’tampin’, ’n a spark was born from grani’ don tin an’ lit that powdar. Th’splosion open’d up my ‘ed so’s tha’ my brains ‘ere essplosed. “Cakered th’ conkerbils.” Thos’ere Webb’s words no’ mine, oh cors. “Stram banged abow th’rock” ee sez. Mine eye sockets shaddered ’n pierc’d tha’ white, doughy flesh, blindin’ me ‘nstramly. Vree doctors’s carlled t’attend, budall vree revus’d’s they ‘s ’sisting wi’ birfs ’n our cap’n would’n’ae pay mer then th’mothers. Not sher ’ow long it ‘as. ‘Ow could y’be? In what ‘as an immense stream o’vision, in’at one moment or fore’er, chemical cinemar vru my vird eye, an’orrid vision o’ some vutur lost. I died cold, waitin’ thar, unnergroun’, vur a gift or whatevas ‘s, water drippin’ down ontas my open, bleedin’ ’ed, ‘s it still does today, lyin’ thar, ‘ere, ‘s I still do today, my skeldon ‘splac’d to constellation parts ‘en ‘ey clear’d ‘t awl out vur the tourists and strip-lit metal walkways ‘at bored and worm’d vru th’ tricky network’d depths. Sam Machell


Dedham cleft in

twain,

granite, 1620

[nasty cough] ’S any soul about to listen? I will not scream but I feel my legs no more. My hair is next to catch the flames, I am assured. I sense ‘t as ’t nears. ’Twill be quick: th’ warmin’ strands ’s dry beyand return t’ wicker. Th’ truth? I ’s a midwife. There: the limits t’ my story: a midwife. ’Twas I what brought thee men ’nto this ’ot ‘n ’ellborne world ’n yet I loved thee, from th’ beginnin’, when thou’st nought but yella from jaundice and tacky ’ard ‘s nuts o’ th’ forest floor; too early for nature, raisin runt. Mine ‘s th’ first face ye saw; th’ first ’ands ye touch’d. Nurtur’d and fed, ’twas I what sent ye on thine way; grown unto the fields to work and prosper ‘nd you show me no favour? Was’t not I what ‘eld thy mothers’ ‘ands and wiped from ‘er brow the crippl’d sweat ye doth imputon’d. Ye men. ’Twas I what gave to’er ‘nstruction on maintainin’ proper breath; I, what took it’pon to demonstrate th’ right course by which to breastfeed, t’ deal with th’pain o’ thy malform’d and arid, sucky fangs; I, what kept ’er going when upon the melancholy seddin, brought by all thee. Hh. All this? Thou doth declare ’tis what I deserve? For what time bade or th’ pattern o’ moles across my nape? Th’ wart on mine knee? Mine curdl’d milken smell? O’ Spirits does it ‘urt! G-d! D-------n! I would not curse thee even if I could. ’Tis what thou wants, I am assur’d: foul vindication. No ne’er would I stoop so low ‘s t’blame th’ individweall, for I saw thee and thy gummy eyez adjustin’ to th’ light, gulpin’ big gullets o’ vair. Mine eyez ‘at saw thy peachy squirmin’, thy wormy newborn writhin’, a meagre creature at thy weakest, ’n I laid thee down t’rest on grass ’n I bundled in hay thou fragile form away of winter’s fetid frost-tipp’d fingers. This village was mine ’ome. Mine om. ’N wast not I a steadfast pillar o’ this lamblike community? Wast not I instrumental upon our settlin’? In the buildin’ of our town? O’ Spirits, I cry, we ne’er shoulda come ’ere. This land is tainteed and darken’d by r presence. Art thou th’one who told thy childr’n ne’er to play aside my ’ut? Art thou th’one who cast th’first stone, so long ago, so ancient? What made thee afraid of age? When ’s caring for the elderly merry-traded by generations for persecution ’n torture? I heal’d thee when thou’st sick. Broke my knuckles to gristle to grind up herbs for thine remedy. Cut my fingers in th’ nettle beds. I dress’d thy wounds when thou ’s return’d from the field empty ’and’d, legs gnaw’d by creatures not of description worth warrant nor did any possess the words for, not even in dreams. Ne’er did I flinch nor cower, even upon th’ protrusion of thy bone. ’Twas I what wip’d the spittle from thy chin, the vomit from thy chest, and I did it all without complaint and now, twisted fate, my Mother Nature G-d I return! O’! Flaky scalp and flesh burnt to ’unchback! Art no more now but wrinkly, stinky, castaway old woman with nought to say; no breath. I bade you, what else? I’m spent: half dead before ye even came knockin’ on mine door. Thou lit the fire long ago, ye venomous men. What thy conscious must see fit. A whirlpool. O’ torrid guilt. But ‘tis so ’ot. So ’ot. But ne’er will I scream. But my waist. My pelvis. My sacrum. My coccyx. My lilac crest. ’Tis s- [static] Sam Machell


Cracked

quartz,

2013

Thought that by leavin’ the windas open maybe sum neighbour woulda heard ‘is cries, but I guesses, like, a crying child i’nt that strange in the middle of th’ night. U wouldn’ go check would u? Some stranger’s child? I wouldn’. U wouldn’. Well, they ’s already open, the windas. Like... Well, oo am I kiddin’? Sorry. Right. I’m just comin’ up with reasons after the fact. The way guilt erodes like stone. Couldn’ get up the stairs in time. Visually? It ’s like, from left to right: the back door, me, my ’usband, the stairs; and I wasn’ gonna go crossin’ the threshold. Musta looked like hell as well. Don’ need to detail the bruises, but like, ee’d beaten us before so I just ran when ee came in with that look, unhinged. Stormin’ in from the pub probs chattin’ abuse with those mates of ’is with th’ ratty eyes, red ‘n steamin’ ‘n stinkin’ o’ barley. So I grabbed the boy ‘n ran. The elder one, ee ’ad come down white from a nightmare ’n was sittin’ with me watchin’... y’know… well that’s funny I can’t remember but... Musta been colder than it felt outside, right. His name? I don’.... Strapped ’im in the booster seat ‘n the back and drove. Fog ’ad descended ’salways, so it ’s hard as all hell to see where we ’s goin’, like, drivin’ like on TV, faster than safe, boy in the back all cryin’ all the while. I ’s driving for the Visitors’ Centre cos the lights is always on ‘t night ’n he’s cryin’ and squirmin’ all while I’m trying to unstrap ’im saying “’salright Pebble, ’sall ok, Mummy’s just taking us to find some help,” ended up pulling the whole booster seat out ‘n strugglin’ with ‘im on the groun’. Probs left it behind there in the grass off the car park. ‘Ope no ponies got to it... still think about that. Find it ’ard to recall the rest in sequence: I ’ad ’im up on ma shoulders ‘s I ran past the centre tryna find, like, a security guard or... prayin’ not to run inta any doggers. Didn’ realise ee’d died from essposure already just figures ee’s asleep. Figures the weight of ’im on ma scalp was ’is sweet restin’ pressure, cuddled up to my ‘ead. Too panicked to notice ’is lack of breath. Cold like no hope, like when u notice somethin’s off or missin’: something’s absent. U would 2, with a feeling like that, realised I ’s crying cos of the way the cold moor wind clings to the tears n’ then I just slipped and fell. No drama or slow-mo like on TV: was real quick. Snapped my spine on a shard of granite that ’s piercin’ out the bottom o’ the quarry: sun dial. Next day when they ’s liftin’ my corpse out with this crane sorta cherrypicker, wrapped me all in tarp and winched me up, I could see a crowd ’ad formed. Old couples out in deckchairs, young families passin’ bags o’ popcorn you couldn’ make it up but it’s true. I got no cause to lie to u. Folks comin’ in all purposeful like, like drivin’ over special, Saturday morning entertainment reality drama, binoculars at the ready, seein’ if they could spot my limp ’n lifeless flesh pokin’ out the sheet, risin’ up out that pit, some sacrifice cleanup, the meat once me now blockin’ out the sun like the end o’ the world by feral asteroid as seen on the news. N’ yknow?, as they ’s unwrapping me ready to load me onto the ambulance, I got one last look back down the quarry where the boy still was, my poor Pebble, ’n the sun was gleamin’ off the still water ’n the granite at the bottom ’n my vision was fadin’ like the aftershock of an earthquake, ’n I swears I saw some shape go flickerin’ n’ translucent, white like a bride and as billowy too, floatin’ down, ’umansized, same arc I took but at much less speed like a parachute, ’n I saw it land down there safely but make no splash, delicate like take a moment and stand up, tilt its banshee head skyward, and scream. Sam Machell


Foreign Quarry, Dartmoor, 480 million years ago, Devonian Period, in search of mineral, still,

Sam Machell


Sam Machell


Solidified andesite, crusted by tals of outerspace ice,

crys2304

Westward fcing : consume y corpse s losing all th rest [sensation & th plenty other marvels of heat > 0 Kelvin {u herd me - n entrpy}] s Empire takes ts course. mbody tongue of veins pleasure of coverage I cnnt move n {limbs|digits|nerves} nor the capsule : lst all feelng 2 the ice c r y o s tt i c stagnnt floatrs frm th light f Andromeda //[blocked now by asteroids] I ws rich b4 n paid th price - tell me Can u rcall a prvius life? 200yrs blsted from th surfce ofc I nw hv learnt to regret //twas all [dead] swllwed b a plague & th sea {trigger=not.Punitive} yes ofc I travel at the speed of light come! on! wake! up!… t s lk t sunsetion f dying bt concentrated to a single point t I cold trax p each limb p the spine 2 th base o m skull [horn] ofc I nw hv lurcht to retrospect… *

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Molly Erin McCarthy


Molly Erin McCarthy


Molly Erin McCarthy


Molly Erin McCarthy


Living in a Pandemic

Through the fear, solitude, the guilt and blame, That plagues this planet and the human race, Sparking terror and sickness through our homes. Overwhelming the NHS and terrorizing the citizens of our World. When scientific knowledge is running low, confusion for the human population, different facts and statistics.

Lauren Ellen Smith


Does anyone even know the answers? How many more lives before our government choose to keep us safe? A spark of light, A grasp of hope. The ones most afraid, staying strong for our Country. They carry on working, as the rest of us stay safe in the comfort of our beds and sofas, with the gratitude and respect of the people behind them. To our unsung heroes, with the weight of the country on your shoulders. You are like a candle lit flame in the darkness. We thank you. We honour you. And we pray for your safety. To our saviours, our people, to our key workers, thank you.

Lauren Ellen Smith


It is 2020, we are currently in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. Death and fear have impacted the world as we know it, ravaging the lives of the elderly and vulnerable, leaving no one safe. Causing conspiracies and myths about the reality of COVID-19 pandemic, that’s spreading across the planet. Activists on all sides battle to discover ‘the truth’. The truth is over 691,193 human lives have been lost by the 02 of August 2020. (This is only including the known deaths, it is suspected to be a higher death toll, which is ever-increasing). Life, the thing every living being on the planet has in common, social standing, religion or wealth cannot change this. We are all humans, we are all terrified. We fight for our lives and the disturbance and trauma of the pandemic have triggered wars between people. But in the end, we are all humans, who are experiencing extreme loss. The facts are that we live then we die. What is in between has faded away into statistics. Individual lives fade into an ever-growing death toll.

Lauren Ellen Smith


We might not know the names of all the lost souls, but we must not forget them. Is it really time to be celebrating and partying? Thousands of lives have been lost, do moral codes still apply? Key workers are forced to stay at work, no matter their health issues or fears, putting themselves and those they live with at-risk, in order to keep the public safe. We as the human race are mourning. We must stay together and stay safe. We are all people We are all equal We are all at risk of COVID-19. I beg that you, the reader take a moment to pay respects to the key workers, and lost souls and anyone affected by the COVID-19 pandemic. This is a memorial piece to the victims of the COVID-19 pandemic that explores a contemporary version of Memento Mori. I remember you, we remember you May your lives be never forgotten. Lauren Ellen Smith


Clarissa (Wigg)


Wigg makes sculptural ‘beings’ from found objects, harmonized and bound together with nature and the handmade. Childhood, feminist and ecofeminist issues, the abject, the sexual, the humorous and incongruous create an unresolved dialogue. Hoping for something unsettling and visceral that touches the intuitive and the psyche and calls upon ancient wisdom to ignite a communion between human, animal and spirit. Wigg distorts things, elongates them, exaggerates and dislocates - enjoying the stretched nature of humanity, where we live suspended between ‘heaven’ and earth, dark and light, in a perpetual state of moral conundrum.

Clarissa (Wigg)


Exploring our humanity, our intimate connections, picking out the subtext, catching fleeting thoughts, those barely perceptible assumptions and judgements, searching for truths and sabotaging the polite. Every felled tree is another giant nail in the coffin of humanity and nature takes its revenge. Wigg feels the suffering of animals and our suffering becomes mutual, injuring the soul of the world, the anima mundi.

Clarissa (Wigg)


Clarissa (Wigg)


Jemima Aviss jemimaaviss@hotmail.com https://jemimaaviss.wixsite.com/mysite @jemimaaviss Eleanor Daniels ellie.s.d@gmail.com @ELSDart Hana Eastment heastment2.wixsite.com/hanablanabafineart @hblanabafineart hanaleaheastment94@gmail.com Hannah Farrant www.artbyhannahfarrant.com @art.hfarrant Gareth Goodchild https://garethiangoodchild.wixsite.com/website https://garethgoodchild.tumblr.com/ Jessie Lewins @relaxingwithcherry Gabrielle Lilywhite @g.lillywhiteart g.lillywhiteart@gmail.com Sam Machell www.browniecove.com sam.machell@googlemail.com Molly Erin McCarthy @molly.erh mollyerh.xyz Lauren Smith Clarissa (Wigg) clare.s.heaton@btinternet.com


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Profile for Plymouth College of Art

Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers  

Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers from Plymouth College of Art's BA (Hons) Fine Art Class of 2020.

Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers  

Boomers, Doomers & Zoomers from Plymouth College of Art's BA (Hons) Fine Art Class of 2020.

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