Dillan Marsh

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Site Map Local 2016-08-13

Master slide [ S i t e ] - i n d e x . h t m l s m i l e y - s t o n e s - d i l l a n - m a r s h . j p g f a v i c o n . i c o ? ? ? ? . c s s [ d i l l a n ] - t a g i n d e x . p h p - f i l e i n d e x . p h p - i m a g e i n d e x . p h p - n e w e n t r y . p h p - r a n d e n t r y . p h p - c o n t a c t . h t m l h o m e . p h p i n d e x . p h p e n t r y . p h p n e w e n t r y _ o l d . p h p o n e e n t r y . p h p [ a l l ] - f i l e _ m e n u . p h p - i m a g e _ m e n u . p h p - t a g _ m e n u . p h p - f o o t . p h p - f o o t m e n u . p h p - h e a d . p h p - s t y l e h e a d . p h p - t o p . p h p - m y f u n c t i o n s . p h p - m y c o n n e c t . p h p - m a i n m e n u . p h p h o m e _ i n d e x . p h p m y c o n n e c t _ a d m i n . p h p n e w - w e b - s t y l e . c s s [ e n t r y _ p a g e ] e n t r y t a g s . p h p r e l a t e d t a g s . p h p f e t c h _ d e t a i l . p h p n e w _ l i n e . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r i e s . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r i e s 1 . p h p - o u t _ e n t r y . p h p [ h o m e _ p a g e ] s e l e c t _ c a t . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g . p h p - t a g m e n u . p h p - c a t l i s t . p h p - t a g l i s t . p h p [ n a m e _ p a g e ] p a g e s . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r y l i s t . p h p t n _ o u t _ e n t r y . p h p t n _ s e l e c t _ e n t r y l i s t . p h p - t n _ p a g e s . p h p [ t n _ e n t r i e s ] t n _ . . . j p g t n _ . . . g i f [ e n t r i e s ] . . . p h p . . . j p g . . . p d f . . . g i f . . . s w f . . . m p 4 [ c r e a t e _ t a b l e s ] c r e a t e _ a l l . p h p c r e a t e _ c a t t a b l e . p h p c r e a t e _ e n t r y c o d e . p h p c r e a t e _ e n t r y t a b l e . p h p c r e a t e _ e n t r y t a g . p h p c r e a t e _ t a g c a t . p h p c r e a t e _ t a g t a b l e . p h p [ f o r m s ] c a t f o r m . p h p t a g f o r m . p h p e n t r y f o r m . p h p c h a n g e c a t . p h p c h a n g e e n t r y . p h p c h a n g e t a g e n t . p h p d e l e t e c a t . p h p d e l e t e t a g . p h p m y p a s s . p h p [ i n c l u d e s ] a d d _ p i c s . p h p a d d _ t a g s . p h p c h a n g e _ a l l t a g s . p h p c h a n g e _ p i c s . p h p c h a n g e _ t a g s . p h p c r e a t e t n . p h p d e l e t e _ r e c o r d . p h p e d i t _ r e c o r d . p h p i n s e r t _ c a t n a m e . p h p i n s e r t _ e n t r y n a m e . p h p i n s e r t _ e n t r y p i c . p h p i n s e r t _ t a g n a m e . p h p s e l e c t _ c a t . p h p s e l e c t _ c a t i d . p h p s e l e c t _ c a t s 1 . p h p s e l e c t _ c a t t a g . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r y . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r y d e t a i l s . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r y n a m e . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t r y t a g s . p h p s e l e c t _ e n t s 3 . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g i d . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g s 1 . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g s 2 . p h p s e l e c t _ t a g s 3 . p h p s e n d _ a d d t a g s . p h p s e n d _ c a t f o r m . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e a l l c a t . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e c a t . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e e n t r y . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e e n t r y 1 . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e a g e n t . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e a g e n t 2 . p h p s e n d _ c h a n g e t a g s . p h p s e n d _ c o d e f o r m . p h p s e n d _ d e l e t e c a t . p h p s e n d _ d e l e t e t a g . p h p s e n d _ e d i t e n t r y f o r m . p h p s e n d _ e n t r y f o r m . p h p s e n d _ e n t r y t a g s . p h p s e n d _ p a s s . p h p s e n d _ t a g f o r m . p h p f o s s i l s a n d s t a r s b l o g s p o t . n o

Tags: work / documentation / text / function / diagramme / total / drawing / map / view / 2016 /

Villette 2016-07-18

In a land of enchantment, a garden most gorgeous, a plain sprinkled with coloured meteors, a forest with sparks of purple and ruby and golden fire gemming the foliage; a region, not of trees and shadow, but of strangest architectural wealth - of altar and of temple, of pyramid, obelisk, and sphinx; incredible to say, the wonders and the symbols of Egypt teemed throughout the park of Villette.
No matter that in five minutes the secret was mine - the key of the mystery picked up, and its illusion unveiled - no matter that I quickly recognised the material of these solemn fragments - the timber, the paint, and the pasteboard - these inevitable discoveries failed to quite destroy the charm, or undermine the marvel of that night. No matter that I now seized the explanation of the whole great fete - a fete of which the conventual Rue Fossette had not tasted, though it had opened at dawn that morning, and was still in full vigour near midnight.

Charlotte Bronte, Villette

Tags: research / text / fair / light / quote / fake / model / scenery / pyramid / crowd / theatre / tree / paper_mache / Bronte /

Stop_Dreaming 2016-07-14


Tags: sport / text / brand / belief / collapse / motivation / win / success / sponsorship / advetisement / motto / dream /

Motivation 2016-07-13


Tags: work / sign / text / belief / desire / elevation / slogen / motivation / win / determination / creativity / dedication / hard /

tattoo motto 2016-07-12

tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto

Against all odds
Beyond fear lies freedom
Believe in yourself
Be true to yourself
There's a brave new world that's raging inside of me
Chase you dreams
Courage strength mom dad
Don't dream it be it
My first act of treason was picking up a pen my first act of love was finding myself again
Freedom is not free
Get busy living or get busy dying
People living deeply have no fear of death
Death before dishonour
I will not surrender
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
If you don't live for something you'll die for nothing
I never give up
I shall stand fast
It's better to be hated for what you are, than loved for what you're not
I will not conform to this world
I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl
I found within me an invincible summer
Life is a lesson you learn when you're through
Live life
Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside us and sometimes they win
My cup truly overflows
My life is my art, my art is my life
Never give up
Never let your fear decide your fate
Never surrender
No net enslaves me
No retreat no surrender
Not with strength but with hope
Only the strong survive
Only you can define yourself
Out of the darkness cometh light
The pain you feel today, will be the strength you feel tomorrow
I'm richer then all y' all I've got a bank full of pride
Remember who you are
Stand alone
Stay true
Stay the coarse
To thine own self be true
Trust the voice within
The creation of reality is in the hands of the weaver
To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong

tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto tattoo motto

Tags: research / photograph / logo / design / text / belief / ritual / desire / collection / quote / slogen / body / motivation / training / label / magic / therapy / transformation / status / creativity / touch / true / projection / voice / priority / motto / tattoo /

Adventure Island, 22nd April - 8th May 2016-04-22

Adventure Island, 22nd April - 8th May

Hordaland Kunstsenter, Archipelago: Eleanor Clare & Dillan Marsh

Hendene famler
Kloden roterer
Tidevannet stiger

Stadig å fortsette framover; å søke etter
Solen, som slynger sine slående stråler; som forsvinner
Under Brygga, et vesen lever; forråtner
Ved enden av Landet; Sjøen

Det finnes en innside og en utside, et mørkt indre og et lyst ytre. Under huden, inni kroppen, er mye flytende. Dette er stedet hvor det underbevisste virker, fordøyer og prosesserer og samler og skiller substanser.

De lette etter selve begynnelsene av mening og skapelse: for å sammenføye tusener av år tilbake med idag. De ville finne det, men da de ankom, visste de fortsatt ikke hva de skulle gjøre.

I dypene av himmelen fantes ingen speil, og i solens sted gapte et stort blødende hull der kanskje en jeksel hadde blitt vridd ut. Sjøen hadde sannsynligvis blitt tømt, og etterlot seg hulrommet av sin beholder omsluttet av et svimlende stup. Kloden selv hadde forsvunnet, hadde opphørt å være solid.
– Le Clezio, J.M.G., The Book of Flights.

Eleanor Clare og Dillan Marsh bor i Bergen, og har lagd arbeider sammen siden 2013, et samarbeid som begynte som en utforskning av hvordan det å lage kunstverk og å skrive gjensidig kan påvirke hverandre i å forstå mening og utviklingen av form og struktur. Clare har en mastergrad i kunst fra Central Saint Martins, London (2011), og Marsh en mastergrad fra Kunst- og designhøgskolen i Bergen (2011). Sammen har de produsert verk for følgende aktører: Parabol Bergen, Assembly House Leeds, Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop, Yorkshire Sculpture Park, ASC Gallery London, Deuxpiece/Büro für Problem Basel og Apis Press Bergen.

Prosjektet er støttet av Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop, Assembly House Leeds, Metal Arts, Bergen Kommune og Norsk Kulturråd.


Archipelago er et lite, fleksibelt visningsrom for å vise enkeltverk og installasjoner i et fokusert, men åpent miljø. Siden rommet ligger i førsteetasje på Hordaland kunstsenter, like ved siden av et større, mer formelt utstillingsrom, åpner Archipelago opp for å undersøke de skiftende egenskapene ved et kunstverk med begrensningene av et lite, fysisk rom, i en tidsalder med virtuelle rom.
Programmet til Archipelago planlegges kort tid i forveien for hvert nye prosjekt, med den hensikt å gjeninnsette kuratorisk smidighet og nåtidig engasjement i institusjonen. Disse utstillingene følger en annen tidsplan enn Hordaland kunstsenters hovedprogram for utstillinger, og er tenkt som en gruppe av «tenkeøyer» som oppstår i tiden.

Hordaland Kunstsenter, Archipelago: Eleanor Clare & Dillan Marsh

The hands are scrabbling
The earth is turning
The tide is rising

Constantly forging onwards; seeking
The Sun, casting its glorious rays; disappearing
Under the Pier, a creature lives; decaying
At the end of the Land; the Sea

There is an inside and an outside, a dark interior and a light exterior. Under the skin, in the body, much is fluid. This is where the unconscious is at work, digesting and processing and merging and separating matter.

They were looking for the very beginnings of meaning and making: to connect thousands of years ago with today. They wanted to find it, but when they arrived, they still didn't know what to do.

In the depths of the sky, there were no mirrors, and in place of the sun a great bleeding hole gaped where perhaps a molar had been wrenched out. The sea had probably emptied, leaving the hollow of its basin rimmed by a dizzy precipice. The earth itself had disappeared, had ceased to be solid.
Le Clezio, J.M.G., The Book of Flights.

Eleanor Clare and Dillan Marsh live in Bergen, and have been producing works together since 2013, a collaboration which began as an investigation into how making artwork and writing can mutually influence one another in the understanding of meaning, development of form and structure. Clare received MA Fine Art from Central Saint Martins in 2011, and Marsh MA Visual Art from Bergen Academy of Art and Design, 2011. They have produced collaborative work for the following organisations: Parabol Bergen, Assembly House Leeds, Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop, Yorkshire Sculpture Park, ASC Gallery London, Deuxpiece/Buro fur Problem Basel and Apis Press Bergen.

Research and development has been supported by Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop, Assembly House Leeds, Metal Arts, Bergen Kommune and Norwegian Arts Council.

Fossils and Stars

Archipelago is a small, flexible platform for showing individual works and installations in a focused but open environment. Located on the ground floor of Hordaland kunstsenter, adjacent to a larger, more formal exhibition space, archipelago works with the constraint of limited physical space in order to explore the changing modalities of artworks in the age of virtual space. Archipelago is programmed with short lead times for each new project, with the intention of reinserting curatorial agility and real-time engagement into the institution. This initiative follows a different schedule to Hordaland kunstsenter's main exhibition programme, and is conceived as a group of 'thought islands' appearing in time.

"Click to view Adventure Island, 22nd April - 8th May"

Tags: work / exhibition / recent_work / stage / facade / text / collaboration / repeat / loop / fair / movement / energy / video / light / darkness / installation / fake / artificial / sun / publication / time / action / body / Eleanor_Clare / scenery / landscape / simulation / carnival / view / film / wheel / motion / residue / circus / dizzy / hole / set / spinning / panoramic / skin / Edinburgh_Sculpture_Workshop / rubber / speed / wave / matter / nature / nature / water / press_release / Yorkshire_Sculpture_Park / feet / Adventure_Island / ride / camera / pool / viewpoint / sick / touch / feel / hands / Mathijs_van_Geest / fibreglass / decay / edge / 2016 / Toucher / Archipelago / river / excitement / tide / Southend / fair ground / pier / jumping / Metal / unconscious / low_tide / estuary / mud_flats / sea / Hordaland_Kunstsenter /

Adventure Island, Hordaland Kunstsenter 2016-04-22

Adventure Island, Hordaland Kunstsenter

Tags: work / exhibition / recent_work / stage / facade / text / collaboration / repeat / loop / fair / vehicle / movement / energy / video / darkness / light / fake / installation / artificial / sun / time / publication / action / body / Eleanor_Clare / scenery / landscape / simulation / carnival / view / wheel / film / residue / motion / dizzy / hole / circus / set / panoramic / skin / rubber / Edinburgh_Sculpture_Workshop / spinning / wave / matter / earth / speed / seek / press_release / Yorkshire_Sculpture_Park / nature / water / touch / Adventure_Island / pool / sick / camera / ride / viewpoint / feet / fibreglass / hands / Mathijs_van_Geest / 2016 / edge / decay / feel / Rush / Toucher / Archipelago / excitement / rubbing / estuary / Hordaland_Kunstsenter / pier / unconscious / jumping / Southend / fair ground / mud_flats / Metal / tide / low_tide / sea /

The Age of Magic 2016-03-18

Tags: research / facade / text / belief / quote / rock / magic / motion / hole / mirror / truth / longing / odyssey /

The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds 2015-12-15

The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds
The Travels of The Toucher

Dillan Marsh & Eleanor Clare

Video projection with audio played through a bass amp, 45 sec. loop
Framed digital C-print, 60x85cm
Audio, played through a mini guitar amp, 5.20min. loop
Digital photograph on 32 inch monitor
Stud wall with two poke holes cut through it
Five terracotta clay objects on different sized plinths
Framed painting, acrylic on two 21x15cm sheets of paper
Work lamp, lighting back yard
Publication, in edition of 50

The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds The Travels of The Toucher, Assembly House, Leeds

Tags: work / exhibition / recent_work / documentation / photograph / text / collaboration / loop / box / cycle / video / ritual / print / light / darkness / installation / collection / studio / time / publication / sculpture / body / Eleanor_Clare / noise / plinth / screen / plastic / creation / landscape / show / sound / 2015 / connection / view / film / rock / audio / hole / chaos / Edinburgh_Sculpture_Workshop / speaker / earth / matter / wall / nature / water / Yorkshire_Sculpture_Park / megalith / sound_system / nature / projection / Assembly_House_Studios / shrine / acoustic / barrier / rubish / The_Travels_of_The_Toucher / Norsk_Kulturradet / About_Time / ceramic / feel / hands / site / voice / Bergen_Kommune / ancient / Matt_Wheeldon / back / Mike_Winnard / gap / winter / Ellie_MacGarry / Rufus_Newell / clay / Lester_Drake / Tigh_na_Cailleach / Arthurs_Seat / C-print / bass_amp / New_Haven_Bay / monitor / whispering / Granton_Mound / Poke_Holes / lamp / painting / Halhjem_Helleristninger / The_Hand_and_the_Hole /

About Time Festival 2015-12-15

Eleanor Clare & Dillan Marsh: The Travels of The Toucher
20th-29th Nov

With cardboard boxes over their heads, and two holes punched out for their arms, they began with wet clay, and without any other idea than to see what came by handling it. What they arrived at was not a sculpture, but a way to begin. The forms were destroyed and remodelled – the possibility to reform them was always there. It was a way to get to the thing.

On a wet and windy day, they journeyed out to Tigh na Cailleach, home of the Old Woman of the Glen, just before she withdrew into her shelter for the winter. They were not sure what they might find, or what to do when they got there. They were walking a path that had been walked for thousands of years. They were looking for the very beginnings of meaning and making: to connect thousands of years ago with today. They wanted to find it, but when they found it, they didn’t know what to do next. Not there at the shrine, nor in the studio with the clay.

About Time is a satellite programme of contemporary art running from October 2015 – January 2016. It is curated by a consortium of Leeds-based artists and curators led by Mexico, Pavilion and SPUR with contributions from Assembly House Leeds, Basement Arts, Black Dogs, Leeds Animation Workshop, Left Bank, Pyramid of Arts, Seize, Set The Controls For The Heart of The Sun and many others. Coinciding with the launch of the British Art Show 8, this city-wide initiative features commissioned artworks, texts and events which aim to highlight the work of artists, cultural producers and curatorial projects based in Leeds, alongside their international peers. The programme takes place across a diverse set of venues including artist-led spaces, museums and heritage buildings.

About Time Festival

Tags: exhibition / text / collaboration / cycle / circle / installation / sculpture / Eleanor_Clare / costume / creation / 2015 / show / mask / rock / collage / helmet / poster / Edinburgh_Sculpture_Workshop / nature / fruit / matter / press_release / megalith / shrine / Assembly_House_Studios / festival / The_Travels_of_The_Toucher / Bergen_Kommune / flyer / About_Time / pagan / suit / Norsk_Kulturradet / Mike_Winnard / uniform / Ellie_MacGarry / Rufus_Newell / Tigh_na_Cailleach / ancient / Lester_Drake / clay / Matt_Wheeldon / head / vegetable / Avebury / Mascots_and_Stones /

The Travels of The Toucher 2015-12-14

With cardboard boxes over their heads and two holes punched out for their arms, they began with wet clay, and without any other idea than to see what came by handling it. What they arrived at was not a sculpture, but a way to begin. The possibility to destroy and remake was always there: it was just a means of getting to the thing.

On a wet and windy day, they journeyed out to Tigh na Cailleach, home of the Old Woman of the Glen, just before she withdrew into her shelter for winter. They were not sure what they might find, or what to do when they got there. They were walking a path that had been walked for thousands of years. They were hopeful that they would make their destination on time, and fearful of regret, lest they should have to turn back. It was not that time or nature were against them; it was simply that the elements continued, and would continue interminably, before them, after them and in spite of them. The night was drawing closer with every step further into the heart of the glen. Colours were changing to soft and rusty ochres, greens and bluey-greys. The form of the land was becoming gentler and more rounded. The deep, broad loch had now tapered off into a trickling stream; yet the wind raged on, and the rain beat with a stinging patter against against their faces.

They were looking for the very beginnings of meaning and making: to connect thousands of years ago with today. They wanted to find it, but when they arrived, they still didn’t know what to do. Not there at the shrine, nor in the studio with the clay.

This work has been kindly supported by: Assembly House Studios, About Time, Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop, Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Bergen Kommune, Norsk Kulturradet (Arts Council Norway)

The Travels of The Toucher

The Travels of The Toucher

Dillan Marsh & Eleanor Clare
Assembly House Studios 20-29 Nov. 2015
Sat. & Sun. 1-4pm or by appointment

Tags: work / exhibition / recent_work / documentation / photograph / text / collaboration / cycle / video / drive / ritual / darkness / light / installation / publication / time / sculpture / Eleanor_Clare / religion / creation / sound / edition / landscape / 2015 / catalogue / archetype / rock / audio / chaos / Edinburgh_Sculpture_Workshop / future / wall / press_release / nature / Yorkshire_Sculpture_Park / megalith / sound_system / seek / water / creativity / touch / Assembly_House_Studios / shrine / cardboard / Bergen_Kommune / pagan / The_Travels_of_The_Toucher / Norsk_Kulturradet / About_Time / ceramic / site / ancient / Rufus_Newell / Ellie_MacGarry / Mike_Winnard / storm / Matt_Wheeldon / Tigh_na_Cailleach / Lester_Drake / winter / weather / Arthurs_Seat / travel / Face /

Too Loud a Solitude 2015-07-18

For thirty-five years now I've been compacting waste-paper, and if I had it all to do over I'd do just what I've done for the past thirty-five years. Even so, three or four times a year my job turns from plus to minus: the cellar suddenly goes bad, the nags and niggles and whines of my boss pound in my ears and head and make the room into an inferno; the wastepaper, piled to the ceiling, wet and moldy, ferments in a way that makes manure seem sweet, a swamp decomposing in the depths of my cellar, with bubbles rising to the surface like will-o'-the-wisps from a stump rotting in the mire. And I have to come up for air, get away from the press, but I never go out, I can't stand fresh air anymore, it makes me cough and choke and sputter like a Havana cigar. So while my boss is screaming and wringing his hands and raining threats down on me, I slip away and set off in search of other basements, other cellars.
Most of all I enjoy central-heating control rooms, where men with higher education, chained to their jobs like dogs to their kennels, write the history of their times as a sort of sociological survey and where I learned how the fourth estate was depopulated and the proletariat went from base to superstructure and how the university-trained elite now carries on its work. My best friends are two former member of our Academy of Sciences who have been set to work in the sewers, so they've decided to write a book about them, about their crissings and crossings under Prague, and they are the ones who taught me that the excrement entering the sewage plant at Podbaba on Sundays differs substantially from the excrement entering it on Mondays, and that each day is so clearly differentiated from the rest that the rate of flux may be plotted on a graph, and according to the ebb and flow of prophylactics one may determine the relative frequency with which varying sections of Prague indulge in sexual intercourse.

Too Loud a Solitude, Bohumil Hrabal, 1976, translation Michael Henry Heim

Tags: research / work / text / cycle / print / desire / darkness / quote / body / noise / process / dysfunctional / destroy / residue / dizzy / boilersuits / sick / decay / paper_mache / Accidie / melancholy / sewer / garbage / cellar / Bohumil_Hrabal / will-o-the-wisp / book /

Most_Things_Still_Remain_To_Be_Done 2015-07-15

Most things still remain to be done.
A glorious future!

The feeling of having finished something is an effective sleeping pill. A person who retires feeling that he has done his bit will quickly wither away. A company which feels that it has reached its goal will quickly stagnate and lose its vitality. Happiness is not reaching your goal. Happiness is being on the way. It is our wonderful fate to be just at the beginning. In all areas. We will move ahead only by constantly asking ourselves how what we are doing today can be done better tomorrow. The positive joy of discovery must be our inspiration in the future too. The word impossible has been deleted from our dictionary and must remain so... Bear in mind that time is your most important resource. You can do so much in 10 minutes. Ten minutes, once gone, are gone for good. You can never get them back. Ten minutes are not just a sixth of your hourly pay. Ten minutes are a piece of yourself. Divide your life into 10-minute units and sacrifice as few of them as possible in meaningless activity.
Most of the job remains to be done. Let us continue to be a group of positive fanatics who stubbornly and persistently refuse to accept the impossible, the negative. What we want to do, we can do and will do together. A glorious future!

The Testament of a Furniture Dealer, A Little ΙΚΕΑ Dictionary, Ingvar Kamprad

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Burning Mill 2015-07-15

Manufacture is word, which, in the vicissitude of language, has come to signify the reverse of its intrinsic meaning, for it now denotes every extensive product of art, which is made by machinery, with little or no aid of the human hand; so that the most perfect manufacture is that which dispenses entirely with manual labour. The philosophy of manufactures is therefore an exposition of the general principles, on which productive industry should be conducted by self-acting machines....The term Factory... I conceive that this title, in its strictest sense, involves the idea of a vast automaton, composed of various mechanical and intellectual Organs, acting in uninterrupted concert for the production of a common object, all of them being subordinated to a self-regulated moving force

The Philosophy of Manufactures: or an Exposition of the Scientific, Moral, and Commercial Economy of the Factory System of Great Britain, Andrew Ure, 1835
Burning Mill

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The_Rat 2015-02-22

Gunter Grass, The Rat, Translated by Ralph Manheim

Where man had been, in every place he left, garbage remained. Even in his pursuit of the ultimate truth and quest for his God, he produced garbage. By his garbage, which lay stratum upon stratum, he could always - one only had to dig - be known. For more long-lived than man is his refuse. Garbage alone lives after him.


Vast plains infested with garbage, beaches strewn with garbage, valleys clogged with garbage. Synthetic flakes on the move. Tubes that have forgotten their ketchup and never rot. Shoes of neither leather nore straw walk self-propelled with the sand and collect in pits full of garbage, where already yachtsman's gloves and droll inflatable animals are waiting. All these things speak of you, now and forever. You and your works wrapped in clear plastic, sealed in vacuum bags, moulded in synthetic resin, you in chips and clips: the human race that was.

Tags: research / product / text / race / cycle / darkness / quote / artificial / collapse / tube / enterprise / death / plastic / creation / landscape / pile / transformation / future / chaos / matter / earth / nature / survival / truth / god / apocalypse / bag / eternal / garbage / mountain / rat / Gunter_Grass / The_Rat /

Peter_Camenzind 2015-02-20

Hermann Hesse, Peter Camenzind, translated by W. j. Strachan

As this personal love of nature began to grow in me and I listened to her voice as to a friend and travelling companion who speaks in a foreign language, my melancholy, though not cured, was ennobled and cleansed. My ear and eye became more acute, I learned to grasp subtleties and fine distinctions, and longed to hear the pulsation of life in all its manifestations more clearly and at close quarters - perhaps even to understand and enjoy the gift of expressing it in poetic form so that others also could get closer to it and seek out the springs of all refreshment, purification and childish innocence with deeper understanding. For the time being it remained a wish, a dream. I did not know whether it could ever be fulfilled, and I did what was nearest by loving everything visible and by no longer treating anything around me with scorn of indifference. p.84
I wanted to teach the people to be conscious of the pulse of the earth and take part in the life of the universe; not to forget in the bustle of their petty lives that we are not self-created gods but children belonging to the earth and the cosmic whole. I wanted to remind them that, like the songs of the poets and our dreams, the rivers, oceans, drifting clouds and raging storms are symbols and bearers of our hopes which spread their wings between heaven and earth; whose ultimate goal is the confident certainty of the right of citizenship and immortality of all living creatures.
But I was also eager to teach men to look for springs of joy and rivers of life in a brotherly love of nature. I wanted to preach the art of seeing, walking and enjoying life, of finding happiness in the present; to make it possible for mountains, seas and green islands to convey their message through their mighty and captivating tongues; to open up the view to the infinitely various manifestations of life as they blossomed day by day and overflowed beyond our towns and houses. I wanted to make people feel a sense of shame that we should know more about foreign wars, fashions, gossip, literature and art than about Spring unfolding its vital force outside our towns and the river that flows beneath out bridges and forests, and the lovely meadows traversed by our railways.

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Skjonne Sjeler Catalogue 2014-08-10

Skjonne Sjeler Catalogue Skjonne Sjeler Catalogue Skjonne Sjeler Catalogue

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Comedy and Tragedy, Text 2014-02-08

Comedy and Tragedy, Text

Comedy and Tragedy
text by Eleanor Clare, 2014, published in NEVERODDOREVEN, Deuxpiece and Buro fur Problem, Basel

I was frantic, feeling a little sick and dizzy, but determined to carry on.
What had to be done, had to be done. It was a desperate attempt.
It was a hollow action.
It was just doing for the sake of doing.
It was doing to find some momentary release from the feeling of total inertia, of being stuck.
Now I must talk of hollow laughter.
Some say it is the laughter of a psychopath: cold, hard, unfeeling.
I say it is simply laughter at the end of the tether.
They say, if you don't laugh you'll cry.
I have been laughing this way.
I cry until I laugh, and laugh until I cry.
There is not much in between, but for an empty and desolate expanse stretching out ahead.
When I am laughing, I do not know if the laughter itself feels unreal, or if I myself am unreal.
It seems like I have been caught by something I cannot quite grasp.
I am in its grip: the grip of humour.
Watching myself on a screen, I make myself laugh, for I am hysterical.
Here I am comedy.
I laugh a senseless, reasonless laughter that has no meaning, other than to shake and move in a way that is ridiculous.
It is laughter in the extreme, because it cannot end until it reaches the opposite pole: tragedy.


"Emotions exist beyond time, as the pulse of pure physical connection to the world and its music.
Like music, they are a form of movement _ the origin of the word emotion lies in the Latin, emovere, to move out, remove, agitiate."

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Fire and Truth, D. Graham Burnett 2013-09-08

"fire, […] in the history of the medieval trail by ordeal, is a basic technology of truth. Burned, things of the world reveal their essential nature. The scriptural basis for this notion is iffy (Lot surviving the flames of Sodom? Moses' encounter with the burning bush?). The physics of the proposition, however, proves to be spot-on: everything that burns speaks with tongues of flame that cannot lie. This is called spectroscopy."

Fire and Truth, D. Graham Burnett, Issue 32, Winter 2008, Cabinet

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the New Era 2013-09-05

Ivan Gutierrez, a 37-year-old artist who lives in the nearby village, stood before the pyramid and blew a low, sonorous blast on a conch horn. "It has already arrived, we are already in it" he said of the new era. "We are in a frequency of love, we are in a new vibration."

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Helios (text by Eleanor CLare) 2013-08-14

As he rides his chariot, he shines upon men and deathless gods, and piercingly he gazes
with his eyes from his golden helmet. Bright rays beam dazzlingly from him, and his
bright locks streaming from the temples of his head gracefully enclose his far-seen face: a rich,
fine-spun garment glows upon his body and flutters in the wind: and stallions carry him.
Then, when he has stayed his golden-yoked chariot and horses, he rests there upon the
highest point of heaven, until he marvellously drives them down again through heaven to Okeanos."

Homeric Hymn 31 to Helios (trans. Evelyn-White) (Greek epic C7th - 4th B.C.)


I lived to dance all night. A surging energy created a new and unprecedented confidence:
that it was possible to cheat time. I felt invincible - transcendent. Life was light, without fear
of death; at least not in this state of being. I sensed in my body vibrations of sound.
The closer I got to the source, the more it enveloped me, becoming a physical entwinement with
music and space. I felt one with it. But as the years passed, inevitably my heart began to
beat out of time. The breath did not come so easily. I held it at the top for a few seconds,
afraid to exhale. In these moments, the perceived syncopation that was once such a joy had
started to become a dissonance.


I feel alive, and the world - it's turning inside out Yeah!
I'm floating around in ecstasy
So don't stop me now,

I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies
Like a tiger, defying the laws of gravity
I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go! go! go!
There's no stopping me!

I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I am a satellite, I'm out of control
I am a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to
Oh -oh-oh-oh-oh explode!

(Extracts from 'Don't Stop Me Now' lyrics by Freddie Mercury, 1978)

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Burnout (text by Eleanor Clare) 2013-08-14

Burn Out

Through the grainy unsteady image and the sound, distorted by low quality compression, it
seems like something is trying to break through. The first few seconds sound like noise
pulled through a synthesizer, screaming and kicking as it emerges, fighting for life in its new
digital form. Something about it is alarming, frightening, tortured and angry. It is half-formed,
raw and unrefined. Streaks of red and white light flash across the screen.

It is an arena for action. Something about this situation that is chaotic; yet there is an
element of control. The driver makes tight circles around a central axis. At first this is
demarcated by a traffic cone, but as things proceed, the silhouette of a young man moves into the
centre. The car stops and revs up, creating billows of smoke in the air, obliterating vision for
a few moments. As the car skids and screeches, I feel a sense of alarm. This is coming close to
disaster for the lone, central figure, potential victim of the anonymous driver, a sacrifice for
the entertainment of onlookers. I can sense also the collusion. One figure willingly places his
trust in the other. There is a tension between these two.


A smoky, fiery object is spinning recklessly. One might say things had spun out of control.
Not quite though; for to completely lose control would mean total destruction. It would mean the
end. It all went up in flames. This is a sudden, intense and short lived burst of energy. More
like a supernova than the sun, and more akin to a meteor careering around a planet, than a planet
orbiting the sun. It was more than this, though. This scene was not simply about objects in space;
it was human. It was a game or a task, perhaps even a ritual.

Although I can identify it as a human activity, shot through with the implications of one's
relationship to another, from my vantage point it also seemed anonymous. In the dark, these
figures could be anyone, totally unrecognisable by the light of day. In this moment they had a
relationship to one another. Certainly for the two central protagonists, it was one of great
significance and trust. At any other time, on any other level, it was unclear. In this sense, the
action had become symbolic. The figures could be understood as archetypes. Ones which, for reasons
I cannot yet identify, I associate with the masculine.


In the threat of a loss of control, images had already flooded my mind. I remember as the
helicopters circled in the air above my house one evening in August. I had no idea why it was
happening, but this circling was incessant, the noise repeatedly coming close and fading away,
swelling and receding, but never quite out of my consciousness. It always gives me a slight sense
of unease, the idea of something being under surveillance, coupled with the notion that something
might be wrong. Why this surveillance from such a great height? It is a safe distance for the one
who watches. Then I remembered the destruction that had taken place, just minutes away from my home.
The aerial images of buildings and cars set alight, and rioters surging through the streets, anonymous
from this point of view. London's Burning.

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Mask (text by Eleanor Clare) 2013-08-14

You feel your breath inside the mask.

It is hot and damp.

You hear yourself breathing, heightened.

The mask is here: between the wearer and the world, the watcher and the watched.

Tags: work / text / collaboration / 2013 / publication / Entree / Eleanor_Clare / June_Twenty_First / mask / Apis_Press /

Appendix 1 (text by Eleanor Clare) 2013-08-14

Appendix 1: Extracts from C.G. Jung, Commentary on the Secret of the Golden Flower

The wise Chinese would say in the words of the I Ching: When yang has reached its
greatest strength, the dark power of yin is born within its depths, for night begins at midday
when yang breaks up and begins to change into yin.


The ‘enclosure’, or circumambulation, is expressed in our text by the idea of a ‘circulation’.
The ‘circulation is not merely motion in a circle, but means, on the one hand, the marking off
of a sacred precinct, and, on the other, fixation and concentration. The sun wheel begins to run;
that is to say, the sun is animated and begins to take its course, or in other words, the Tao begins
to work and to take over the leadership. Action is reversed into non-action; all that is peripheral is
subjected to the command of what is central. [...]

Thus the circular movement also has the moral significance of activating all the light and all
the dark forces of human nature, and with them, all the psychological opposites of whatever
kind they may be.


If viewed correctly in the psychological sense, death is not an end but a goal, and therefore
life towards death begins as soon as the meridian is passed.

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Appendix 2 (texy by Eleanor Clare) 2013-08-14

Appendix 2: Georges Bataille, Inner Experience

In this way existence closes the circle, but it couldn’t do this without including the night
from which it proceeds only in order to enter it again. Since it moved from the unknown to the
known, it is necessary that it inverse itself at the summit and go back to the unknown.


Action introduces the known (manufactured); then understanding, which is linked to it, relates the
non-manufactured, unknown elements, one after the other, to the known. But desire, poetry and
laughter increasingly cause life to slip in the opposite direction, moving from the known to the
unknown. Existence in the end causes the blind spot of understanding and right away becomes
completely absorbed in it. It could not be otherwise, unless a possibility for rest were to present
itself at a certain point. But nothing of the kind takes place: what alone remains is circular
agitation – which does not exhaust itself in ecstasy and begins again from it.


The upper part of my body – above the solar plexus – had disappeared, or at least no longer gave
rise to sensations which could be isolated. Only my legs – which kept me standing upright,
connected what I had become to the floor – kept a link to what I had been: the rest was an enflamed
gushing forth, overpowering, even free of its own convulsion. A character of dance and of
decomposing agility (as if made of a thousand idle futilities and of life’s thousand moments of
uncontrollable laughter) situated the flame ‘outside of me’. And as everything mingles in dance,
so there was nothing which didn’t go there to become consumed.

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Appendix 3 (text by Eleanor Clare) 2013-08-14

Appendix 3: Miscellaneous

As cosmic man or the personification of the intelligence in the tree of life, the Green Man is
the point at which the truth is manifested in creation, whether as life, light, song, words or
other figurative forms of art. He is the medium through which divine inspiration guides the works
of time in the fullness of space. He is the point of entry of eternity into time. Space is the
medium of sound, and therefore the music of praise.

W. Anderson, Green Man: The Archetype of our Oneness with the Earth.


Such circles designate, like the spirals, the paths of entry between worlds, and the pacing or
dancing of such designs in imitation of the journeys of the Gods, offers a perfect explanation of
these structures.

The Avebury henge was not a sculpture in the sense of being a finite, completed object.
Instead, it was brought to completion at the right time by human participation.

M. Dames The Avebury Cycle


In the extraordinary madness which periodically invaded Europe from the fourteenth to the
seventeenth century, people danced until they dropped.

At Liege in 1374, after certain possessed folk had come dancing half naked into the town
with garlands on their heads, dancing in the name of St John, we are told that many persons
seemingly sound in mind and body were suddenly possessed by devils and joined the dancers.

E.R. Dodds The Greeks and the Irrational

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Camilla Brochs-Haukedal, Kunstforum Review 2013-07-12


Fart, glede og kosmiske referanser

Camilla Brochs-Haukedal - 12.07.2013

Med utstillingen June Twenty-First pa entree i Bergen, byr Dillan Marsh pa flere assosiasjoner, fra pop art til motorsykkellop, fra midtsommerfeiring til reklameskilt.

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

Slagverk, motorsykkel og reklame

Gjennom en stor skjelettlignende stalkonstruksjon trer vi inn i Dillan Marshs (f. 1980, UK) romdekkende installasjon, June Twenty-First, laget spesielt for entree. Utstillingen bestar av flere komponenter som hver for seg fungerer som selvstendige verk, men utstillingen har en tittel og ingen verksliste, det er derfor naturlig a lese den som en installasjon.

Langs veggene, innenfor porten, er det snekret opp benker, eller temporaere tribuner, umalte og ubehandlede. Med en skranende fremside er de litt ubehagelige a sitte pa, og uten a ha bli invitert til det, hadde jeg nok ansett dem som en ramme rundt resten av utstillingen, en ramme som for ovrig fint knytter de enkelte verkene sammen til en helhet i rommet.

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

I midten av hesteskoen av tribuner troner fire soyler i forskjellig hoyde, bygget opp av gummidekk, trommer, flerkantede esker og motorsport-hjelmer. alle komponentene ser ut til a vaere godt brukt og baerer preg av a ha levd et liv for de som object trouve; ble deler av Marshs kunstverk.

Bak soylene pa motsatt vegg, vis a vis inngangsdoren, er to flagg i kryss i rod og gult. Fargene og monstrene gar igjen i den store stripen som dominerer hele vindusveggen til entree, og pa skjermene som apenbarer seg i sideblikket idet man gar inn i rommet. Denne skulpturen er satt sammen av tre skjermer, stroppet sammen i en stabel. Bildene pa skjermene varierer i hastighet og virker bade forstyrrende og samtidig levende og livlig, mye takket vaere fargene og de raske, repetetive bevegelsene.

a day at the races

Dekkene, flaggene, materialene og ikke minst hjelmene, sammen med en sterkt tilstedevaerende lukt av gummi fra dekkene og de sterke fargene gult og rodt, gjor; det vanskelig a losrive seg fra assosiasjoner til motorsykkellop. Jeg innrommer et tidligere flerarig fan-forhold til eurosport, MotoGP, alex Barros og Valentino Rossi, men selv uten dette er assosiasjonen svaert naerliggende.

Med gult og rodt som dominante farger i utstillingen, er assosiasjoner til store reklameskilt for bensinstasjoner som Shell heller ikke langt unna. Marsh har tidligere brukt grep fra reklameskilt og merkevarebygging i sine verk. I utstillingen June Twenty-First er det selve virkemidlene i den kommersielle markedsforingen Marsh tar i bruk: de sterke fargene, brandingen av entrees store vindu og det repetetive monsteret pa skjermene.

Med utstillingen gjor Marsh galleriet til en storre del av sin utstilling enn bare et rom a vise kunsten i. entrees egen logo er fjernet fra vinduet, i stedet er vinduene dominert av to store, rode linjer som motes i en spiss i midten og som gjor entree svaert synlig fra utsiden, et blikkfang i gaten pa samme mate som de store Shell-skiltene er langs motorveiene. Som entree skriver pa sin nettside: 'entree finds itself re-branded and built into the concept of the work on show'.

Med disse grepene er referansene til pop art ogsa sterkt tilstedevaerende, i bade bade form og innhold. De sterke fargene og det repetetive monsteret samt Marshs bevisste bruk av kommersiell markedsforingsvirkemidler kan ikke annet enn a gjenkalle andy Warhol.

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

a samles rundt balet

Apningsdagen til Marshs utstilling falt pa 21. juni, som er sommersolverv, arets lengste dag. Fest og feiring er assosiert med tiden rett etter denne dagen i aret med flest soltimer. Her i Norge er det Sankthans som gjelder, med feiring, bal og fest, men det a feire midtsommer har tradisjoner mye eldre enn kristendommen. Ved a kalle utstillingen, eller installasjonen, June Twenty-First, pakaller Marsh en positiv stemning assosiert med sommer, sol, fest og ritualer. Tittelen har tilsynelatende ikke noe umiddelbar sammenheng med verkene utstilt, annet enn at apningen falt pa denne fredagen. Sammenhengen ma vi derfor reflektere rundt selv, hjulpet av introduksjonen pa entrees nettsider, ogsa de for anledningen rod- og gulrutet lik monsteret pa skjermene og ett av flaggene i visningsrommet.

Gjennom tittelens referanse til sommersolverv soker utstillingen, ifolge nettsiden, a vise hvordan vi gjennom deltakelse i storre eller mindre feiringer, tilstelninger og ritualer ogsa er del av et storre system, faktisk et kosmisk system. Denne forbindelsen synes svaert subtil i opplevelsen av installasjonen, det er ikke lett a fa fatt i hvordan kunstnerens overordnede budskap skal overfores. Men den nye publikasjonen av apis Press, lansert samme dag og i forbindelse med utstillingen, med tekster av eleanor Clare, kan kaste lys over Marshs inspirasjonskilder, og hvordan vi kan tolke tittelen og verkene utstilt.


Dillan Marsh June Twenty-First, 2013. Foto: Randi Grov Berger

I tillegg til a havne pa arets lengste dag, markerte apningen av June Twenty-First lanseringen av nevnte publikasjon, og lanseringen av forste utgave av Utstillingsguide for Bergen (utstillingsguide.no). Vernissagen markerte altsa flere begivenheter og gjorde installasjonen i seg selv til en arena for festligheter og feiring. Og det er en positiv opplevelse a vaere i rommet med de bevegelige skjermbildene og soylene av dekk og trommer og hjelmer, de sterke fargene og den litt skarpe lukten. Som installasjon har Marsh fatt mye ut av entrees lokaler, det er en vellykket bruk av rommet.

Installasjonen kan leses og tolkes pa mange mater, det er mye a ta av bade i referansene og i opplevelsen av rommet, og er vel verd et besok.  Men pa tross av at jeg aner noen interessante assosiasjonene rundt ritualer, systemer og var alles soken etter tilhorighet og plass i den store sammenhengen, ma jeg innromme at jeg fremdeles finner det litt vanskelig a losrive meg fra inntrykket av a vaere pa et MotorGP-lop.

Tags: work / exhibition / commerce / competition / stage / red / text / repeat / loop / box / arena / race / structure / driving / cycle / drive / circle / Norway / 2013 / action / sculpture / Entree / noise / New_Age / yellow / solar / June_Twenty_First / process / gallery / connection / new / midsummer / solstice / summer / Randi_Grov_Berger / march / arch / review / motorcycle / Camilla _Brochs-Haukedal / Kunstforum /

Gimpos M25 25 Hour Spin 2013-06-23

Gimpo's 25 Bill Drummond 21 March 1998

'Fuckin' brilliant idea Gimpo. Can I do it with you?'

That was about three months ago. Today is 21 March. I've just arrived at the agreed rendezvous point, South Mims Service Station, parked up my truck and I'm looking for Gimpo's white transit van. I'm late. But Gimpo is later. A van pulls up beside me. On the side is daubed, 'Gimpo's Non Stop, 25 hour, M25 Spin'.

'You're late. Get in,' shouts Gimpo.

This is Gimpo's plan. For the next 25 hours, a certain Mr Green and I are going to drive around the M25. For those that don't know, the M25 is an orbital motorway that circumnavigates the nation's capital. You have to drive 124.5 miles to get all the way round. Gimpo has a notion that if we keep driving for the allotted time, he will find out where the M25 leads. It is best not to rationalise Gimpo's notions. Gimpo loves the M25. Gimpo loves to drive. He loves to view the rest of the world through the windscreen and, when he is too far gone to drive, to take the film back home and watch it again and again and again.

We make it to the Queen Elizabeth Suspension Bridge by twelve noon, the official starting point and time. When you experience things like the Queen Elizabeth Suspension Bridge, you fall in love with the modern world all over again. All that engineering. All that wonder. All that height and breadth, and 'aren't we just like ants'. There's a high blue sky. The Thames shines, snakes up to London in the west and slides down into its estuary on the east. Below us are the pylons and power stations, industrial estates and entertainment complexes of the Essex wastelands. And I love that too. On a sunny spring day, you can love almost anything. Gimpo is already raging and we have only just begun. We are heading clockwise. Gimpo tells me to drive the first two laps, then we will fill the tank, have a slash and change drivers. Gimpo is in the back, checking his boxes of films, cleaning his lenses, packing and repacking his kit bag. It's Gimpo's army training. He was a gunner in the Falklands War. They taught him how to concentrate his mind on the details of packing and cleaning, repacking and polishing, taking to bits and putting back together, again and again and again. Now, more of Gimpo's orders are being barked down his mobile. His mobile is held together with Gaffa tape. Gimpo loves Gaffa. But not white Gaffa. He hates white Gaffa. It has to be black or silver. His mobile is almost permanently shoved up against his right ear, the less deaf of the two. Gimpo is a pit bull of energy, unfocused rage and terminal paranoia. The only thing that Gimpo can do to sooth his seething is unpack and pack, check and re-check, spit and polish. Gimpo is both a man of our time and a man of any time. The history of England has been built on men like Gimpo. He is the bulldog spirit, the 'never say die', the original Tommy. The only reason why Harold lost the Battle of Hastings was 'cause Gimpo was not there (he was fighting the rearguard action against the Vikings). But Gimpo was at Agincourt. He was with Oliver in his New Model Army. He was Napoleon's Waterloo. He survived the Somme. Was the toughest desert rat Monty never knew. He is the true embodiment of the nation. I'm just glad I'm not English.

Gimpo starts to reveal his vision. He wants this thing, this Gimpo M25 spin, to become an annual event. The closest Saturday night/Sunday morning to 21 March each year, to mark the opening of the rave/festival/drug-taking/banging/techno/hippie thing that Gimpo and his weird mates know all about. He wants loads of other people to join in, come out in their cars, vans, trucks, loaded up. A non-stop 25 hour party, road to nowhere sort of thing; car stereos cranked up, people screaming, pumping horns, blowing whistles. Hundreds, thousands, pouring out of Clacky services. Not a race, but a celebration of this broken down modern world, where the M25 would get clogged up, grind to a standstill, the authorities could do nothing - and Gimpo would be king.

Mr Green is an artist from Warrington. He keeps his counsel. This is not the place to tell you about his twisted, ego-driven visions. I'm sure in time he will let you know all about them himself.

I'm driving as fast as I can, hogging the outside lane when the inner would do. Headlights flash me as I am forced to move over. One circumference is 125 miles. The second is only 124.5. Everything looks normal. I've seen it all before. The North Downs, the Surrey Woods, the Plains of Heathrow, up round the top M1 junctions, St Albans Cathedral in the distance, back down through Essex. All boringly familiar. But we know the further we go, the less familiar it will all become. We will begin to see things not seen before, discover new meaning in the signposts. The lie of the land. Lost tribes. The tank is almost empty. We pull in at Clacky Service Station, fill the tank, buy trash food, have a slash. Gimpo has a stop watch. The pit stop has taken us 9 minutes and thirty-seven seconds. He is not happy with this. Mr Green takes the wheel. We move back out into the flow. The eternal. The around and around. the headlights are coming on. The light is failing. The football results are coming through. End of the season is in sight and things are hotting up. And Mr Green is a dangerous driver. The weirdness is kicking in. It's a drug-free zone; even though Gimpo has invested heavily in all-night chemicals, Mr Green and I just say No. Mr Green cuts another artic. up, slams the brakes, ploughs through a dozen cones in the contraflow. Oncoming headlights blind, jumbo jets climb into the shepherd's delight sky. It's getting good. Gimpo is swimming in his hammock, mobile pressed to his ear, laughing and screaming at some London low-life friend.

'Yeah, it's me, Bill and Mr Green, 25-hour spin around the M25. Do you want to come and give us a wave? Bring us a cake? Toss us off?' It must be a woman. I hear, 'Look, wear that black leather miniskirt with no knickers. Stand on the bridge so we can look up as we go under'

Mr Green and I get talking about the Union Jack. How brilliant, the Labor Party move to use a Union Jack logo in their election campaign. Real carpet-pulling from under the Tories' feet. Such a loaded icon. It gives so many weird signals. Jimmy and I saw Damon Hill do his lap of honour at Silverstone, flying the flag and we thought, 'Far fuckin' out Damon. Let's liberate the flag for the common man.' You can't help but be jealous of the Yanks, who rally around the Stars and Stripes, from ghetto nigger to southern white trash from New York yid to mid-west WASP. To burn the Stars and Stripes is one powerful political statement, saved only for moments of national self-doubt. To burn the Union Jack is just a waste of a good tea towel. You don't agree with me? I don't know if I agree with myself.

Once, Jimmy and I had this idea we should reform The KLF. Massive campaign for the comeback single. Billboard posters, full-page ads, prime-time TV commercials, all with the words 'God Save the Queen' - The KLF'. Nobody would hear it until the moment of release. Everybody else would be thinking the track would be some postmodern update on the Pistol's classic, mashed with our national anthem, the Queen's Christmas speech, some monster beat and a pumping, sub-sonic bass riff. Wrong. It would be just a straight rendition of our national anthem, the one they used to play at the end of the main feature, and which when I was a kid you still stood up for. And the video would be the royal standard fluttering in the wind. For three and a half minutes, no edits. Thankfully, the idea remains unrealised. But as for Union Jacks, Jimmy and me, there is a job there yet to be done. And Marc Wellenger hasn't done it.

Of course, we try to keep to toll gate twenty-three on each lap. Some habits you can't break, like wanking and picking your nose. Gimpo hits me with a concept that he tries to convince me my mate and fellow literary arsehole Z has already agreed to. A 25-day non-stop M25 journey. Just me, Gimpo and Z, the idea being that Z and I could finish our journey-up-the-Congo book while we spin round the 25. I'm filled with dread at the idea and hope it doesn't become a reality.

Darkness. Gimpo lights candles in the back of the van. Lap five, and a buzz is tingling my body like some strange and untried chemical. Talking of which, Mr Green has put on a Chemical Brothers cassette. A live performance, where they bang into 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band', The Beatles' version with some added beats and noise. I'm out there. I'm hanging in the hammock. The candles flicker, the night shimmers ahead, my mind slips its moorings. For some reason, the three of us and this van are an old-fashioned tin-opener going around the equator, opening the world up, and the worms are getting out. the fact that Tony Blair is younger than me is somehow connected. No drink, no drugs, just the hypnotic effect of the sodium lights. I love it.

My shift. Midnight to 4 a.m. Me and Gimpo up front. 'Sailing By' brings the closedown of Radio Four. Somewhere up near the St Albans turn-off, we can see a huge bonfire and a daisychain of people silhouetted against the flames, dancing around and around. The rain is falling but they keep going. I explain to Gimpo that like us they are celebrating the equinox, but with a Beltane fire. A bunch of hippies in a dark, wet field and us on a miserable motorway, each going round and round. The rites of spring. Pagan roots. Nailed to the cross and risen on the third day. My biblical leanings grasp at a walls-of-Jericho analogy. Round and round we go, and the walls will crumble. On Monday morning, 2,300 points will have been wiped by the Footsie 11, and nobody will know why except for us. The mother of Parliament's bastard son will have burned down the palace, raped Harry in the tower and taken a shit in your girlfriend's handbag.

Stop stop stop.

Calm down Bill.

Hale Bopp streaks the northern sky. The World Service informs us that Buddhist monks are rampaging on the road to Mandalay. Kinshasa is falling and Mobutu is on the run. Channels are changed. Melody FM. Abba's 'Fernando' - mariachi trumpets, a tale of war, death, love and loss. Sodium lights like a ten-mile serpent, heading for the estuary. Downriver like Iain Sinclair. What would Sinclair make of the psychogeographical possibilities of this, our mindless journey? I am hoping to uncover some psychogeographical facts about both the ancient and modern roads and routes that radiate out of the unseen metropolis, around which we are winding and tightening our strange spell. I may be sliding in and out of reality, but Gimpo's intensity is scaling to new heights. He is still raging into his mobile. It seems the support team have not once been at the right place at the right time to capture on video this transit van hurtling by. I'm thinking, how long is this new girlfriend going to take Gimpo on full throttle? The novelty value of the man soon wears thin. Added to this is the fact that two cameras in the van keep jamming. As far as Gimpo is concerned, the whole thing is a disaster. He was planning on having a complete 25 hour film, every cat's eye of the way. Not a moment missed. Real time to the max. But it is not to be. He bangs out some more numbers on his mobile and takes it out on whoever answers. The film of this journey (I think) is to be a follow up to his first major movie, Watch The K Foundation Burn a Million Quid. I can't stress strongly enough how important this 25 hours is for the man. He has talked of nothing else since first revealing his plan to me back in Cardiff three months ago. Mr Green is saying very little as the hours skid by. He observes. I try to ask him, why Mr Green and not just Dave? People will think it's some sort of corny reference to Reservoir Dogs. Then he tells me if I write up anything about this journey, he just wants to be known as Dave. But the contrary side of my nature gets the best of me, and Mr Green it is, Tarantino or not.

Gimpo is at the wheel. Light is streaking the eastern sky ... and all that descriptive stuff about breaking dawns. Lap eight. Through toll-gate twenty-three and back up into ancient Kent. The waking Weald. The garden of England. Cockney hop-pickers, the turning for Canterbury. Gimpo's Tale - now that would be good. The Carpenters' 'For All We Know' is cranking through the three-inch speakers, compressed to fuck and sounding like one of the best records ever made. A green hill covered by a sprawling car boot sale. Above, the clouds break and massive sun beams shaft down, illuminating the hill, already crawling with Sunday morning seekers one bargain away from happiness. It's like a neo-classical canvas depicting the smallness of man in all his little ways, and the power and glory of the Almighty as he looks down on his wayward creation.

The turning for Brand's Hatch, and my mind turns from the biblical to Damon's bad career move in signing to Arrows. For me and Gimpo, Johnny Herbert is our man. No glamour, no chance, born loser, but at times, for some unknown reason, gets to the chequered flag before the others. A small clump of primroses brings morning gold. Will they spread like they do down the Devon stretch of the M5? Or like the wild lupins on the M6 as it cuts through Birmingham? Gimpo's rage at the universe has found a new avenue as he hurls his beloved mobile phone out the window. I momentarily hear a female voice plead 'but Gimpo' before it smashes into the side of a passing artic. Gimpo then turns the video camera on himself. It's set up on the dashboard. I'm in the hammock. Mr Green's asleep on the passenger seat. Gimpo's voice is shot through, but he starts to bark, scream, glare at the unblinking lens. His madness, his psychosis, his vanity, his vulgarity pour from his scarred soul as he tries to explain this journey of his. His inarticulate genius. His excuse for living. His sordid reality. (For those interested in such facts, I've heard from various reliable sources that Gimpo can fuck harder, faster and for longer than any other man in London.) He starts to get maudlin, he starts to apologise to the camera for being a cunt to his girlfriend. It's like I'm eavesdropping on some last confession before Mme Guillotine drops. He must assume I'm asleep. Some of the stuff he is coming out with is pretty embarrassing, and I won't embarrass my mate by documenting it here. He falls silent, and my paranoia tells me that this whole M25 thing is some sort of elaborate suicide plot.

I drift into sleep for a while. I dream a dream where Gimpo tells me that in the future the crusties, the ravers without hope, the ferel underclasses, will live on the M25 in broken down buses, discarded containers, packing cases and anything else that can be procured for nowt and provide shelter against the rains. The M25 will be taken over, clogged up, no longer used as a thoroughfare to nowhere. It will be like one of those forgotten canals behind backstreets in Brum, stagnant and dank, fit only for dead cats and stolen shopping trolleys, until it is ripe for future heritage culturalists to proclaim its worth as a site of historic interest. It will be a place where Gimpo will be king. The dream shifts, and I see Gimpo robed in purple trimmed with ermine held shoulder-high by a pack of Swampy's wayward grandchildren. They are carrying him to a throne built from a distant forklift truck and broken pallets, decorated with hub caps and liberated crown jewels.

'Last lap,' Gimpo shouts, and I awake from my dreams of his coronation. I clamber into the front. The three of us peer out the truck screen at our fellow Sunday travelers. Mr Green seems disappointed; he was hoping for something to happen, something to be revealed, for some sort of breakthrough. Gimpo says, 'It might yet happen.' I say, 'Maybe it already has. we just don't know it yet. These things take some time.' We are passing by Heathrow pylons, J.G. Ballard Crashlands. M40 westbound. Blackthorn blossom, catkins and gorse gold. Wild cherry, hovering kestrel. Not one dead fox, dead badger, dead rabbit, even dead hedgehog, but lots of dead pheasants. I notice these things. So does Gimpo, and he notices so much more, but I'll wait till the Congo book is written before revealing the true essence of Gimpo and the awfulness of his vision of our land.

Back into Herts, St Albans cathedral on the horizon. Two minutes to one. The pips. Gimpo goes berserk. The job has been done. We pull up on the hard shoulder. Trucks plough by. Gimpo is out. Down the embankment. Hammering in a wooden stake with a huge wooden mallet that I gave him as a wedding present. Mr Green has prepared a Wedgewood-blue plaque. These are the words printed on it:

On March 22nd/23rd 1997 Dave Green, Bill Drummond and Gimpo drove around the M25 for 25 hours non-stop. This plaque marks the point where the journey was finished.

This is nailed to the stake. Mr Green has also got a camera. He takes our pictures. We smile. A job well done.

Postscript: The Truth Will Out If you are the type to remember such things as when Halley's Comet last visited our corner of the Solar System, you may have reckoned that my 'Gimpo's 25' story to be mis-dated by at least 365 days. Well if you did, your reckoning would have been right. The story was written a month or so before I made it to my forty-fifth year, but because I wanted it included I lied about the date and added a year on to it.

Tags: research / text / repeat / loop / vehicle / car / driving / cycle / movement / drive / circle / quote / sun / orbit / course / road / M25 / 1998 / Bill_Drummond / Gimpo /

Look at the Sun 2013-01-18


from Jonas Mekas, To New York with Love, 2007

Tags: research / text / darkness / light / quote / sun / Jonas_Mekas /

Jonas Mekes Quote 2013-01-03

Let's record the dying century and the birth of another man... Nothing should be left unshown or unseen, dirty or clean: Let us see and go further, out of the swamps and into the sun.

Jonas Mekas, Movie Journal: The Rise of a New American Cinema, 1959-1971, Macmillan, New York, 1972, p. 236 (April 21, 1966)

Tags: research / text / light / quote / sun / film / camera / Jonas_Mekas /

research area map 2012-08-16