Fictional sky. Fictional trees. Fictional man. From the pits of disappointment to the heights of great fiction. Fictional grey of deep winter sky blankets the world in more mirrors than there is deeply diffused grey light coalescing into the form of another fictional man acting as a witness. Two real men who will never meet nod to each other on the road that borders the forest. A muffled alright? from one of them is answered almost simultaneously with a croaked OK from the other.
I really do believe that the objects we share our lives with can read our thoughts without possessing any language as such. Only by saying that I really do believe can I emphasise the muscular control that these objects exert over the direction of my thoughts. It has nothing to do with fiction fantasy or realist it is to do with close-up injections including affairs of the heart that can blast all belief systems.
Conceptual gentleness in entangled shadows. Tight fitting genre streams and the loose living tensions of unidentified objects floating down those same streams. Standing on a bridge and looking down at the water is a person of indeterminate gender they (yes they) play with the notion that all talk about distant exoplanets is nonsense that astronomy could be replaced by Portland Sheep illuminated by white lightening. This figure on a bridge figures in many well-known paintings.
A ribcage is measured for a costume drama before the mirror. The mirror has to wait. The sky cracks like ribs head butted by a little lad not watching where he’s going he’s just run out of school in Tottenham in 1973 all keyed up in the garish dark blue and dirty red dyes of an ancient Punk zine used to identify a rare breed of sheep – dark blue for the border between reality and fiction and red for a road between forest and sky. The road runs parallel with a watery ditch you are saved from by a Stats and Probability student but nothing can save you from his pity.
Tim Allen (from A Democracy of Poisons)
Collage Rupert Loydell