Monday, 30 January 2012

Two Buckets























You go to the market to get fish. There is a place that plays dub-reggae music, regardless of the weather or time of day. The men there recognise you by now and keep a few buckets of fins and bladders under one of the tables. You’ve been a good customer to them in the past, so these slops are free of charge although you occasionally offer a fiver which is generally accepted. One of the men knows you by name, his is James. When you walk to the stall James is bent over a frozen tray of cod, using his right hand to skim the excess water onto the street. He sees you and nods. His head is large and bald and the nod he gives you is slight, which you suspect is due to the weight of his skull. He motions for you to come towards him and you do so. It is early and you have not yet eaten any breakfast so the smell of fish makes the back of your throat tighten and your stomach ripple. James does not say a great deal but he does ask how you have been and you reply as you always do that you have been well. He nods again and looks at the two buckets under the table, which you take as a signal that he wants you to pick them up. You bend over and pick up the two buckets of wet slops, although James’ silence and the oddly slow manner in which you lift the buckets makes this transaction feel troublingly significant. You tell yourself that this is not the case and focus on straightening your back. You do not have five pounds on you today, and although James doesn’t ask for it you notice that he looks slightly forlorn and you are unable to decide whether this is due to you not offering him any money or is down to some other unrelated reason. Impulsively you ask him if everything is okay. He looks you in the eye, pauses, then quickly says that he has money troubles. You assume that he means the five pounds and apologise for not having any cash on you. You say you’ll bring five pounds with you tomorrow, but he says it isn’t the five pounds; in fact he owes a lot of money to his landlord and doesn’t know how he is going to pay it. This is the most James has ever said to you and you are surprisingly pleased with this; you feel accepted by this man who sells fish and you stand with two buckets of slops like a person who belongs completely in this situation. James continues to talk about his landlord, about how strict he is with payments and about how James shouldn’t have to pay him when he doesn’t come over in the winter when the pipes are all frozen and he can’t turn the shower on.  You ask whether there is anything you can do to help, which you do not really mean, but you ask it anyway. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but eventually he looks at you and says that there isn’t anything you can do about it, and that he’ll have to get the money somehow. You wish him well and begin to walk back on the road towards your house.  

You walk away from the market behind a man in a black and red tracksuit walking a large, muscular dog attached to a chain leash. The hind legs of the dog stretch and quiver as it moves forwards and you remember reading in a magazine that some dogs lock their jaws when they bite and that the only possible way to get it to let go of you is to stick a finger up its bum. You suddenly notice the presence of James walking beside you. This causes you to stop and you ask whether you left anything at the market-place. He says that you didn’t, that he only came to help you carry the buckets back to your home. You have always carried the buckets on your own and although you may not be particularly strong you have always managed it without a problem. You say to James that you are alright with the buckets and he gestures towards the pavement which is wet with slop. You look towards the market and see that you have been spilling splashes of liquid for a while. Although you are not sure why James is helping you, you feel embarrassed enough to accept his offer and he grabs hold of one of the buckets by the handle. You both walk behind the man with his dog and you ask James what he knows about getting a dog to let go of you once it’s locked its jaws around your leg. He suggests punching it in the nose, which he says also works for sharks, and you tell him that apparently you have to stick a finger up its bum. James gives you an odd look and asks with great sincerity why you would ever do that.

You reach your house, which you rent with your wife, and place the bucket on the ground while you search the outer pocket of your jacket for your keys. You thank James for his help and make a joke about fish that he doesn’t laugh at. He has the forlorn look in his eyes again and you aren’t sure what to do so you invite him inside for a cup of tea which he eagerly accepts. You both enter and make your way to the kitchen. James asks whether he should take his shoes off and you hesitate but in the end say that he doesn’t need to. You boil a kettle while he stands looking at the magnetised letters on your fridge which spell out ‘BATMAM’. You tell him that you couldn’t find any ‘N’s and he nods. You pour the boiling water into the cups and ask him if he wants sugar, he says he does and you ask ‘milk?’ and he says ‘yes’. You hand him his cup of tea and he asks you if you are married. You tell him you are and he asks where your wife is. You tell him that your wife is out at work. He asks what you do for work and you are beginning to get annoyed with all these questions but you tell him that since you lost your job you’ve mostly been staying at home, working on things. Naturally he asks you what these things are and you tell him that you can show him but that he should finish his tea first. As you say this you notice that he has fashioned a letter ‘N’ from three letter ‘I’s.  James is happy that you have noticed and smiles openly for the first time that day.

You close the door to the basement behind you. You thank James for carrying the two buckets down the stairs and then flick the light-switch on to reveal a large tank of water. James takes this opportunity to tell you that it really means a lot to him that you’ve let him into your house, that he really needed something to take his mind off the problems with his landlord, and that he is very grateful for the tea you have given him. You tell him that it’s okay and turn to walk towards the large tank of water that rests in the middle of the room, the sides of which are made from sleek, dark-blue rubber. Standing next to the pool (the sides of it reach up to your chest) you use the palm of your right hand to gently slap the surface of the water. James is watching and he says that you have done a good job in making such a large tank, and although you causally thank him for the compliment you are secretly proud of what he has said. There is a dolphin on the opposite side of the tank and the slapping on the water causes it to slowly move towards your hand and nudge the tip of its nose against your index finger. It makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a crack which James imitates and you gently pat its nose which causes it to make the noise once more which James again imitates. There is as raised platform next to one of the walls of the basement, and on the platform is an old brown sofa. You motion for James to sit on the sofa while you move towards one of the buckets of slops. You pick up a slimy piece of fin and keep it snuggly in the palm of your left hand while you move back to the tank and slap the surface of the water two times. At this signal the dolphin moves into the centre of the pool where it dives downwards so that only its tail is above the surface. With a practised effort it begins to shake its tail backwards and forwards, as if it is waving, which causes James to become suddenly animated and shriek with joy.  The dolphin swims towards the side of the tank and you drop the piece of fin into its open mouth. You clap your hands three times and the dolphin swims back into the centre of the water and this time it twirls around like a spinning top before coming back to the edge of the pool. You pick up another piece from the slop-bucket and slide it from your palm into the dolphin’s mouth. The dolphin cackles and James whoops and laughs and slaps his thigh. You clap loudly four times and the dolphin disappears beneath the surface of the water. Sweeping dramatically to the other side of the pool, you pull a piece of thin rope hanging from an overhead beam. As you do so a red hula-hoop descends towards the pool, like a plastic celestial halo. James is silent in anticipation although his breathing is heavy from all the excitement. With a sudden rush the dolphin breaches the water’s surface and flies upward through the air towards the red hula-hoop. It passes cleanly through the hoop and descents back into the water with a splash. For a split-second James is completely speechless, but then with a vital energy he stands and shouts ‘Yes’, over and over again. You are happy that the routine has impressed him, and as his shouts of ‘Yes’ become fainter, you are left with a glowing warmth and tell yourself that you made the right decision to train a dolphin. James wants to see more, but you tell him that the dolphin needs a break which he eventually accepts. He asks you whether you have anything to drink which catches you slightly off guard but you are still feeling happy with the performance and tell him that you have some beer in the fridge upstairs.

The lack of natural light in the basement makes it hard to tell what time it is, and your head is feeling heavy so you rest it on the back of the brown sofa. James is telling you about a long-term girlfriend who recently left him. He tells you that they used to share the flat and that they were very happy together and had bought all types of furniture, but now that he is alone he can’t afford the rent and he doesn’t know what to do with all the furniture. He tells you that you are very lucky to be married and that you should treasure your wife and never take a single day of your life together for granted. He says that it is a great thing to be in love and then he bends over and begins to cry. You feel a great surge of love for this man and you gently pat his large back and tell him not to worry and that it will all work out in the end. After a few seconds he raises his head and sniffs and says thank you. His eyes look sore and wet and his lips are coated in drool but you smile with genuine affection and place your hand on his shoulder. He finishes his beer in one large gulp and casually drops the empty can onto the floor with the others before reaching to the side of the sofa for a fresh one. You have also drunk quite a bit but are now feeling sleepy so you rest your head on the back of the sofa and stare at the tank of water.  You can see James’ face out of the corner of your vision and he is also looking at the tank but with that forlorn expression. You take it upon yourself to break the silence and begin to tell him about how you managed to train the dolphin after reading a book on the subject; about how it’s fascinating to learn about how, when broken in manageable steps, you can train a dolphin to do a very complex routine. James does not respond but continues to look dejectedly at the tank and raise the beer-can in his hand which is shaking slightly. Not knowing what else to do, you continue to talk about the process of training a dolphin and then say that maybe it is getting late and that maybe James should make his way back home or to the market stall. James says he saw a dolphin on a TV show once and in that show they had a child go into the water and then the dolphin went under the child and lifted the child before swimming around the edge of the pool.  You say that you have also seen that and James asks whether your dolphin can do it. You fumble for words but eventually say that you have never practised it with the dolphin and that the dolphin is unable to do such a thing without proper training. James grins and eagerly asks whether he can train the dolphin to do it now, which you say is definitely not a good idea and that you should both probably go upstairs. James is now standing and taking his t-shirt off, followed by his trousers and socks and underpants. You are surprised with the speed of this action and can now see his cock, which is gigantic and the head of it looks like a purple version of his skull. You ask him what he is doing but he has already run towards the tank and is gleefully scrambling over the rubber sides, causing water to spill onto the floor of the basement.  You stand and begin to run over to the tank to stop him, but you forget that you are on a platform and fall to a ground with a crash.

You pick yourself off the ground and feel a sharp hotness from your lower lip which is torn and bleeding down your chin and onto your clothes. You cup the lip with your left hand and feel that the cut isn’t too deep but it definitely hurts and makes it hard for you to shout clearly to James who is standing still at the inner edge of the pool. The dolphin is on the other side of the tank, staring intently at the naked man opposite it. You move to grab James’ shoulders and pull him back towards you but he sweeps your hands aside and tells you that he works with fish for a living. You tell him that dolphins are mammals but because your lip is cut the words come out slurred and elongated and sound more like ‘door frames and murmurs’. With his back to you he takes a step forwards and gently pats the water and makes a cooing sound. The dolphin remains where it is; its mouth slightly open like it has told a joke and is waiting for a reaction. Both of its small black eyes are fixed on James and you decide that you will never really know what animals think. James pats the water once again, but the dolphin continues to stare without sound or movement. James pats the water with a greater intensity, and when the dolphin still refuses to move his shoulders visibly sink.  You tell him that things will get better and that he should come out of the pool and that you will call him a taxi so he can get home okay. He must have understood what you said because he begins to shout about how he doesn’t want to go home. He shouts about how his landlord will be there waiting for him with a knife and how he will be living like a rat on the streets any day now. His body trembles and you see the strength of his shoulders fall apart. He quietly tells you that all he wants right now is to be like the child in that show who rode on a dolphin’s back. He moves forward in the water and the dolphin is now squeaking and splashing away from James towards the edges of the tank. You grab the side of the pool and try to pull yourself up but the rubber is slippery and it is hard to get a good grip. James now has both arms around the dolphin and is struggling to wrap his legs around its body. The noises the dolphin is making are guttural and piercing and occasionally muffled as its head is pushed into the water. You manage to climb the edge of the pool and throw yourself in but your clothes make it hard for you to move quickly and now James is punching the dolphin in the face. You reach his naked body and use both hands to pull him away from the squealing animal but his grip is tight and his skin is wet and you fall backwards. You try to hit him in the back of his bald head but all this does is make him weep and shake as his face is pressed tightly against the grey surface of the dolphin. You stare at this man as he desperately clings to a terrified sea-mammal and you feel your heart break. The dolphin’s tail is splashing so much water that it makes it hard to see anything, but you can see James’ back and you can see his spine snaking down towards his coccyx. You watch as the muscles of his buttocks stretch and quiver under his skin and before you know what you are doing you have forced an index finger inside his anus and are pushing with all the force you can muster. James lets out a loud wail but continues to hold onto the dolphin so you jab the finger roughly in and out; your elbow is slapping hard against the surface of the water which hurts slightly but you do not care and can only think of that repeated jabbing motion as your fingers push angrily and irrevocably forward. With a last, forceful drive you finally manage what you wanted and James releases the body of the dolphin which floats towards the walls of the tank. Both of your breathing is heavy and both of you are shaking, and you watch the ripples of the water become less and less present until the surface is completely still. Eventually James moves towards the edge of the tank before climbing onto the wet floor of the basement.  He quietly puts his clothes back on and says that he is sorry. You do not really know how to reply to this as your mind is spinning but you say that you have five pounds upstairs if he would like it. He says he doesn’t and instead walks over to the sofa.

You sit next to James and you look at the two buckets of slop and you decide that tomorrow you will throw the contents of the buckets into the toilet. Just as you come to this decision James passes you a can of beer and in complete silence you both watch the lifeless body of the dolphin drift from one side of the pool to the other. 

Monday, 20 June 2011

A Rehearsed Reading


Names of Birds
by
 Thomas McMullan
A Rehearsed Reading
Wednesday 6th July, 19:30
The ICA Studio
The Institute of Contemporary Arts

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Books and Dust


As the axe prepares to fall, I speak to Nicola Dellow, a postgraduate library student at UCL, about the cuts being made to library services.


Could you please sum-up the recent nationwide cuts made to libraries?

Public library services are being cut up and down the country as local councils attempt to keep to the budget cuts put in effect by the current government.

Do you feel these cuts are justified?

Of course not, I wouldn’t be a very good library school student if I did. I think it is completely tragic to be honest, as libraries have such a positive effect on a community. What I find most appalling is the cuts to outreach library programmes, such as mobile libraries and visits to the housebound. Many housebound users have little contact with the outside world and enjoy the chance to have a chat with a friendly member of staff and have books brought to them.

What are the long-term implications?

If public libraries shut, I do not think they will re-open in a better economic climate. I think this is why there have been so many campaigns to save libraries, initiated or endorsed by such a wide range of people. Education and literacy levels are likely to be affected and there is every chance that there will be a de-professionalisation of librarians working in the public sphere. 

Do libraries still have a useful role in today's culture given the ease of information access provided by the internet?

Of course. I think that both libraries and librarians have suffered in the past through stereotypes represented in the media. It is important to realise that libraries are not just about the physical space, but the services they can provide. The internet has not stopped parents taking their children to ‘rhyme-time’ at their local library, as a chance to learn and socialise with other children. It has not necessarily made people turn to online forums for book groups instead of attending them at the library to experience debate and the opportunity to meet new people. Public libraries essentially provide a democratic space for all members of the public.  

There is so much information available on the internet, but not all of it is relevant and search engines have certain limitations. At a library, it is likely that you will come into contact with someone who really knows about information retrieval, who can help you find relevant information from any number of sources.

Do the rise in e-book sales signal a natural evolution away from physical texts, or are such claims greatly exaggerated?

This is a tough one. The codex has had enduring popularity for centuries and it is a trusted form. I think that the e-book reader, like the codex, is a format for information retrieval and everyone has a personal preference about the ways in which they read. In a society where our working and private lives are increasingly exposed to computers, smartphones and other kinds of technology, then it is natural to want to carry 100 books around on an e-reader. However I think that the relatively slow uptake signals scepticism about storage capability and the chance of e-books reconfiguring as technology progresses, in the same way that early computer games cannot be played on today’s consoles. I certainly don’t think that in a decade’s time, book binders will be out of business.

In your opinion do such changes, both in terms of cuts to library services and the introduction of new technology, affect the types of books we read?

I don’t think changes to technology affect the types of books we read, but I do think they change the ways in which we read. I am not sure how it has the potential to affect the types of books we read, as e-books have the same diversity of genre as printed books.

I think that cuts to library services will really affect those who cannot afford to buy books and DVDs from internet sellers, or are unwilling to take a chance on ordering something that they cannot really browse first. In a public library, you can borrow material that you may not usually invest in and can read all sorts of books knowing that you can bring them back. I think that cuts to library resources will mean that people may be more careful about their reading choices because there is likely to be a monetary investment.

What do you make of Michael Goves' '50 book challenge'?

I think it is somewhat hypocritical to propose this figure when the government you are part of is essentially cutting the resources that will allow children access to reading material. This aim fails to account for any individual reading habits, such as pace. I think that Anthony Browne’s response in The Guardian has it spot on really; it is about the experience of reading, not the quest to complete a certain number of books within a year. 

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Immersive Theatre

(Originally written for IdeasTap.)

Leaning in the dark, I touch the tip of my shoe against an empty bottle on the floor and calculate the series of events that would be set into motion if I rolled the glass under the feet of Banquo’s ghost.
I would never do it – I’d be an idiot if I did – but I’m still stood there with the bottle and eyeing up his legs...
Down the dark vaults of Clerkenwell House of Detention, Belt Up Theatre are putting on Macbeth, the cells of this 19th-century prison transformed into the mind of Shakespeare’s Scottish king.
Belt Up specialise in immersive, site-specific performance; immersive being a large umbrella-of-a-term that encompasses everything from one-on-one interaction to large-scale promenade theatre. This type of performance promises its audience something different from a traditional stage-play; the chance for direct bodily involvement in the action of the piece.
But being lowered into the bathwater is one thing; feeling like you’re able to splash around is another. Immersive theatre, more so than a platform for sensory play, has the potential to explore something else: the audience’s desire for involvement and a frustration of that desire.
As its popularity has risen, audiences have grown accustomed to the styles of immersive performance and purchase their ticket with certain sensory expectations. In her blog, playwright Sarah Grochola compares last year’s You Me Bum Bum Train, in which each audience member is made the protagonist in a range of disjointed scenes, to the act of shoe shopping.
This year’s One-on-One festival at the BAC catered for the personal tastes of its audience by setting up the event as a series of “menus”, with performances based on flavours such as “reflective” or “dreamy”. We consume this style of performance with eager bellies, but who serves us our dinner?
For a character, the opportunity to escape the traditional stage is a potential movement towards independence: autonomy. Now don’t get me wrong, the world is over-populated enough without an infinity of fictional stomachs to fill and I’m not saying we should give them the vote, but breaking from the walls of a traditional stage could, to some degree, present a chance for self-authorship.
And yet what tends to happen is the very opposite. Characters are often reduced to tableaux; figures that blend into the architecture of the site and serve only to compliment the aesthetic atmosphere of the piece. It would seem that, crushed under the boots of the newly empowered audience, characters run the risk of being reduced to facilitators for sensory experience.
The real power of immersive theatre is the conflict that crops up when there is a clash between audience and character; both parties detached from the traditional rule-book, both hungry for action, yet both unsure where the power lies.
The real question is how should emerging companies work with this uncertainty? It would be unfair to describe Belt Up’s Macbeth as tableaux, but at the same time, the unwillingness to sever the audience from Shakespeare’s text seems to be a missed opportunity.
Should audiences disrupt these narratives, and what happens when characters fight back? Maybe if I roll that bottle just slightly forward…

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

The Rash


Five days to launch and all Alice could think about was the pink rash that had formed on her right arm. There was a press event at one tomorrow afternoon but, Jesus, what the hell was it? Just above the elbow on the back of her forearm, a fat pink line. It didn’t sting or anything but it was a nuisance and, let’s be honest, it can’t have looked particularly attractive. Especially now the weather was getting hotter and she would start wearing dresses. She turned her arm over to get a better look, straining the muscles in her shoulder and involuntarily opening her mouth just a bit. Christ, bloody annoying to have something like that come up now, just as the days were getting longer. She was going to wear that nice short-sleeve top for the event tomorrow but would now need a jacket as well. Those PR things are always so sticky and she knew the jacket would just make her sweat, especially when she would have to field questions from mental paranoids about dangers to human nature. And then all that hand-shaking afterwards with the knowledge that her palms were moist and she would probably smell a bit. Terrible, as if the press needed anything else to pounce on. The Sweaty Tech Witch.

She didn’t really understand the need for another PR meeting, it was only for the company to defend themselves against needless worries and in her opinion it came across as weak. All that crap about mind control and intrusion of human boundaries. It’s only a new sensor and, Christ, if they hadn’t developed it Apple would have. Then we’d be using our eyes to sweep across the pages and download useless aps. This way there was so much more we could do, the release titles were a great example of that. In her opinion the developers had done an amazing job integrating her technology in innovative ways, the first time she played the FPS she even surprised herself how smoothly the sensor detected minute eye movements. With the contraction of her iris the program was able to adapt and shift the game-play accordingly, and the resulting papillary response encouraged the narrative to increase the intensity of its content. As she blew a hole through the head of a Nazi the personal tailoring of the game’s action to her own mental state made her heart beat faster and, if she was honest, she had uncrossed her legs and pressed herself forward and down, just slightly, on the leather board-room chair.

Fuck, this rash was growing, she was sure of it, in the past five minutes alone no less. The phone started ringing and she used her left hand to pick it up, keeping focus on the back of her right forearm. It was her PA, he wanted to know what she would like for lunch tomorrow as the conference centre was booking the meals from the catering service in advance. Chicken was fine. She rested the phone between her shoulder and ear and moved her left hand to the rash. Roast potatoes were fine as well. Her fingers lingered above the pink blotch and she told her PA that yes she would be drinking wine and yes she was planning on getting a taxi home. She touched the rash with the tip of her forefinger. It was fine, she didn’t want him to give her a lift home, she was happy to get a taxi. She pressed the finger into the skin and it slowly eased into her arm, the surface opening around her nail and allowing her to push further, right down to the knuckle. Her PA wanted to know if she was sure about the lunch, as once he’d booked it she would be unable to change her mind. She worked her finger further into her arm and, with a bit of effort, was eventually able to slide a second finger in also. She uncrossed her legs and felt the cold phone against her neck. Yes, it was absolutely fine.     

Friday, 8 April 2011

A Quick Pint With Fran

Fran Copeman is a 25 year old painter and illustrator. She’s exhibited both locally in London and internationally, in Italy, Germany and Manchester. Her work, mixing hyper-realism and abstraction, often depicts disfigured and restricted bodies sunk in a thick painted landscape. I met her outside the John Snow in Soho for a pint.



How was the toilet?

Piss off. Actually, appropriate word. Why the fuck do we pay for water? It just goes straight through you.

What inspires you?

Shall we wait for this environmental services truck to pass?

 A dustbin truck moves past the pavement edge where Tom and Fran are sitting.

Okay.

Well.

Generally I’m interesting in relationships and our relationships with each other. Obviously that gets much more complicated when you’re living in such a busy place, y’know?

No. What do you mean when you say relationships?

I mean the way I react with my external world, simple as. I had an early project, crudely called ‘The City’, I was reading Walter Benjamin and all that, but the idea of the city is still an important metaphor of me.

Do you work a lot in metaphors then?

Yeah definitely. I wouldn’t work in a completely representational way – I mean I do often use the human figure but that’s because it’s a form that I can identify with.

Is that identification important?

All I can say from my personal experiences of exhibiting is that I haven’t seen a single recent piece that has been ‘essentially’ conceptual. There’s always been a narrative or something which gives the audience the ability to see what the artist is doing without having to read a manual. Which is nice.

But your figures aren’t representational?

Well apart from the idea.

Is that idea frustration? It seems to be something you frequently work with.

When I left university I wanted a lot of things, but that all turned to shit really – a lot of people seem frustrated like that at the moment. I was also interested in frustrating the aesthetics of the piece to the point of distortion, and that got me looking at what makes something look distorted; ugly.

Why ugly?

It’s always a nicer challenge to make something that isn’t pretty.

Do you consider your work to be ugly?

Yes, it’s pretty ugly, but the image itself I find quite beautiful because of the detail created by the restriction.

What’s the process of getting that restriction?

Basically tying people up and getting them to break out of things.

Right.

Like with rope. Mainly on the face and hands.

Okay.

That’s where the most gesturing happens. Basically it started off as me imitating artists I admire, like Robert Longo who was active in the 80’s during the yuppie era. I did nick his style a bit but it’s mine now. (Laughs) History repeats itself anyways. We all forget things.

Fran drinks.

Is there a political element to your work?

I suppose the way you feel is based on a lifestyle created for you, which is politically created. Maybe if you lived on the top of a hill on Mars then you wouldn’t have that problem; you wouldn’t have inter…interwhatsitcalled?

Intercourse?

Yeah, that. None of that. Fran finishes her drink. I was watching a film and they were saying that women make up the majority of the population.

Your subjects are often women, or yourself.

People say they look androgynous. I really only use females because they’re normally the people I have at hand. I’d probably feel more on-edge getting a man to do it. Well, especially the type of man I’d be looking for…getting him to go crazy in front of the camera like that. At the moment it’s just androgynous me. I think it looks strong though. A bang is heard from across the road.
I’d like to just stand up and punch someone in the face. That would make me feel strong.

Why don’t you?

What?

Punch someone in the face.

Could do.

Are your paintings about people not being able to do that?

Yes, well, no. It’s the fine line; a specific place where someone has seen their restriction and is now at the point where they’re trying to break out of it. My hope is that they’re at a point of rebellion.

What are they rebelling against?

I don’t know, it’ll sound convoluted. I guess their limited channels of expression. Here, look, there’s a big environmental services truck coming.

The same dustbin truck from earlier slowly drives past.

How do you feel about trucks?

That wheel is as big as my body.

The sound of an engine is heard, low and guttural.

Words by Thomas McMullan.
Find out more about Fran and her work on her blog.

(via @MintMagazineUK)