Critical Practice

Goodbye Critters!

2006-05-30T17:28:00.000+01:00

Have a lovely Summer!

See you all again next semester…

Nico & Charlie

Herzog Triple Bill

2006-05-16T23:30:00.000+01:00

Massnarmen Gegen Fanatiker (1969)

Mit Mir Will Niemand Spielen (1976)

Ten Thousand Years Older (2002)

Film Today!

2006-05-04T11:39:00.000+01:00

Horse Draws Horse

2006-05-02T12:05:00.000+01:00

Tom Waits on David Letterman

Werner Herzog Gets Shot During BBC Interview

2006-04-14T15:28:00.000+01:00

A Place For holiday posts…

2006-04-14T00:55:00.000+01:00

…

Late at Tate

2006-04-03T13:34:00.000+01:00

19.30- 22.00 free
Archie Bronson Outfit and Domino Records Present...
Black Drum
An aural menagerie band assembled by the Archie Bronson Outfit for your pleasure.
First up is Arthur Brick, a three piece who sing songs about Bermondsey war veterans, night buses to Catford, 1950's homosexuals and religious fervour in the home counties, amongst other things.

Then a rare performance from the elusive Band of Nod, a loose art/music collective who are accompanied by the legendary comic poet and musical raconteur
John Hegley.
Then the mighty Archie Bronson Outfit perform songs from their second album, Derdang Derdang (released 3 April on Domino Records). Their krautrock-infused blues have seen them compared to artists such as The Gun Club, Son House, Sixteen Horsepower and Faust. Expect propulsive riffs, primal beats and chaotic revelry.

http://www.archiebronsonoutfit.co.uk/
http://www.arthurbrick.co.uk/
http://www.getofftheweb.org/bandofnod/BAND%20OF%20NOD/
http://www.johnhegley.co.uk/

A Futile Gesture…

2006-03-29T13:47:00.000+01:00

Tonight!
8–1pm
LMU Student Union SubBar

Dress up as an Artist or an Artwork for the chance to win a prize!

Rust Beckett

2006-03-27T21:06:00.000+01:00

Strike!

2006-03-27T13:30:00.000+01:00

Due to strike action the building will be closed all day tomorrow (Tue. 28th) so unfortunately we will have to postpone all tutorials and the afternoon seminar until the following week.

Please make sure you all turn up at 10.30am on the 4th April so that we can have the meeting that was intended for tomorrow.

As a special treat Elizabeth Price will be giving tutorials to Critical Practice students after the meeting on the 4th April so please be prepared.

Nico & Charlie

Ohio Impromptu

2006-03-22T12:00:00.000Z

Samuel Beckett

William S. Burroughs

2006-03-20T15:51:00.000Z

A Thanksgiving Prayer

John Cage

2006-03-14T17:02:00.000Z

Look here

Artists' Talk

2006-03-13T13:24:00.000Z

Monday 20th March

with performance artist
Daniel Oliver

5.30pm-6.30pm
Room CR 1-00 (1st Floor lecture theatre),
Commercial Road building

Free event - All Welcome

100,000,000,000,000 Poems (Cent mille milliards de poèmes, 1961)

2006-03-06T13:19:00.001Z

Raymond Queneau

http://www.wordengineering.net/ticker3.html

T.S. Eliot reads to kill

2006-03-03T09:10:00.000Z

http://town.hall.org/Archives/radio/IMS/HarperAudio/011894_harp_ITH.html

Please post your Criticism here…

2006-03-01T23:25:00.000Z

Mark Tansey
T he Innocent Eye Test 1981

Dante's Nine Circles of Hell…

2006-03-01T22:43:00.000Z

For comparison

Not Shostakovich, but Stockhausen

2006-02-28T13:51:00.000Z

Refrain
One of Karlheinz Stockhausen's drawings/compositions

A Dictionary of Jorge Luis Borges

2006-02-24T19:53:00.000Z

http://www.borgesian.com/

Follow the link or click here to download a PDF of: A Dictionary of Borges

A Wasp Killed by Magic

2006-02-10T13:15:00.000Z

Notice
171 Deptford High Street
London SE8 3NU

Press Release

A Wasp Killed by Magic
Simon Davison
with
Charlie Woolley

17 February - 18 March 2006

Private View 16 February 6 – 9

A Wasp Killed by Magic is the inaugural exhibition at Notice, a new gallery in South London directed by Nicola Oxley & Nicolas De Oliveira. It begins a year-long project in which all exhibitions will revolve around a dialogue between two or more individuals. The first participant is chosen by the curatorial team, who, in turn, selects further collaborators; they may be other artists, curators, writers, architects or musicians. The aim is to foster explicit links between different practices, and to investigate how a common language can be established.

A Wasp Killed by Magic begins the series by linking the artist Simon Davison and the writer Charlie Woolley.

The work of Simon Davison is at once unique and familiar; familiar in that all the works in the exhibition are made up of the stuff that surrounds us – records, clocks, maps, string & fluff, balls, buildings and the city itself. Unique in the way Simon Davison re-presents these things.

In fact there are no actual works of art in the gallery at all. Only fragments, bits and pieces, which, when put together work as storytellers that point outwards, back into the city where all these things are commonplace. The hand of the artist is absent when these stories are told. What Simon Davison does is tell you where to look and when.

The objects seen in the gallery are just props, the titles are the works:
A Wasp Killed by Magic is what it says it is, but the words make the works portable so we can carry them with us. Each piece is compact, and reads like a book or a poem, or even a joke with a potent punch line that resonates and makes us smile again later when we are alone.

The Monkey’s Paw Writing Project

2006-02-03T18:20:00.000Z

Spring Semester

The Monkey’s Paw Writing Project.

When giving a lecture on the ‘techniques and ethics of wishing’ William S. Burroughs stated that his ideal text for use in a creative writing workshop would be ‘The Monkey’s Paw’, a short story written in 1902 by the American author W.W. Jacobs.
The story provides a useful example of archetypes in narrative composition in much the same way fables and children’s stories do.
The approach that we have taken towards language over the first semester has examined the fine line between the creative and the critical.
By utilizing the ‘The Monkey’s Paw’ we shall extend these themes towards an investigation into the techniques of writing.

Writing (to be completed by Tues. 14th Feb. 2006)

You are required to:

1. Read the story carefully and familiarise yourself with its narrative, plot and dynamics. A hard copy will be provided and it will also be posted on the Blog.
2. Compose your own version of the story whilst observing the ‘rules’ of the original version. Your story’s central focus must rest on the three wishes, though you should replace the original wishes with three of your own invention.
3. Alter the setting, characters, time and length (roughly 2000 words would be appropriate).
4. Read your text out on the date stated above in Tuesday afternoon’s seminar group.

The Monkey's Paw

2006-02-03T18:13:00.000Z

THE MONKEY'S PAW
By W. W. Jacobs

I.
Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam
Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son
were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving
radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils
that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting
placidly by the fire.
"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake
after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from
seeing it.
"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he
stretched out his hand. "Check."
"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with
his hand poised over the board.
"Mate," replied the son.
"That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden
and unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way
places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a
torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because
only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn't matter."
"Never mind, dear," said his wife, soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the
next one."
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance
between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a
guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy
footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard
condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with
himself, so that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her
husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and
rubicund of visage.
"Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.
The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the
fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and
stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the
little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from
distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke
of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange
peoples.
"Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son.
"When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look
at him."
"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs. White, politely.
"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to look round a
bit, you know."
"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He
put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.
"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said
the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a
monkey's paw or something, Morris?"
"Nothing," said the soldier, hastily. "Leastways nothing worth hearing."
"Monkey's paw?" said Mrs. White, curiously.
"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the
sergeant-major, offhandedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly
put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host
filled it for him.
"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, "it's just
an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy."
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew
back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White as he took it
from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-major,
"a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and
that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell
on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it."
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their
light laughter jarred somewhat.
"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White, cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard
presumptuous youth. "I have," he said, quietly, and his blotchy face
whitened.
"And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. White.
"I did," said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong
teeth.
"And has anybody else wished?" persisted the old lady.
"The first man had his three wishes. Yes," was the reply; "I don't know
what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got
the paw."
His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now, then, Morris,"
said the old man at last. "What do you keep it for?"
The soldier shook his head. "Fancy, I suppose," he said, slowly. "I did
have some idea of selling it, but I don't think I will. It has caused
enough mischief already. Besides, people won't buy. They think it's a
fairy tale; some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to
try it first and pay me afterward."
"If you could have another three wishes," said the old man, eyeing him
keenly, "would you have them?"
"I don't know," said the other. "I don't know."
He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb,
suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down
and snatched it off.
"Better let it burn," said the soldier, solemnly.
"If you don't want it, Morris," said the other, "give it to me."
"I won't," said his friend, doggedly. "I threw it on the fire. If you
keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again
like a sensible man."
The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. "How
do you do it?" he inquired.
"Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud," said the sergeant-major,
"but I warn you of the consequences."
"Sounds like the Arabian Nights," said Mrs. White, as she rose and began
to set the supper. "Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of
hands for me?"
Her husband drew the talisman from pocket, and then all three burst into
laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught
him by the arm.
"If you must wish," he said, gruffly, "wish for something sensible."
Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his
friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly
forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion
to a second instalment of the soldier's adventures in India.
"If the tale about the monkey's paw is not more truthful than those he
has been telling us," said Herbert, as the door closed behind their
guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, "we sha'nt make much
out of it."
"Did you give him anything for it, father?" inquired Mrs. White,
regarding her husband closely.
"A trifle," said he, colouring slightly. "He didn't want it, but I made
him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away."
"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. "Why, we're going to be
rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin
with; then you can't be henpecked."
He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with
an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. "I don't
know what to wish for, and that's a fact," he said, slowly. "It seems to
me I've got all I want."
"If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you?"
said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. "Well, wish for two hundred
pounds, then; that 'll just do it."
His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the
talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at
his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a
shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him.
"It moved," he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on
the floor.
"As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake."
"Well, I don't see the money," said his son as he picked it up and placed
it on the table, "and I bet I never shall."
"It must have been your fancy, father," said his wife, regarding him
anxiously.
He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's no harm done, but it
gave me a shock all the same."
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes.
Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously
at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and
depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose
to retire for the night.
"I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your
bed," said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, "and something horrible
squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your
ill-gotten gains."
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces
in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it
in amazement.' It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt
on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His
hand grasped the monkey's paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand
on his coat and went up to bed.

II.
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the
breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic
wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night,
and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a
carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. White. "The idea of
our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these
days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?"
"Might drop on his head from the sky," said the frivolous Herbert.
"Morris said the things happened so naturally," said' his father, "that
you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence."
"Well, don't break into the money before I come back," said Herbert as he
rose from the table. "I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious
man, and we shall have to disown you."
His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the
road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense
of her husband's credulity. All of which did not prevent her from
scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from
referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits
when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill.
"Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he
comes home," she said, as they sat at dinner.
"I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; "but for all
that, the thing moved in my hand; that I'll swear to."
"You thought it did," said the old lady soothingly.
"I say it did," replied the other. "There was no thought about it; I had
just---- What's the matter?"
His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a
man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared
to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the
two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and
wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate,
and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon
it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path.
Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly
unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel
beneath the cushion of her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He
gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old
lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a
garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as
patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he
was at first strangely silent.
"I--was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece
of cotton from his trousers. "I come from 'Maw and Meggins.'"
The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she asked,
breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is
it?"
Her husband interposed. "There, there, mother," he said, hastily. "Sit
down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've not brought bad news, I'm
sure, sir;" and he eyed the other wistfully.
"I'm sorry--" began the visitor.
"Is he hurt?" demanded the mother, wildly.
The visitor bowed in assent. "Badly hurt," he said, quietly, "but he is
not in any pain."
"Oh, thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "Thank God for
that! Thank--"
She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned
upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's
perverted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted
husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.
"He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor at length in a low
voice.
"Caught in the machinery," repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, "yes."
He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife's hand
between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old
courting-days nearly forty years before.
"He was the only one left to us," he said, turning gently to the visitor.
"It is hard."
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. "The firm
wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,"
he said, without looking round. "I beg that you will understand I am
only their servant and merely obeying orders."
There was no reply; the old woman's face was white, her eyes staring, and
her breath inaudible; on the husband's face was a look such as his friend
the sergeant might have carried into his first action.
"I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility,"
continued the other. "They admit no liability at all, but in
consideration of your son's services, they wish to present you with
a certain sum as compensation."
Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a
look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, "How
much?"
"Two hundred pounds," was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his
hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.

III.
In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried
their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It
was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and
remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen
--something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts
to bear.
But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation--the
hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes
they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and
their days were long to weariness.
It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night,
stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in
darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He
raised himself in bed and listened.
"Come back," he said, tenderly. "You will be cold."
"It is colder for my son," said the old woman, and wept afresh.
The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his
eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden
wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
"The paw!" she cried wildly. "The monkey's paw!"
He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? What's the matter?"
She came stumbling across the room toward him. "I want it," she said,
quietly. "You've not destroyed it?"
"It's in the parlour, on the bracket," he replied, marvelling. "Why?
She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
"I only just thought of it," she said, hysterically. "Why didn't I think
of it before? Why didn't you think of it?"
"Think of what?" he questioned.
"The other two wishes," she replied, rapidly.
"We've only had one."
"Was not that enough?" he demanded, fiercely.
"No," she cried, triumphantly; "we'll have one more. Go down and get it
quickly, and wish our boy alive again."
The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs.
"Good God, you are mad!" he cried, aghast.
"Get it," she panted; "get it quickly, and wish--Oh, my boy, my boy!"
Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back to bed," he
said, unsteadily. "You don't know what you are saying."
"We had the first wish granted," said the old woman, feverishly; "why not
the second?"
"A coincidence," stammered the old man.
"Go and get it and wish," cried his wife, quivering with excitement.
The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. "He has been
dead ten days, and besides he--I would not tell you else, but--I could
only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to
see then, how now?"
"Bring him back," cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door.
"Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?"
He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then
to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear
that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he
could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as
he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with
sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until
he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his
hand.
Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white
and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it.
He was afraid of her.
"Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice.
"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.
"Wish!" repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again."
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he
sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked
to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the
figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end,
which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing
pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger
than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of
relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a
minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically
beside him.
Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A
stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall.
The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up
his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went
downstairs for a candle.
At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike
another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be
scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.
The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood
motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he
turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him.
A third knock sounded through the house.
"What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up.
"A rat," said the old man in shaking tones--"a rat. It passed me on the
stairs."
His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the
house.
"It's Herbert!" she screamed. "It's Herbert!"
She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by
the arm, held her tightly.
"What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely.
"It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling mechanically.
"I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go.
I must open the door.
"For God's sake don't let it in," cried the old man, trembling.
"You're afraid of your own son," she cried, struggling. "Let me go. I'm
coming, Herbert; I'm coming."
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench
broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing,
and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the
chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the
socket. Then the old woman's voice, strained and panting.
"The bolt," she cried, loudly. "Come down. I can't reach it."
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in
search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got
in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he
heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage
against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly
back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw, and frantically
breathed his third and last wish.
The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the
house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind
rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and
misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then
to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet
and deserted road.

5,000 word palindrome

2006-01-30T14:28:00.000Z

Star? Not I! Movie – it too has a star in or a cameo who wore mask – cast are livewires.

Soda-pop straws are sold, as part-encased a hot tin, I saw it in mad dog I met. Is dog rosy? Tie-dye booths in rocks.

All ewes lessen ill. I see sheep in Syria? He, not I, deep in Syria, has done. No one radio drew old one.

Many moths – I fondle his; no lemons are sold. Loot delis, yob, moths in a deli bundle his tin. Pins to net a ball I won – pins burst input. I loot to get a looter a spot paler. Arm a damsel – doom a dam. Not a base camera was in a frost, first on knees on top spot. Now a camera was a widened dam.

Ask: Cold, do we dye? No, hot – push tap, set on to hosepipe. Nuts in a pod liven.

A chasm regrets a motto of a fine veto of wars. Too bad – I all won. A sadist sent cadets – a war reign a hero derides. A bad loser, a seer, tossed a cradle – he begat to cosset – a minaret for Carole, Beryl, Nora. We’re not as poor to self.

I risk cold as main is tidal. As not one to delay burden, I don’t set it on “hot”. A foot made free pie race losses runnier. As draw won pull, eye won nose. Vile hero saw order it was in – even a moron saw it – no, witnessed it: Llama drops – ark riots. Evil P.M. in a sorer opus enacts all laws but worst arose. Grab a nosey llama – nil lesser good, same nicer omen.

In pins? No, it is open. If a top spins, dip in soot.

Madam, as I desire, dictates: Pull aside, damsels, I set a rag not for a state bastion. A test I won e.g. a contest I won.

Kidnap, in part, an idle hero. Megastars, red, rosy, tied no tie. Blast! A hero! We do risk a yeti’s opposition!

He too has a wee bagel still up to here held.

Demigods pack no mask, cap nor a bonnet, for at last a case is open – I left a tip – it wets. A dog wets too. Radios to help pay my tip, pull a tip.

Ale, zoo beer, frets yon animal. Can it? New sex arose but, we sots, not to panic – it’s ale – did I barrel? Did I lose diadem, rare carrot in a jar of mine? Droop as tops sag – unseen knots.

A cat ate straw as buck risk cud; evil foe, nil a red nag ate? Bah! Plan it – silage. Model foot in arboreta.

I, dark Satanist, set fire – voodoo – to slat. I design a metal as parrot, I deem it now. One vast sum is no ten in set – amen! Indeed, nine drag a yam, nine drag a tie. Dame nabs flower; can we help man? Woman is worse nob.

Mud level rose, so refill a rut. A nag of iron I made to trot I defied – I risk leg and its ulnae. Can a pen I felt to bid dollar or recite open a crate, open a cradle, his garret?

Sample hot Edam in a pan. I’m a rotten digger – often garden I plan, I agreed; All agreed? Aye, bore ensign; I’d a veto – I did lose us site. Wool to hem us? No, cotton. Site pen in acacias or petals a last angel bee frets in.

I met a gorilla (simian); a mate got top snug Noel fire-lit role. Manet, Pagnol, both girdle his reed bogs.

Flan I reviled, a vet nods to order it, Bob, and assign it. Totem users go help mates pull as eye meets eye. Son – mine – pots a free pie, yes? No. Left a tip? Order a dish to get. A ring is worn – it is gold. Log no Latin in a monsignor, wet or wise. Many a menu to note carrot.

Cat in a boot loots; As I live, do not tell! A bare pussy, as flat on fire, I know loots guns, fires a baton, nets a hero my ale drop made too lax.

If it is

to rain, a man is a sign; I wore macs, no melons rot. I use moths if rats relive, sir, or retire.

Vendor pays: I admire vendee, his pots net roe. Nine dames order an opal fan; I’ll ask cold log fire vendor to log igloo frost. Under Flat Six exist no devils.

Marxist nods to Lenin. To Lenin I say: “Mama is a deb, besides a bad dosser.”

Gen it up to get “ova” for “egg”. I recall a tarot code: yell at a dessert side-dish sale. Yes/nos a task cartel put correlate: E.S.P. rocks a man. I am a man, am no cad, I’m aware where it’s at!

Fire! Its an ogre-god to help, man, as I go. Do not swap; draw, pull a troll!

It’s not a cat I milk – calf, for a fee, sews a button - knit or tie damsel over us. Mined gold lode I fill until red nudes I met in a moor-top bar can. I sit, I fill a diary – trap nine men in ten-part net – oh, sir, I ask, cod nose? No, damp eel.

So, to get a name! I say, Al! I am Al! Last, I felt, to breed, deer begat.

To can I tie tissue – damp – or deliver Omani artist – a man of Islam.

In a den mad dogs lived on minis a signor who lived afore targets in at. As eremites pull, I, we, surf, fantasise, mend a bad eye. No hero met satyr; Tony, as I stressed, won’t, so cosset satyr.

A vet on isles made us sign it, a name. Foe man one sub.

Aside no dell I fret a wallaby; metal ferrets yodel, like so. On a wall I ate rye. Bored? No, was I rapt! One more calf? O.K., calf, one more, bossy! No! Lock cabin, rob yam, sip martini. Megastar was in a risk.

Cat? No, I’m a dog; I’m a sad loyal pet. A design I wore – kilts (a clan); if net drawn, I put it up. Royal spots snag – royal prevents rift.

Composer, good diet, are both super, God – label it a love of art, lustre. Video bored, no wise tale e.g. a mini tale – no sagas seen. Knack: cede no foes a canal.

Pay – as I sign I lie; clear sin it is; e.g. “Amadeus” sign I – lira for ecu, decimal – sin as liar.

Trad artistes pull a

doom, a drawer won’t.

Is it sold loot? No, I suffered loss. A man is god; Amen! I came nice Tahiti (sic).

It’s ale for a ban if for a fast – is role to help mash turnip? Use zoo? No - grasp order – use no zoos. Warts on time did sag.

No grade “X” “A” Level? Oh, “A”! I’d a “B” or a “C”. So – pot? No, we lop. Date? Take no date! Bah! Play L.P.

Miss (a lass, all right?) flew to space in NASA era. Rose no (zero) cadets ate raw. As a wise tart I fined rags red Lenin, we help pay bet – a risk – cash to Brian. I put a clam in a pool – a pool wets.

Mahdi puts a stop to harem – miss it in one vote, lost in one, veto of none. Post-op, no tonsil; I ate; no tastier, eh? We sleep at noon time so I dare not at one; no time stops as I time tides. A bed: under it, roll; in a mania, panic!

In a pond I did as Eros as Lee felt tenrec. “Ink” – list it under “I”. Termites put pen in a way. Democrats wonder, I too. To slay moths a dog did.

I saw elf; elf, far now, is a devilish taboo, rag-naked. I hid a bootleg disc. I, saboteur, toss it in. Oops! No legs! Laminated, a cask, conker in it, negates all if it is simple.

Hot pages are in a mag, nor will I peer, familiar tat, so lewd, native rot. Toner, ewe wore no trace; vagabond ewes do. Oh, Ada! Have pity! A pitiable eel – “Oh wet am I!” - to save, note: bite gill as I do.

Call a matador minor, eh? As I live, don’t! Is torero no rigid animal debaser if tipsy? Ale drew esteem in a matador. A bolero, monks I rate play or go dig rocks; a can I step on.

Go! Gas – it evades a bedsit – set a roost on fire. Boss sent a faded eclair to green imp or dog, I’d don a belt to boot it; if Ada hid a boot, panic.

I mock comic in a mask, comedian is a wit if for eventide. Vole no emu loved is not a ferret, so pet or witness a weasel if not. I hired less, am not so bossy, as yet amateur.

To stir evil, Edna can impugn a hotel: bad loos, hot on Elba: I may melt. Tart solicits it rawer, gets it rare. Push crate open; I ram buses, use no trams.

Did I say, not to idiot nor a bare ferret, to trap rat, strap loops rat? Stewpot was on. Hot? I was red! Lessen it! Fine man on pot? No, pen inside by a bad law. So I made rips – nine delays.

Some Roman items in a.m. ordered “Is room for a ban?” “It is,” I voted: I sat pews in aisle. Beryl, no tiro to my burden, made off for a contest, I won kiss. I may raid fine dales. I raid lochs if I to help am.

Forecast for Clare v. Essex: If no rain, a man is ref. Fusspots net foxes.

Senor is a gnome, latinos’ bad eyesore. Help misses run to border, Casanova, now, or drab hotel.

Ma has a heron; I sleep, pet’s on nose, sir! Rev. I rag loved art live – fine poser. Ultra-plan: I feign, I lie: cedar to disperse – last one? No, last six. Enamel bonnet for a dark car to toss a snail at. In it all, Eve lost; Seth’s a hero slain on a trap – Rise, Sir Ogre Tamer.

Upon Siamese box I draw design. I, knight able to help, missed an alp seen in Tangier of fine metal pots. Tin I mined rages – order nine, melt ten. Tone radios; tones are not to concur. Ten-tone radar I bomb – best fire-lit so hostel side meets eerie mini red domicile. A gulf to get is not a rare tale; no time to nod.

Row on, evil yobs, tug, pull. If dogs drowse, fill a rut. An era’s drawers draw. Put in mid-field in a band I dig a tub deep. Staff on a remit did refill a minaret.

Sam’s a name held in a flat, or, sir, bedsit. I wonder, is it illicit ore? No ties? A bit under? Retarded? Is ‘owt amiss? I’m on pot; not so Cecil, a posh guy a hero met. A red date was not to last so Cecil sat.

Tip? An iota to pay, a dot; sad, I drop item. I’d ask, call, Odin, a Norseman’s god: “Pay payee we owe radio dosh o.n.o.” I to me? No, I to media.

Peril in golf – is ball a “fore”? K.O.!

Vexed I am re my raw desires. Alto has eye on nose but tone-muser pianist is level-eyed. I lost a tie. Blast! In uni no grades are musts. Avast! Never port! Sea may be rut.

Part on rose? - It’s a petal. Define metal:

Tin is … (I gulp!) can!

I am a fine posse man, I pull a ton. Ron, a man I put on, I made suffer of evil emu’s sadism. Leo’s never a baron - a bad loss but evil – topple him, Leo’s lad. Assign a pen, can I? A pal is note decoding.

Is damp mule tail-less? No, ill; I breed for its tone. Radio speed, to grower, grew. Open a lot? No, stamp it; if for a free peso – not ecu -deign it. Times ago stone rates, e.g. at Scilly, display a wont.

No wish to get a design I, Sir Des, I’ve let? No bus sees Xmas fir. O.K. – cab – tart it up; tie lots – diamond, log or tinsel; first end errata edit. So “le vin (A.C.)”, Martini, Pils lager, one tonic.

I pegged a ball up to here when I got a top star role, Beryl. Gun is too big – won’t I menace? Yes? No?

Ill? A cold? Abet icecap’s nip. U.S.A. meets E.E.C. inside tacit sale – see! Beg a cotton tie, ma! No trial, so dodo traps exist. Arabs under-admire card label good hood stole.

In rage erupted Etna. Will a rotunda, bare villa, to tyro. Lack car? Non-U! Get a mini! My, my, Ella, more drums per gong; get a frog – nil less. Rod, never ever sneer. Got to?

I disperse last pair of devils (ah!) here today or else order cash to breed emus. Said I: “Are both superlative?” C.I.D. assign it lemon peel still. I wore halo of one bottle from a ref (football) – a tip; so hit last ego slap a mate got.

Late p.m. I saw gnu here (non-a.m.) or an idea got a dog to nod – I made felt to boot.

Fill in a lad? Nay, not all, Edna – lash to buoy. Did you biff one Venus? Not I! “Broth, girl!” ladies ordered – “No, with gin!” – a fine plate, maybe suet; no carton I made rots in it.

Med: a hill, Etna, clears in it. Ali, Emir, to slap in/slam in. All in all I made bad losers sign it – alibi. Set a lap for a level bat.

A bed, sir, eh? To put cat now? Drat! Such an idyll of a dog’s lair! That`s it, open it – a cage! Big nit sent rat! Some day (A.D.) send ewe. No, draw a pot now, do! Of wary rat in a six ton tub.

Edna, ask satyr: “Tel. a.m.?” No, tel. p.m.; Israeli tuner is damp. Use item: “Anna Regina”. No! Dye main room (“salle”) red!

Nice caps for a sea cadet in U.S.A. – Now I, space cadet, am it, sea vessel rep. Pin it on Maria, help Maria fondle her fine hotpot. No! Meet; set up to net, avoid a lesion. Set acid arena: Bruno one, Reg nil. Like it to sign in? Even I am nine-toed! I vote votes.

Oh, can a nose-rut annoy? No, best is Dorset. I know, as liar, to snoop, malign. “I’ll order it to get a bedroom door,” began a miser I fed.

Am I to peer, fan? Is a door by metal? Ere sun-up, drowse, nod, lose magnet. Food? Buns? I’ll ask. Corn? I’ll ask. Corn – I snack. Cats snack (cold rat). Sum for a bag: nil. First, is remit “traps in net”? Yes, on a par. Coots yell over a dam I made. Bared nudist went a foot, I made roots. I tip a canon: “Row, sir, at same tide; man one: row tug.”

Sewer of denim axes a wide tail – a terror recipe to hero made manic. I, to resign? I ? Never!

“OFT I FELT ITS SENSUOUSNESS” – title fit for evening is erotic; I named a more hot epic – error retaliated – I was examined for ewe’s gut, wore no named item.

A star is worn on a cap, it is too red. Am I too fat? Newts I’d under a bed. Am I mad? Are volleys too crap? A nosey tennis part-timer sits rifling a bar of mustard.

Lock cans, stack cans in rocks, all in rocks, all I snub. Do often games, old ones, word-pun use; relate, my brood, as in a free pot I made fires, I manage brood. Moor debate got tired rolling, I lampoon, so trail saw on kites.

Rod sits, ebony on nature, so Nana chose to veto video. Ten in main evening is O.T.T. i.e. killing; Ere noon, urban eradicates noise, lad, I ovate not. Put esteem on top (to hen, if reheld).

No fair ample hair – am not I nipper-less? Eva estimated ace caps I won as united. A Caesar of space, Cinderella’s moor, Niamey Don (a Niger-an name), ties up mad sire, nut! I, Lear, simpleton male, try tasks “A” and “E”

but not “XI”. Sanitary raw food won top award one Wednesday – a demo.

Start nesting, I beg a cat. I? Nepotist? Ah, trials, God! A folly, Dinah, custard won’t act up; other is debatable. Velar: of palate; sibilating is “s”.

Resold: a bed, a mill, an ill animal – snip, also trim. Eilat in Israel can tell I had ‘em. Tin I stored (am I not raconteuse?) by a metal pen. If a night, I wondered, rose, I’d all right orbit on sun, even off.

I buoy, did you? Both Sal and Ella, Tony and Alan (“Ill if too bottle-fed, am I?”) do not. God! A toga! Ed in a Roman one, rehung! Was I, M.P. et al., to get a map? Also get salt? I, hospital lab to offer, am, or felt to be, no fool – a hero.

Will it sleep? No, melting is sad ice. Vital re-push to be raid, I assume. Deer, both sacred roes, Leroy (a doter, eh?) has lived for. I, apt sales rep’s idiot to greens, revere vendors selling or fat egg-nog reps.

Murder O’Malley, my mini mate – gun on rack. Calory total: liver, a bad nut or all I wanted (“et puree garnie”): lots. “Do, oh do, ogle bald racer,” I’m dared – N.U.S. bar at six.

Esparto, dodo’s lair to name it, not to cage bees, elasticated, is nice. Esteem, as up in space, cite bad local lions, eye can emit now. G.I. boots in ugly rebel or rat’s potato gin (eh?) were hot. Pull a bad egg – epic, I note, no regal slip in it. Ram can … (I’ve lost idea!)

Tarred nets, rifles, nitro, gold – no maid stole it. Put it, rat, back or if Sam (“X”) sees sub on televised rising, I sedate Goths. I won’t – no way.

Alps, idyllic stage set, are not so gas-emitting, I educe. To nose, peer, far off, I tip mats onto lane. Power grew or got deep so I dare not stir. Of deer, billions sell. I ate lump – mad sign, I do cede – tonsil a pain, acne pang is sad also. Elm I help pot, live – tub’s sold; a ban or a bar, even so, elms, I’d assume, live for. Effused am I not, up in a manor, not all up in a mess.

Open if a main A.C. plug is in it.

Late men I fed late – pasties or not. “Rapture” by a maestro prevents a vast sum erased.

Argon in units, albeit at solid eye level, sits in a … (I presume not) … tube, son. No eyes: a hot laser – is Ed wary?

Mermaid, ex- evoker of all A.B.s, I flog. Nil I repaid. Emotion! Emotion, oh so do I dare, woe!

Wee yap-yap dog’s name’s Ron. An idol lacks a dime tip, or did, as today a potato in a pitta slice costs a lot – tons. A wet adder ate more hay. Ugh! So, pal, ice cost on top? No, miss, I’m a two-sided rat, erred nut, I base it on erotic ill; It is I, red now; it is debris, rot.

Alf, an idle he-man as “master animal lifer” did time, ran off at speed, but a G.I. did nab an idle if dim nit. Upwards rewards are natural life’s words, God. Fill up guts, boy, live now or do not emit one later. A rat on site got flu.

Gaelic, I’m odd Erin, I’m Eire, esteemed islet. So hostile rifts ebb. Mob, I.R.A., dare not net R.U.C. – no cotton. Erase not, so I dare not nettle men in red rose garden – I’m in it.

Stop late men if foreign at nine. Esplanades, simple hotel, bath, gin – king is Edward IX; obese; Ma is no pure mater. Go! Rise, sir; part anon.

I also rehash tests – ‘O’ Level Latin, Italian. S.A.S., so, to track radar. Often nobleman exists alone – not sales reps – I do. Trade ceiling, i.e. final part, lures open if evil trade.

Volga River rises on no steppe. Elsinore has a hamlet – Oh, Bard, row on Avon!

A sacred robot nurses simple hero’s eye; dabs on it a lemon. Gas, iron, Essex often stops, suffers in a mania. Ron fixes several crofts, acer of maple. Hot, I fish; cold, I arise laden; if diary amiss, I know it set no car off. Foe-damned ruby motor, it only rebels.

Ian I swept aside to visit, in a bar of moorside red, Romanis met in a more mossy ale den. Inspired am I, Oswald. A bay bed is nine p on top. No name, niftiness- elder saw it. Oh no! Saw top wet star’s pool – part star, part otter. Refer a baron to idiot, Tony, as I did.

Smart ones use submarine.

Poet, arch-super-artiste, grew artistic. I lost rattle; my amiable, not oh so old, able to hang up, mina, can deliver it, so true. “Ta, matey!” – says so Boston (Mass.) elder I hit.

On file S.A.E. was sent – I wrote poster re fat on side, volume one – loved it, never off it, I was in. Aide mocks a manic; I mock comic, I nap: too bad I had a fit, I too. Bottle ban odd, I go drop mine, ergo trial ceded a fatness, sober if not so, or a test is debased.

A vet is agog – no pet’s in a cask – corgi dog, royal pet, a risk no more.

Lob a rod at a man I meet. Sewer delays pit fires – a bedlam in a dig – iron ore rots it. No devil is a hero – Nimrod.

At a mall a cod is all I get. I bet on Eva, so Tim ate whole eel bait, I pay tip, Eva had a hood sewed. No B.A. gave car to Nero, we were not to rev it and we lost a trail; I’m a free pill, I wrong a man. I erase gap; to help miss it, I fill a set. A gent in ire knocks a cadet.

Animals’ gel on spoon – it is so true to basics – I’d gel; too bad I hide kangaroo baths – I lived as I won raffle, flew as I did go, dash, to my, also too tired now, star comedy: A wan, inept, upset I’m retired, nut; its ilk, nicer. Nettle feels a sore; sad, I did no panic in a pain, am an ill or tired, nude, based item; it is a spot.

Semitone, not a tone, radios emit; no, on tape; elsewhere it’s a tone.

Tail is not on; pots open on foot, even on it, so let oven (on, it is) simmer – a hotpot’s a stupid ham stew.

Loop a loop, animal – cat up in air.

Both sacks I rate by apple hewn in elder’s garden if it rates, I was aware – tasted a core.

Zones or areas, Annie, cap, so twelfth girl, lass, alas, simply (alpha beta) done, Kate. Tadpole won top Oscar, Obadiah, “O” Level axed.

Argon gas did emit no straw, so ozone sure drops argon, oozes up in Ruth’s ample hotel or sits afar off in a bar – of elastic, is it?

I hate cinema; cinema dogs in a mass. Older effusion to old – lost, is it now? Reward: a mood.

All upsets it.

Radar trails an Islamic educer of a riling issue, damages it in Israel. Ceiling is, I say, a plan, a case of one deck. Can knees sag as one Latin image elates, I wonder?

Oboe diverts ultra foe, volatile bald ogre – push to berate; I’d do, ogre. So, p.m., Oct. first, never play organ’s stops – lay or put it up in ward ten.

Final cast like rowing – I sedate play, old as am I, God! Am I! On tacks I ran; I saw rats. A Gemini tramp is May born.

I back colony’s sober omen of lack of lace. Rome, not Paris, a wonder.

Obey retail law – a noose killed oyster. Reflate my ball, a water-filled one. Disabuse no name of emanating issue.

Damsels, I note, vary tastes so cost now desserts. I say no! Try taste more honeyed. A bad nemesis at naff ruse will upset. I, mere Satanist, e.g. rater of a devil – (Oh wrong is a sin!) – I’m no devil’s god, damned.

Animals, if on a mat, sit. Rain, a more vile drop, made us site it in a cottage. Breed deer – bottle fits a llama.

I lay, as I emanate, go to sleep, mad ones on docks – air is hot. Entrap, net, nine men in party raid - all if it is in a crab-pot room, an itemised, under-lit, nullified old log den – I’m sure voles made it rot in knot.

Tubas we see far off lack limit. A cat on still or tall upward paws to no dog is an ample hot-dog, ergo nastier if tastier, eh? We, raw amid a conman, a mama in a mask, corpse et al., err.

Octuple tracks at a son’s eyelash side distressed a tall eye doctor, a tall ace, rigger of a vote: got put in egress; odd, abased, is ebbed, as I am, Amy, asinine lot! Nine lots! Don’t six rams live? Don’t six exist?

Alfred, nuts or fool gigolo, trod never if gold locks all in a flap on a red rose; made nine or ten stops.

I heed never, I’m Daisy, a prod never, I terrorise viler starfish. To me suitors, no lemons, came rowing. Is a sin a mania? Rot!

Sit! I fix a looted amp or delay more, hasten not. A baser if snug stool, wonkier, if not - Alf says - super, a ballet to no devil, is a stool too. Ban it, actor, race to no tune.

May names I wrote wrong (Is no man in it, a long old log?) sit in row, sign irate Goths; I dare drop it. At felon’s eye I peer, fast open – I’m nosey, esteem eyes. All upset, ample hogs resume totting. Is sad nabob tired? Roots don’t evade liver in Alf’s gob.

Deers I held right; oblong, apt enamel or tile rifle on gun spot to get a man – aim is all. I rogate, minister. Feeble gnats, alas late, prosaic, a canine pet is not to consume hot.

Loo, wet, issues old idiot; evading, I sneer, obey a deer, gall a deer, gain alpine dragnet for egg I’d net to ram in a pan I made to help master. Rags I held, arcane poet, arcane poetic error, all odd; I bottle fine panacean lust. I’d nag elks I ride if editor toted a minor. I fog a natural life.

Roses, or level dumb ones – rows in a mown, ample, hewn acre. Wolfsbane made it a garden in May, a garden indeed.

Nine mates, nine tons I must save now on time – editor raps a late man. G.I.s edit also, too. Do over if tests in a task radiate. Rob ran; I, too, fled.

“Omega” – list in alphabet.

A gander, a line of live ducks, irk cubs. A wart, set at a cast on knee, snug as spots.

A poor denim for a janitor, racer, armed aide, solid idler – rabid; I’d elastic in a pot, tons to sew.

Tubes or axes went in a clam, in an oyster. Free booze – lap it all up. Pity, my apple hot, so I’d a root stew. God, a stew! Tip it at feline! Posies, a cat’s altar often, no baron packs. A monk caps dog – I meddle here – hot? Pull its leg! A bee was a hoot, eh?

No, it is opposite. Yaks I rode wore hats, albeit on deity’s orders. Rats age more held in a trap, nip and I know it – set no cage now.

It’s eta; no, it’s a beta – Tsar of Tonga rates isles. Mad Ed is all upset at cider, is Ed? Is a madam too? Snip? I’d snip, spot a fine position, snip nine more cinemas.

Do ogres sell in a mall? Yes, on a barge so rats row tubs.

Wall last canes up or Eros, an imp, lives to irk, rasp or dam all tides sent. I won’t – I was no Roman – even I saw tired row – a sore. He lives on. “No!” we yell.

Up, now! Wards are in nurses’ sole care. I, peer, fed, am too fat? Oh, not I, test no dined ruby ale; dote not on salad it’s in – I am sad.

Locks I rifle so troops atone re war. Only rebel or a crofter animates so cottage beheld arcades, so trees are sold, abased. I redo, rehang, I err – a wasted act; nests I’d – as an owl – laid. A boot’s raw foot, even if a foot to master, germs (ah!) can evil do.

Pan is tune-pipe – so hot notes, paths up to honeydew.

Odd locks, a maddened (I was aware) macaw on top, spot no seen knots, rifts or fan, I saw. Are maces a baton, madam? Oodles, madam? Rare laptops are too late – got too lit up.

Nits rub – snip now, I’ll abate, not snip, nits I held.

Nubile Danish tomboys I led to old loser as no melons I held; no fish to my name. Nod lower, do I dare? No, one nods a hairy snipe. (Edit: one hairy snipe, eh?) See silliness, else we’ll ask cornish to obey deity’s or god’s item. I, God, damn it! I was in it! To Hades, acne trap, sad loser! As warts pop, a dosser I – we – vile rat, sack! Same row, oh woe! Macaroni, rats, as a hoot, tie. I vomit on rats.

Quote

2006-01-29T18:35:00.000Z

What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.
– Ludwig Wittgenstein

What is Critical Practice?

2005-12-13T17:52:00.000Z

‘Thou shalt not know exactly what thou dost, but thou shalt do it’
from Ten Commandments for Gilbert & George

The Critical Practice course forms one of the new routes of the BA Fine Art. It focuses on the relationship between art, location and language. This relationship is often seen as difficult, as it may be construed as a clash between separate activities: the immediacy of the vision and the mediation of text. The course does not differentiate between these categories, insisting they come together in a variety of spaces: the work, the talk, the exhibition, the publication and the audience among others. In this way, students are involved in a practice that is combines making, thinking and displaying. As a result, the medium recedes into the background. Of course, each area brings specific demands and sets different formal and conceptual problems, however, many contemporary artists work across disciplines. The contemporary nature of the course demands that students be aware of the implications of their work (language/actions) beyond their immediate remit. Therefore, the work comes to be made and thought of in a context. This context may be described as social, political, philosophical and cultural. It is, as Sherlock Holmes might describe it, ‘a two-pipe-problem’.

Nico & Charlie

Critical Practice A.M

2005-12-12T15:42:00.000Z

-Tuesday morning: Work to be submitted.

Students must update their learning agreements and complete a feedback form for the previous semester.
These two forms must accompany a Pin-up of current work for assessment on the 17th of January 2006. All work must be ready for assessment by 10.30am.

Nico & Charlie

Critical Practice P.M

2005-12-12T15:18:00.000Z

-Tuesday afternoon: Work to be submitted.

Students will produce an individual text or ‘best of’ their collected writings produced over the course of the first semester.
Select one or more from the following–

• Found Text
• Walk
• 100,50,10,1.
• Manifesto
• Exhibition Statement

You will be expected to design, set and produce a ‘booklet’ that houses one or more of these written works. It is imperative that you edit/rewrite/extend the text(s). Do not simply submit what you already have.
You will give a short presentation on your booklet to the group. These take place over two weeks starting the 10th of January 2006. All booklets must be handed in on the 17th of January after the presentations.

Nico & Charlie

Son of Interim Show

2005-12-08T15:27:00.000Z

1. If your work is 2-D and goes on the wall, establish a line using string at eye level. That way everything will hang level and at the same height (large stuff is exempted).
2. Place your texts towards the right-hand side of your work(s). Stick to the same height for all texts throughout the room.
3. One text only, even if you display several pieces.
4. Avoid jazzing up the hang, the work does not need it!

See you on Tuesday at 11am.

Elizabeth Price

2005-12-08T15:05:00.000Z

Prepareprepare Publishing Present
2 New Books – Signed Limited Editions:

Hearse Attending & Progress Of A Sculpture
Special launch price £2

Launch party
Friday 16th December 6 - 9 pm
at MOT
Unit 54 Regent Studios
8 Andrews Road
London E8
www.motinternational.org

(This is not a Hearse by Elizabeth Price, but a Hearse nonetheless)

Interim Show

2005-11-28T10:18:00.000Z

Hans Op de Beeck
'Landscape for Henri'
2003

The interim show is now only two weeks away. We will discuss requirements in more detail tommorrow, the 29th November. There are a few issues to deal with:

1. Decide on a piece of work, or body of work and make your display - remember space is tight!
2. Clear studio of stuff that is not going to be shown.
3. If your work is not in a fit state to be shown then you must think of what else to do (check with staff).
4. Each of your displays must be accompanied by a text which must be typed in 'Ariel' (12 point) with your name, title - if applicable, and your writing on the work (artist's statement or manifesto or list of words etc).
5. There will be a monitor/dvd player and a projector/dvd player in room 302. You will need to share these. We suggest you print up stills of videos to display in your space .
6. Any special events will also take place in room 302 to alleviate the lack of space.
7. Repaint any part of the space that needs it.

Remember this is an interim show. This is the first display of the Critical Practice course. However, in our opinion, even if you attempt something modest you must do so with great care. This does not mean vast expense, nor does it imply that you develop a genius complex. With this in mind, make sure the work is shown at its best, clarity and simplicity are the key.

Causes and Reasons

2005-11-23T13:54:00.000Z

Things that cause things to happen seem interesting to artists. We often call it chance or serendipity. However, in order to find meaning in this causality we would need to examine if the thing that causes the thing always does so. This leads to a system. Some reject the possibility of statistical likelihood (that the thing always causes the other thing to happen), because they prefer not to know the outcome. This also involves belief in an original cause that needs to be recovered in order to understand why we do what we do. (in psychoanalysis only a qualified specialist can help decode the cause) However, causes do not have motives or intentions, since we have no control over them.
Reasons, on the other hand, make us accountable for our actions as artists. If we have a reason for doing something, we can be asked why we did the thing. If we act with intention then we know what motivated us in the first place. Intention may be seen as an honest attempt to make a decision. This decision is made by the individual and results in action.
I am writing this because there was a good deal of discussion about terms such as identity/mask and chance. I wonder about their use, since often they appear as statements of unease, of not knowing, of failing to assume responsibility. It is as if we would always be blamed for making a decision.
This affects your relationship with your work. Maybe it is easier to say that something happened by chance, that something caused a thing to happen (in your work). You are not responsible. You are not to blame if it was the wrong decision (since you made none). However if you do not cause something to happen through your decision, how can you describe the result as your work? As an artist, are you simply the recipient of causes that befall your work? In any event, the decision not to make a choice is still a decision, it still has a motive.
To act on your work for a reason, with an intention in mind makes you accountable. You may be confused about your reasons, or you may deliberately mislead your audience as to your reasons, but if all your reasons are insincere then there is no point to a discussion, as your audience will mistrust your motives and actions.
The point is, we can all argue with someone who tells us of a reason for their action that does not make sense to us. Therefore statements such as 'it happened to me' and 'I made it happen' are oppositional. There is much we cannot determine around us or in our own lives. However though not all reasons are reasonable, it is reasonable to assume that you do what you do for a reason (in your work). Reasons are also choices. They allow you to select your options whenever you come to a crossroads; often we select the choices of others who have gone before us. You may argue, that choosing a particular direction because an artist you admire has taken this direction before you, might weaken your choice - that the choice is made for you. However, this simply means that you are better informed about the choices available for you. Is it not interesting to be able to make informed choices?
Anyway, to work, as actions speak louder than words, unless the words are extremely large (because then they are obviously intended as an artwork).

Please post your Manifestos here…

2005-11-21T14:37:00.000Z

To be bien pensant…or not to be. To be blind.

2005-11-20T21:20:00.000Z

What is Art? Ever since the nineteenth century the question has been posed incessantly to the artist, to the museum director, to the art lover alike. I doubt, in fact, that it is possible to give a serious definition of Art, unless we examine the question in terms of a constant, I mean the transformation of Art into merchandise. This process is accelerated nowadays to the point where artistic and commercial values have become superimposed. If we are concerned with the phenomenon of reification, then Art is a particular representation of the phenomenon – a form of tautology. We could then justify it as affirmation, and at the same time carve out for it a dubious existence. We would then have to consider what such a definition might be worth. One fact is certain: commentaries on Art are the result of shifts in the economy. It seems doubtful to us that such commentaries can be described as political.
Art is a prisoner of its phantasms and its function as magic; it hangs on our bourgeois walls as a sign of power, it flickers along the peripeties of our history like shadow-play – but is it artistic? To read the Byzantine writing on the subject reminds us of the sex of angels, of Rabelais, or of debates at the Sorbonne. At the moment, inopportune linguistic investigations all end in a single gloss, which its authors like to call criticism.
Art and literature…which of the moon’s faces is hidden? And how many clouds and fleeting visions there are.
I have discovered nothing here, not even America. I choose to consider Art as a useless labor, apolitical and of little moral significance. Urged on by some base inspiration, I confess I would experience a kind of pleasure at being proved wrong.
A guilty pleasure, since it would be at the expense of the victims, those who thought I was right.
Monsieur de la Palice is one of my customers. He loves novelties, and he, who makes other people laugh, finds my alphabet a pretext for his own laughter. My alphabet is painted.
All of this is quite obscure. The reader is invited to enter into this darkness to decipher a theory or to experience feelings of fraternity, those feelings that unite all men, and particularly the blind.

1975

Marcel Broodthaers (1924–1976)

Fine Art Club

2005-11-18T20:40:00.001Z

Hello again. A few of us, specifically myself, Jon Klein and Beth want to restart the Fine Art Club. To do this we need names and £2 from at least 20 people in order for the Union to give us official society status. Any one interested? We also want to produce our own publication written and produced for and by the Fine Art Club. And we'll change the name of the Fine Art Club, cos that's frankly a bit rubbish....

Posted by Charlotte

Talking Turkey

2005-11-09T23:21:00.000Z

We had intended to post individual feedback on the interim assessment on the blog, but in order to respond to the needs of the situation, decided on raising a few general issues here. We'll talk in greater detail on tuesday.

Housekeeping
1.Turning up on time seems to be an issue. The interim assessment is a rehearsal for the real event in January.
2.Project Proposals are missing for much of the work.
3.Many displays are not labelled (whose work is it, identify vhs-tapes, description of work etc).
4.Work not related to the module (old work, other modules) should not be there.

Critical Practice
The term suggests work which benefits from a critical awareness of the issues surrounding it. Your work exists in a context which frames it, offers guidance, provides problems. Much of the work we saw is highly internalised, it appears as if it is made without any sense of 'belonging in the world'. The fact that it comes from you is not enough as a means of validation.
While some of you have barely begun to formulate a new body of work, others appear confused as to how to proceed - there seem to be too many options. The engagement with 'the things that surround you' is the key here, and in some individuals' work you can see the difference!
But all of you are needed to shape this pathway. While we can guide and monitor, it is also up to you to establish its direction and identity. This can only be done through your work which ensures your 'membership' and the privileges that come with it: namely the ability to help shape your own experience on the course and that of your peers in the future.
Downhearted?
Read 'Bouvard and Pecuchet' by Gustave Flaubert, an account of two never-say-die-no-hopers, and Voltaire's 'Candide', a truly uplifting comedy of errors. For introspection that actually functions creatively read 'Species of Spaces' by Georges Perec.
Not enough? Watch 'Quince Tree Sun' by Victor Erice (ILRC Library) a superb meditation on patience.
Remember Lacan's 'Mirror Stage'? This is instumental in the establishment of individuality. It is especially interesting as an analogy for the development as an artist: we look at ourselves (our other) as a means of looking at the world. We are in the world, yet separate from it. We deal in representations. This means that, as artists, we cannot make/discuss 'things in general'. It is our specificity, our peculiarity, our precision that needs honing.
This statement is not an invitation for introspection - instead, it offers a methodology (that you must develop) for interaction with you surroundings. How to read, interpret and finally act on the visual world!
How to begin?
Well you must describe/name your work: 100.50.10.1. Good luck!

100,50,10,1.

2005-11-09T02:11:00.000Z

PLEASE POST YOUR LISTS HERE…

Write a list of 100 hundred separate words to describe your practice, then edit the list down to 50 words, then down to 10 and then down to 1. This should result in 4 separate pieces of paper.
Your lists are to be pinned up in room 302 next Tuesday morning (15th November) by 10.30am.
See you all then

Nico & Charlie

Please post your walks here…

2005-11-09T01:53:00.000Z

Philip Guston

2005-11-09T00:10:00.000Z

Painting, Smoking, Eating
197 x 263 cm
Philip Guston, 1973

Tuesday 8th November 2005

2005-11-07T22:16:00.000Z

Hello Critical Practice students,
Tomorrow morning (Tuesday 8th November) by 10.30am, all of you will need to have pinned your work up in your spaces ready for Interim Assessments, Please remember to fill in the handouts that we gave you.
None of you need to be around in the morning but we will see you at 2.00pm for the Artists' Readings Seminar and to talk about your walks.

Nico & Charlie

Francis Alÿs

2005-11-01T13:49:00.000Z

Zocalo, produced by Francis Alÿs in 1999, captures 12 hours of footage on Mexico City's central plaza, known as the Zocalo. In the sweltering heat, members of the public seek shelter in the shadow of the giant flagpole.

Welcome

2005-11-01T10:15:00.000Z

Welcome to all members of critical practice at LMU. This weblog has been set up as a means of exchanging ideas between everybody in the group. You will find updates from staff on the programme, together with a useful jumble of ideas, stories, hearsay and so on.
We hope you will post your stuff on this - that is the main point - we need to get discussion going, as well as exchange info.
We are new to this and we hope you will all do your bit to help create and update the blog.

Nico & Charlie