Life on the Edge: Edgelands, a Review

Holden Street, North Adams, Massachusetts,
July 13, 1973 by Stephen Shore, from jmcolberg.com

When I was given Edgelands, a new collaborative publication by the English poets Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts, to review a couple of weeks ago, I received it's accompanying summation with not a little scepticism. I was assured by the guys at the Poetry Book Society however, that although it was basically a book essays about sewage works and scrapyards and trailer parks and all the places that are grim and degraded that we deliberately choose to avoid, it was actually very interesting and well written. And, as usual, they were right. And again, I was confounded and converted. I'm now giving up pessimism for Lent.

All I'll say right now is "read this book". If you don't have a copy, or can't afford one, you can come round and borrow mine. And if you're still not swayed, maybe the review below will tip you over the edge...

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

Original illustration by Paul Shinn
from his blog lookwhatidrawed

There are few insults so damning, so sneeringly goading or downright effective than being called a coward, and as a result, there have been countless innovations on the theme, resulting in some wonderfully original jibery. "Herb", "milksop", "candy-ass" and "jabronie" are but a drop in a trembling yellow ocean of cowardice. But where did it all start? Surely there must be somewhere a great,  snaggle-toothed, moth-eaten old grandfather of a word, a word so full of cuss, so utterly inflammatory it would have had Ghandi removing his glasses and rolling up his sleeves.

Well guess what, there is. And it is with a mixture of honour and trepidation that I present it to you. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility i.e. don't go being a mouthy sum' buck just because you can.

This week's Word of the Week is:

Pusillanimous: adjective: lacking courage or resolution; cowardly; faint-hearted; timid

All Good Things Are Wild and Free

Elephant With Exploding Dust, Amboseli, 2004

A few weeks ago I discovered Nick Brandt. He is a wildlife photographer, but not the kind you are thinking of. These are not the journalistic, National Geographic-esque shots typical of magazines. No, these are the kind that you stop to stare at in a gallery, or in my case, the internet, and see something else.


My wanderlust is often ignited by photography, and Brandt’s lovely images of East Africa certainly did the trick. They make “buy awesome medium-format camera, then go to Africa and photograph wild animals up close without any experience, preferably avoiding attacks” move up at least 8 spaces on my to-do list.

Arieta Antiques

When I was a kid I liked to break things. Drop things from heights, drop thing from heights on other things, throw them against trees, walls, our driveway. I once drove my pedal go-kart into a bonfire to see what would happen. Unsurprisingly it melted, and I didn't get a new one. It wasn't that I was an angry kid, or even particularly unruly, but I guess most things just looked better broken. On my parents belief that doing what you love and what you're best at will take care of everything else, I plotted my course into adulthood. Vocations I seriously considered from an early age included stuntman, demolitions expert and a stock car racer. Lucky for all of us then that my love of carnage was just a phase.

But for some, those early interests and explorations don't die out or fade away. Sometimes a gut feeling or an instinct for what you enjoy really is all you need. That certainly seems to have been the case for Valerie Arieta.

Back to Work

Back to Work by Billy Clark

Nobody can argue that working in an office and sitting in a chair for nine hours is great fun, providing a stimulating and rewarding experience for the brain. However, despite these mental benefits, little attention is devoted to the physical consequences of this sit-down situation.

Inspired by a dinner table conversation about evolution, whereby an office worker evolves into the perfect employee, with his spine fused to a swivel chair, this illustration will be up for auction at the NUCA in Norwich.

The annual fundraising exhibition will feature works by both professional and aspiring illustrators, including Quentin Blake and the weird genius behind the Where's Wally books.

The exhibition runs from Friday 25th March to Wednesday 30th March. The Auction takes place on Tuesday the 29th. If you're in the area, it should be well worth a look.

For more information, visit the NUCA website or click here. 

Sideshow Stories: a Review

In this modern era of 24 hour, face-pressed-up-against-a-screen living, it is as inevitable as it is hypocritical that we often find ourselves yearning for integrity, wholesomeness, and "down-to-earth" values. And as the approach of popular media becomes ever more patronizing and simple-minded, those precious nuggets of originality and intelligence seem harder to sift out.
It is therefore with great admiration and appreciation that I write this review of Sideshow Stories, a new exhibition at The Social on Little Portland Street.

Combining the art of painter Jason Butler, and the words of poet Will Burns, Sideshow Stories is an appraisal of a time largely before modern "political correctness", when Britain's show-business industry was capitalising on a popular curiosity for the alien and the exotic, the freaks and weirdos of society. As odd and unique as the characters it details, this exhibition is a sight for bored eyes.

Hillbilly Heaven: Mike Nelson's Coral Reef

From The Cosmic Legend
of the Uroboros Serpent, 2001

Today I saw a downright spooky art installation at Tate Britain; I understand that it's been in existence for a while (since 2000), but it may be worth a mention anyhow. The work in question is Mike Nelson's 'The Coral Reef', which won the artist a Turner prize nomination in 2001.

Now, I'm not generally a fan of this kind of thing, but I quite enjoyed wandering around this labyrinth of stinky cramped corridors and crusty doors; for those who haven't seen it, it's sort of like being in a movie - 'No Country for Old Men' perhaps, or the remake of 'The Hills Have Eyes'. You go through the first door, thinking that you've accidentally walked into a fire exit - and you find a strange little smelly room with a 1960s tv, bar stools and old, mangy magazines. Basically you continue in this way, finding in each room something that will give you the heebie jeebies: a grubby clown mask or stained sleeping bag. My favourite was a Mexian-themed parlour, equipped with an image of sombrero-wearing men and a large cactus.

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah
by John Martin, 1852

Firstly, my humble apologies, oh faithful reader. You have, I'm sure been wracking your poor old brain to try and figure out why this week has been different. You've probably passed the nights murmuring gibberish to yourself in a cupboard, thrown some expensive electronic equipment into a river or off a motorway overpass, or started hanging out in an Aldi car park in the rain waiting for some sort of sign. For all this I am deeply sorry, and I shall not perpetuate your mental torment a moment longer. I missed Word of the Week last week, and it shan't happen again.

So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce to you this week's etymological selection. Drawn from the bright and bubbling vein of the fantastic Libarius glossary of middle English, this week's Word of the Week is:

Brymstoon, noun sulphur

R F Langley: Beyond the Indigo Gate

The Blue Gate by David Johnson

R F Langley, an English poet, passed away in January this year. During his life he had two collections of poems published. The first, Collected Poems, was nominated for the Whitbread Prize for poetry in 2000. The second, The Face of It, has been described as "one of the classics of early 21st century English poetry". Never heard of him? I hadn't either until last week, when I was asked to write a review of an audio CD of his readings for the Poetry Book Society. In doing so I discovered some of the most exciting, complex and profoundly beautiful poetry I have read. Because none of his work is available to read online, I have transcribed one of my favourite poems, Achilles, for you to have a look at, which I highly recommend you do. You can find the poem, along with the full review of his work below.

'Secrets' commission for Storehouse Magazine, 2010, issue 3

Meadham Kirchoff AW11: Take a Cue from Kansas by Sophie Bew

London Fashion week typically conjures an unthinkable amount of stress, outrageously dressed ques, exhaustion and tiny food; not forgetting a lot of travel. But for the Meadham Kirchoff show today, I gladly walked and sat in excitement, awaiting the 30-minute-late start to the show. Anyhow, this presented a good opportunity to examine the morbidly kitsch riot shrines (pictured left), situated at each end of the catwalk. The mesh-fence mountains were littered with crosses, coloured candles and ambiguous scrawled messages “I am the lie that tells the truth”, whilst wilted tulips lay as mourning gifts for the front row guests.

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

Engraving of a giraffe by Thomas Bewick
from a General History of Quadrupeds (1790)

When I was 18 I took a spur of the moment road trip to Paris with two school friends. We were all at different universities and were always looking for new ways to blow our student loans and upset our parents. When we drove off the ferry in Calais, there was an unspoken feeling of having done something either quite brilliant, or utterly thick-headed. I probably would have felt more  of the latter if I hadn't been so dazed with booze. Anyway, driving through the frozen Normandy countryside, we invented (I say invented, its probably been done a hundred times before, to the amusement of much younger, simpler minds than ours. Well, younger at least) a game to keep our spirits bouyant, and our driver conscious.

Do Not Be Fooled By This Man's Glasses - He Is Not Cool

To paraphrase a journalist whose name I failed to notice whilst reading his article, 'It seems the old masters have lost their minds in the back of a hard drive.'
There was a time when the 'old masters' to which he refers were known as the 'American New Wave'; the bright new hope of 1970's American cinema. Nowadays Scorsese, Spielberg and Lucas conjure little more than the idea of insipid Hollywood award fodder, lame summer blockbusters and silly facial hair, but there was a time that the terms bold, innovative and socially reflective were vaguely more applicable. Possessed with a seemingly innate ability to control and create dramatic tension, an affection for the work of the French New Wave and, in the case of at least two of them, a love of aliens; their films had a vigor and a joy to them that couldn't fail to excite. Young excitable Americans inspired by the then established French, inspired in turn by Hitchcock; what wasn't to like?

J'Adore.. Dior

Ever since dropping into the Design Museum to see their recent 'Drawing Fashion' exhibition I have grown quite fascinated with Rene Gruau, the 1940s/50s illustrator for Christian Dior (on returning home I actually had a go at doing a fashion-ey drawing, with daft results).

Gruau has been described as a 'shy Frenchman' who brought back the art of fashion illustration; he was published internationally by the tender age of 18, working for several magazines in the 1930s before collaborating with Dior in 1947 and spawning the so-called "New Look"; it is probably this for which he is most recognized now.

Narrow Escape From Las Vegas, Nevada.

Narrow Escape, Pt. I

Narrow Escape, Pt. I

The first flashes.

Eucalyptus.

In the high branches

silver splashes of moonlight

set the leaves to shimmer.

A wind arrives through the Para grass,

and crashes in the canopy

like the roar of Pacific breakers,

and washes over her

the smell of Saltcedar 

and Rabbitbrush and Greasewood

that grow in the playa.

Through the blue moonshadow of the house

a fox slips without sound.

The wind squalls up again,

ruffling through the Chokecherry

beyond the high arch of the barn.

Her horse treads nervously,

eyes wide as 8 balls.

She kisses his neck

and whispers to him.

She waits. 

In a distant field, a cow lows,

and across the dry dirt road 

paper curls of bark roll,

Shift sideways. 

20:50 - A Review (sort of)

I thought I would write a bit about Richard Wilson's oil exhibit, as seen in the Saatchi gallery. Having spent many, many hours inside the installation, I have been able to gauge the variety of reactions from visitors; the dim individuals who walk in, look puzzled and turn around, asking 'is the Richard Wilson finished then?' That one always throws me. 'This.. this is the Richard Wilson', I stutter, pointing emphatically at the reeking square of oil before me. Can they not see it?

Open Theme: Narrow Escape

From now on, every couple of weeks or so, we're going to set an open theme for anyone who's interested to get their sharp little teeth into. No entry fee, no deadline and no report cards. The only thing we ask, for the purposes of (...trying to think of the right word... um...) readability (fail) is to keep fiction to 500 words or thereabouts, and poetry to 50 lines. But of course, this doesn't mean that work is limited to just these two mediums. We want everything- from photos and drawings, to post-it-note masterpieces, or the marker scribblings on a passed-out friend's face. We want the inside-out of your minds. So, this weeks theme- yep, you guessed it- is Narrow Escape. Send your submissions to 21collective@gmail.com and we'll try and get them up ASAP. Good luck, and may the Ghost of The Great Houdini be with you!

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

For those of you with a delicate constitution, or the gag reflex of a cat, you may want to avert your attention to something less pus-related than the following article. Continuing on from last week's entry (I know, it was only saturday, but technically speaking, that was last weekEND), and how much fun it was to post, I just couldn't wait to do another one. So here it is. This week's word, gleefully sourced from Chaucer's lurid and mildly disturbing tale of the Summoner, is...

Saucefleem: adj. pimpled, red swelling of the face

Is there something wrong with me that I find this interesting? Most likely. But, for those of you who share a  dorky interest in the variety and creativity of language, it doesn't get much better than this.

California Dreamin'

Y'all pasty English folks could use a bit of colour.

Toon Tellegen: Raptors

This weekend I had to write a brief review of a collection of poems by the Dutch poet Toon Tellegen, owner, surely, of the best name in the world? The collection is called Raafvogels, or Raptors in English. What more do I need to say? If you're thinking, (as I did) that's good enough on its own, and let's not spoil it now! then you're in for a treat. His poetry is even BETTER! Now I don't know if I'm allowed to post any of his work directly up here- don't want to upset a fellow poet, especially not with such a profoundly awesome name as Toon, but I can post my review. And if you think it sounds up your street, the book is available on Amazon, or if you can wait, will also be on the Poetry Book Society online store. To read the article, click below.

The Casual Etymologist: Word of the Week

As a gesture to our Chaucerian heritage, I thought I would open up a Word of the Week column, based on the weird and wonderful etymology of the English language. To kick it off, I found a cracker of a word on the Middle English glossary website www.librarius.com


Prikasour: noun horseman, hunter on horseback


Shown here in full technicolour, a Prikasour is a man of the open road, a hardened man, and retaining little tenderness. Derived from the words 'prick' meaning to prod or poke, and a 'vasour' meaning literally to have something or someone underneath you, the prikasour treats his horses like he treats his women, by poking them in the ribs and and telling them to giddy-the-hell-up girl!

Basically, a bit of a prick. Cool jacket though.