Covid-time keeps me in a semi-liquid state, which is rapidly becoming my normal.

Set off for my daily exercise feeling a bit low. Walked about 2 miles but when I got to my destination, a swing next to the Severn, it was broken. I wandered along taking photos of other broken things, there were so many. My heart sank even further, like a boulder in the Severn mud.


BODY PARTS: Hearts Bones Ankles Wrists Teeth

COMMITMENTS: Promises Will Loyalty Trust Agreements Laws

FRAGILE THINGS: China Glass Jewellery Dreams Governments

TECHNOLOGY: Televisions Radios Phones Internet Computers Data

REMAINS: Pieces Shards Fragments Remnants Damaged Communities Debts

Just when I was beginning to feel very sad that it was shockingly easy to find many broken things, I turned towards the river and saw two blackthorn bushes, loaded with wonderful blossom. I smiled and my step lightened. A few steps away two bright yellow flag iris’ caught my eye – fantastic!

So easily up

So easily down

Mood swings

My emotions are not broken, but I sometimes feel as if they are on the edge of collapse. Like cornflour mixed with water, they pour and dribble towards that edge, yet are amazingly resistant to hard knocks. Should they become so liquid they drip off the table, I retreat from the world for a few hours, then simply gather them up and put them back again. And give them a good bashing to make sure the alchemy is still holding them firm. Call it willpower or survival impulse.

Covid Time keeps me in a semi-liquid state, which is rapidly becoming my normal.

As I walk further along the riverbank, feeling happier and highly sensitised, I notice the smells of the grass, the light on the river. Suddenly, a small cloud of birds passes overhead, looking like a shoal of fish in the sky, swerving en-masse and swooping, like a murmuration of starlings, but more tightly, in a soft pillow-like formation. As they swerved, they flipped over slightly and the sun hit their white undersides, making them appear to glitter as they moved. Like flying, glimmering jewels. Later, on my way home, the wind had risen and was blowing the silver birch leaves wildly in the wind – they too revealed their silvery underbellies. Like a visual echo of the birds.

Back to the riverside, my eyes locked onto a pair of barnacle geese wandering around in the mudflats. One watched the other as it traced loop de loops in the sand with its feet, leaving behind patterns like those that a sewing machine leaves in paper. They shouted at each other occasionally, like a grumpy couple. The wader dipped his beak down into the grey river silt and pushed it along like a mini-bulldozer. 

I settled down close to them in the long grass and got out my drawing materials.

Within a one hour period I had switched from rigorous speed walking, to slow, sad searching for broken things, then accelerated with glee at the beauty of the flora and wildlife. All that looking and the erratic emotions, were akin to sharpening a pencil in preparation for a period of deep engagement and immersion in the act of drawing.

When I ran life drawing classes I called them The Looking Class – partly a pun on Alice and her adventures, but also referring to it being a class where you learn to look. Because to be able to do observational drawing, you need to be able to see before you can draw. What you look at may not be in the room, but inside yourself. No matter. Whether you look out through a lens at an object, or reflect back into your imagination, you must be in a state of super-sensitivity. 

I decided I would write about this and use the photos I took as a mapping of the moods.

Together, every element of the walk is important to the outcome. On this occasion, the outcome is a strange rambling text, a series of photos connected by the concept of broken and a drawing that records the marks in the sand as described above.

And this blogpost.

Be well.





Letting Go, Refusal and the third space during Lockdown – a time when you have nothing to do and everything to do

Letting Go, Refusal and the third space

Lockdown – a time when you have nothing to do and everything to do – both at once.

Do you feel hypersensitive at the moment? Does your brain seem to be like a colander today, yet memories of significant things in your past float up constantly? Do they then create links with today’s thoughts in strange, unexpected ways – tethering the present with the past? Mine certainly do.

My instinct (or is that intuition?) is to listen to those collisions and collusions that my mind, and my heart, are offering me. Some people say we must respect our ‘innate’ intuition, others believe intuition is the outcome of cumulative knowledge (I’m inclined to believe both). I feel we are offered a new understanding of past and present if we can reconsider them through different lenses, at different times. If we allow them to have a dialogue, to intertwine, they may inform new ways of thinking about this strange period we live in. And we might learn more about ourselves.

I’m half-way through reading a book recommended to me by other artists, spotted on Instagram:  “How to Do Nothing – Resisting the Attention Economy” by Jenny Odell. One of the people who has read it told me “it will change your life”. It already has, yet I’m only halfway through. Which says something about my inability to do nothing. I spend way too much of my life on social media, for work and for pleasure. I love sharing photos, videos and seeing other peoples, especially during self-isolation. And, double irony here, I would not have heard about the book if I didn’t.

So, I am sorry Jenny, but your book is so loaded with things I knew nothing of before, I have to stop reading periodically and go and follow my curiosity – seeking out links and downloads to follow up with. If I don’t do it whilst live-reading, I may forget (see comment above). This is not an issue in terms of practice, it is a research process, but nor is it the outcome I anticipated when picking up the book.

The writing is delicious – the combinations of narratives on offer flow freely – the nuggets of examples from philosophy and contemporary art thrill me. A literary and creative feast. So much so that when I came to make my breakfast, I randomly added rosemary and garlic to my mushrooms and parsley to my scrambled egg.

  • Parsley: useful knowledge, feast, joy, victory
  • Rosemary: remembrance, love, loyalty, fidelity
  • Garlic: protection, strength, healing

I chose rosemary knowingly, as I had already considered its meaning when my brother died. I was also aware that garlic is for protection, strength and healing. But I didn’t know that parsley means ‘useful knowledge’, so that alone is somewhat spooky. Those things will now be intuitive to me.

Covid 19 is time to eat parsley, clearly. The remembrance issue relates not only to a family death, but also to that of an artist, Clare Thornton, who I worked with some years ago when I was a writer in residence for Redefining Print, at Double Elephant Print Studio.  A Facebook post about the anniversary of her death sent me off to dig deep into my archives where I found a recorded conversation with her about her work, in which I comment that I knew her partner from my time in 2002, when I did PVA LabCulture. I have shared that with him. Clare introduced me to the Triadic Ballet, which I have loved ever since. One of the people that set up the residency was Simon Ripley, who told me that the book (see above) will change my life.

During LabCulture I shared some films of inanimate objects being released into action then slowing down to a halt – the series was called “Letting Go”.  It was also the year that my marriage was slipping away.

Last week I made some slo-mo films with my iPhone – I pulled back a swing that flew above the River Severn (my muse and inspiration for all I do), and let it go. Only today have I spotted the link with the LabCulture films.

Collisions and collusions – past and present.

My film of the swing is also about letting go. Here, now, in this unpredictable, unknown place we are in, we must let go of many things. If we don’t it is too painful. Our daily routines have changed, forever, but not through intention. There is little choice.

In Odell’s book she writes eloquently about refusal. She refers to Diogenes and his explorations and actions relating to refusal. She describes his actions as creating ‘a third space’ – a magical exit to another frame of reference.

“For someone who cannot otherwise live with the terms of her society, the third space can provide an important if unexpected harbour (pages 68/69)”.

Might it be that our creative selves can provide us with our third space, when we urgently need a magical exit to our present frame of reference?

Wearing a quickly-made paper mask influenced by the *Triadic Ballet, and photos by Inge Morath & Saul Steinberg, (which came to me from a friend sharing on Facebook), for a zoom meeting, allowed me to prevent others from scrutinising my facial expressions. A refusal.

Sitting on a swing by the river allows my dreams to flow with the tide. Editing film takes me into another zone, as if doing meditation.

Making a silly video of my relationship with the screen, influenced by my watching the eyes of Villanelle in the TV series Killing Eve, lifts my mood.

I don’t think I really want To Do Nothing – I doubt it is even possible.

Just as John Cage proved you can’t record silence. Like Bartleby the Scrivener, if you ask me to do nothing I shall probably respond with “I would prefer not to”.

Surely this image from Triadic Ballet is calling out for a re-enactment during social distancing?

Screenshot 2020-05-03 at 10.56.46


*Note reference Triadic Ballet – made in 1922 by Oskar Schlemmer, it is a great early example of performance art/dance choreographed for filming for the screen. The activity is played out within that frame, just as Wood & Harrison do in their work. I propose that the screen of ZOOM and other online video conferencing facilities provides a ‘third space’ we can explore through creative practices.







sunspots in my eyes, sunrise over the Severn

I’m on the banks of the Severn, just before sunrise. I know it’s coming very soon, as above the Cotswold skyline there is a small row of eight or nine clouds just above the horizon. They look like fragments of torn paper, maybe from a to-do list, all of similar width and height, separated by tiny bits of sky. They are up-lit by the sun below and as it rises it frames them with a subtle, red, glowing edge. Each piece becomes more vividly defined before the power of the sun overcomes my retina’s and the tiny clouds fade away in the glare.

I’m standing precisely opposite this imminent sunrise and the wildlife around the river is responding to it’s arrival too. Crows and gulls spiral above my head, calling, whilst on the watery stage characters enter from both left and right. On my left, a sole duck floats silently towards the centre of the stage, anticipating the arrival of it’s spotlight. It is a little early really, but that’s fine, it will learn.

On my right three ducks slip out from behind the cliff, chattering together.

Above my head, the world of business is approaching another Monday morning. Transatlantic planes fly toward the sun, European ones too, but lower in the sky. None of them are much more than tiny white arrows high above, leaving chalky tails in the pale blue sky. I wonder, when we have gone through Brexit, will this lessen? Will the sky become hauntingly quiet, as it did in 2010 when the volcanic Icelandic dust forced the closure of the UK airspace?

I think about M.C. Escher’s patterns of black and white birds. Today the sky is like that, the white ‘birds’ are planes, the black one’s are crows and gulls. The scale changes, as it does in his drawings, those flying lowest are closer, more vivid, those in the distance more abstract and vague. I recall Norman Ackroyd and Robert McFarlane discussing the white birds in Ackroyd’s paintings, on Radio 4 last week. How the little egret is now the whitest bird we see on our rivers. There are none here today, sadly. They will have flown off with the herons earlier, before the tide rolled in.

As I absorb all these activities, a circle of ripples appears in the water. A number of other concentric rings roll up out of the water, then disappear. They are moving closer to centre stage, they know that, very soon, the sun will rise in full glory. The lone duck is now joined by two other pairs, all moving determinedly towards the golden rippled area that is appearing on the surface of the water. The fish underwater do the same.

The shimmering lines of light come closer to me, creeping over the lapping tidal waves as the sea flows upriver, as it always does, on the Severn.

We reach the crescendo, the great ball of fire rises up and the ducks are silhouetted by its brightness, bobbing about on the highlights of the folds in the water. I stare in wonder at this red mass and take a deep breath – the day has begun. I turn away to walk home and see vibrant acid green sunspots peppering the ground. I watch them as I move back up to the path. As I walk up the street I notice they are now red blurs.

Eyes are amazing, complimentary colours vying for attention, just as the skyborn objects were, the fish in the water, the ducks on the waves.

All mere sunspots in my eyes.




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The Solitary Figure in the Landscape – a contemporary approach to purveying the sublime – in 360 degrees.

During the past year I have drawn around fifteen large (approx. 1 metre wide), landscapes of the River Severn. All done using charcoal on paper, most recently, using locally sourced charcoal made from coppiced wood by Resilient Woodlands.

Only the last drawing I did in the set featured a human figure in it, gazing at the river. It was a decision that has affected the way I have approached a new body of works, using a 360 degree camera (still and video) to continue exploring the Severn. I’m now intrigued to see where it might take me, because it is a huge turning point that has sent me back to consider early paintings of figures in landscapes. Constable, Friedrich, Gainsborough – they all investigated human presence in sublime vistas. Until it went out of fashion.

fullsizeoutput_86bLandscape has always fascinated me and featured in many artworks over several years. For the last eighteen years I have been commissioning artists to work in ‘unusual places’, which has included woodlands, headlands, beaches and barns, so it is no surprise to find that I immediately immersed myself in landscapes again when I returned to practice last year.

All those years of reading, thinking and understanding how artists respond to landscape have come together and are, finally, very useful. Good to know that all that energy has not been wasted.

The introduction of ‘contemplative watchers’ was, and still is, an effective device for showing how aesthetic experience can be focused on the observing subject. My enquiry really began when I moved to the Forest of Dean, after leaving a very familiar landscape I’d known for twenty-five years, on the other bank of the Severn. I took many photographs of trees that were struggling to retain their vertical, growing on hillsides. They were very personal symbols of how hard it is, sometimes, to survive in a new landscape and find one’s roots.  I was not in the images, but the trees represented me and my instability. I reframed them, making them stand up, whilst all around them looked squiffy, horizons tipped, pylon leaning. I survived and gradually learnt to live in this new place.

A photographic project done through a collaboration with Dr. Suze Adams in 2009 again involved framing the figure in the landscape, but this time it was done by photographing each other. So, I continued to be absent in my own photographs, yet appeared in her pictures. We time synchronised the images and compared them. This was the first work that looked at the river from the other side.

Seven years later, the new drawings have evolved. As a body of work, they show numerous pinch-points in the river, opposite each other. There’s a set of poems and narratives that work with them. All in progress.

Most recently, I’ve been learning how to use a 360 degree camera. Between the late 1990’s and around 2005 I was making large video installations – moving image was my favoured medium, as was digital media. Using this new camera for both stills and videos has re-nurtured my love of how technology can offer new ways of understanding. The last drawing, with the figure in it (not of me, but an old friend who was with me), has lingered in my mind and manifested itself in a recent set of images.

Memory of the other side of the river also plays a part in this. The friend that was in the drawing was someone I spent many hours walking our dogs on the riverbank at Shepperdine, when our children were small. Much of the drawing project has been about coming to terms with moving from the east bank to the west. It is all very autobiographical.

When using a 360 camera, the first thing one has to get ones head around is the fact that, when shooting, where you, the operator stands, is key. Because it will catch you and you will appear in every image, unless you hide. Consequently, I’ve bene hiding behind cars, bushes and huts. If I don’t I am clumsily in the ‘tiny planet’. So, one foggy morning, I decided to work with this. In a fundraising film I made, I found being filmed gazing at the river was more comfortable for me than talking directly to camera. I began to pose with my back to the camera, allowing me to control the camera remotely but hiding it from the lens. The fog helped, and took me back to some early films I made in Iceland at thermal pools, and another done in a steam room in a hotel in Birmingham. I immediately recalled the famous painting, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818),  by Caspar David Friedrich


This thinking process has made me reconsider Friedrich and wonder what this means now, in the 21st Century, when technology is said to be rapidly replacing humans in the workforce and the economic structure of capitalism is facing challenges to its viability. Those who wish to conserve landscape find themselves battling against technology, yet are also learning far more about it too, by using scanning processes that were unimaginable in the 19th Century. Both we, and our rapid technological developments, might be threatening the landscape we inhabit.

Is my gazing into the river my time-machine, allowing me to long for the past, which can never be revived? Or is it letting me reflect and meditate on the future of place, the river in particular?  Is the very landscape that we have traditionally painted, now little more than a romantic notion? Are we too late?

Screenshot 2018-01-13 11.40.50Several of the images I have taken depict large Georgian Mansions – representing landownership. My daughter is currently making films about food sovereignty, the urgent need to care for the land, and what we produce on it. Maybe her work has leached into my thinking too?

I need to look back at theory, reconsider the sublime, and its place in today’s thinking. I shall continue to do this visually, using the tools I have to hand. It’s important we all remember that we are in the landscape at all times and it is integral to our existence. And we are to it, too.

brightlands fog me




virtual lobotomy – essay

Last night I had a virtual lobotomy. I didn’t feel it happen, wasn’t even aware of it, until I saw the gaping hole. No blood, no entrails, no scalpel. Now I am an artist without organs, with a wiped hard drive. A victim of intellectual rape, yet the rapist does not realise the pain I feel, how empty and numb.

They plundered and removed my most tender thoughts, my writings, pourings, plans and dreams. Ideas all gone at the flick of a switch, the pulling of a power cable, with only a trace of them in my memory. 2 years work, 15 gigabytes of edited video, millions of words, days and days of meticulous editing, gone. Not only has my CV disappeared, my recent life has been annulled.

Update CV


Friday 20th July 2000

employment: none

examples of previous works: none – resources lost

proposals for new work: none – resources lost

I return to ‘body’ in this text, my body – numb, in shock, despair. In less than half an hour in the night  – all meaning erased. Work unmade and returned to its ethereal state, to hardware with financial value to someone, emotional value to no one but myself. Wipe the drive, erase my contents placed so regularly in its memory, profit from my loss. Someone should.

It’s only a computer, a hard disk, and a repository. An archive of a life of no importance. Like the ‘History of Art’ book I cut up – the feeling of sacrilege as I cut through the pages and removed them to insert my hi-tech LED display. I felt that sense of outrage, the deliberate defiling of a beautiful object, historical images, merely ink on paper but so loaded with meaning. Pixels were my ink spots, video frames my pages. Vengeance of the cruellest kind.


Ok, so I deserved it. Now I feel like that book, my spine is weakened, my interior a space of no substance. I no longer make any sense of myself, turn my pages only to find blanks, holes in my memory, materiality dissolved. My limbs feel reduced, shortened as if I have had a prosthesis removed after a long period of acclimatisation. I will get a new extension, but will have to learn all over again how to use it, to make it comfortable to be with. But I will never regain those feelings I experienced with the last one, the nerve endings have been cauterised. New nerves will grow, maybe even stronger than the first. I hope so.

The empty desk remains, my centre of existence, the nucleus of my days (and nights), stolen while I slept, remaining only in my dreams. Recorder of my ideas removed, in someone else’s hands. What will it film from now on? Happy family outings, lively sexual interactions, holiday memories? What will be seen through the viewfinder next?

Art and the Body Obsolete – essay

This paper describes and discusses the work of French performance artist Orlan and considers whether her claim to render the body obsolete has the desired effect on her audience. To illustrate this I have included a written observational response to seeing her live on stage at Nottingham Trent University. Orlan has received much media attention due to her controversial use of plastic surgery to her body. These interventions were not for acceptable cosmetic purposes, but to question the western ideal of beauty. The majority of corporeal art celebrates or investigates subjectivity, whereas Orlan attempts to deny that subjectivity and, amongst others, claims that the body is becoming obsolete.

Many artists have responded to the transformation of the body by technology. They have moved through various stages, from direct representation through  to more conceptual responses. Artist Jana Sterbak created performances  whereby structures that alluded to traditional clothing were employed, to restrict and control physical movement. In her work Remote Control, a cage like that of a crinoline dress, suspended the performer above the ground, rendering her incapable of independent movement. The cage was remotely controlled by herself or the viewer.

Stelarc: Stomach Probe

Yaesu Center, Tokyo, 1973 (photo: M. Kitagawa)

In the work of Stelarc and Mona Hartoum, one encounters a slightly different technology applied to the body. Both employed medical imaging equipment to film the insides of their bodies. The resultant images were, not surprisingly, markedly similar. Stelarc continued by developing performances in which he added prosthetics to his body, using electronic impulses to stimulate his muscles. What this work reveals is that the boundary of the body can be penetrated and altered. Cartesian duality, that of the mind/body split, was rendered insignificant by this transgression. Stelarc went even further, he declared the body on the way to becoming obsolete: ‘We try to design our instruments so that our body can use them, can adequately toggle or press or manipulate them. I think now we have come to the point where we possibly have to think of redesigning our body to match the capabilities of its machines’. (Stelarc 1999)website-no page ref

Orlan aligns herself with Stelarc:

‘Like the Australian artist, Stelarc, I think that the body is obsolete. It is no longer adequate for the current situation. We mutate at the rate of cockroaches, but we are cockroaches whose memories are in computers, who pilot planes and drive cars that we have conceived, although our bodies are not designed for these speeds. We are on the threshold of a world for which we are neither mentally or physically ready’ .(Orlan 1996 PAGE REFERENCES)page 91

Stelarc: Third Hand

Yokohama/Tokyo/Nagoya 1980 (photo: T. Ike)

Unlike the other artists referred to, Orlan made permanent alterations to her physical appearance. She not  only documented these processes of medical invasion but suffered them in front of the viewer’s gaze. With a background in performance art, she transformed the theatre of surgery to a theatre of drama, using luscious baroque imagery. She made a private place, that of the operating theatre, into a public display of indulgence and carnival. She calls these interventions her transformation into ‘St. Orlan’. Her work constantly challenges binary oppositions, those of inside/outside, black/white , woman as Madonna/whore and male/female. She coined the phrase ‘female to female transsexual’, as a playful labelling for her alterations – she is a woman taking on the identity of another woman. What is most shocking are the images she produces from these processes. Photographs used by plastic surgeons for advertising purposes invariably show the before-and-after states, but the surgery and the healing are kept hidden. Orlan’s work reveals all the stages, including the process.

Performances by Orlan are well-documented but to fully appreciate the impact on the viewer her images and videos must be seen. The following is an extract from a personal account, written as a response to seeing Orlan in performance.

“ She sat to the side of the stage alongside her translator and told the audience about her work as slides were projected behind her. The slides showed manipulated pictures of Orlan, whereby her features were distorted in the manner of pre-Colombian beauties. They are fascinating images in sharp, bright colours of bizarrely modelled faces, extended foreheads, extended nose bridges and scarred skin. At one point, Orlan stood in front of the projected images and explained how the pre-Colombians had a different concept of ‘beauty’ to the west and amused the audience with her stories of what we might consider barbaric behaviour in their endeavour to achieve the ideal. Robert Ayres, the host and translator, managed to convey her humour to the audience, as she proceeded to swing her hip and tell of how in parts of Brittany women with a deformed hip are favoured, because they make excellent child-bearers. She performed, she swirled her body and made us laugh, then she sat down.

The rest of the ‘conference’ proceeded at an entirely different pace. While Orlan explained that she would show her videos and gave a history of her performance work, the slides continued to project behind her. As her voice echoed in my head I turned my attention to the film and the audience, noting the content of the images, their theatrical construction and the responses of the viewers. I also wrote notes of my own physical changes, when tension began to build and where it subsided.

The viewer was slowly led into the situation, the first images giving a general introduction to the ‘theatre’, showing the glamorous costumes and baroque iconography. My ribs began to contract as I watched a needle penetrate the skin around the lips, stabbing deeply, filmed very closely. The audience became restless, the struggle started. Then, an emotional break. In the film, Orlan applied lipstick voluptuously, we were temporarily reprieved from the horror. The surgeon, using a marker pen, traced the areas for incision. The tension began to build again. My vision became a little foggy, the auditorium filled with groans. People covered their eyes, lowering their heads , looking nervously up at the screen. Although I felt increasingly nauseous, I also experienced a sense of amusement, in the manner that Orlan (on the stage, not on screen) continued to read texts, occasionally glancing over her shoulder at the screen to see where the film had got to.

The needle continued to move more deeply into the skin. Someone rushed out from the room. As the tension rose, suddenly the surgery stopped being screened and an image of Orlan’s normal face was shown, zooming in and out of the frame. This was followed by a sequence of filming made by rotating the camera quite rapidly around the inside of the operating theatre. Those who had not been made dizzy by the surgery were certainly dizzy by then.

So the films continued, slowly building up to crescendos of discomfort, then dissipating it with humour or distraction. My physical response varied from tight ribs to a tense neck, to clouded vision. Occasionally my stomach audibly churned, my hands became increasingly clammy. These were physical manifestations, not solely emotional. When the film became unbearable, which it often did, I looked around at the other faces and watched how they were responding. Some people sat with glazed eyes, pain clearly experienced, but unable to look away. Others could not look, their bodies would not allow them to see. More people left the room as time went by. Orlan continued to read and Ayres continued to translate. I felt like I was on a roller-coaster, surrounded by gasps and groans, all suppressed, all evidently trying -not- to react, but finding it impossible not to.

Eventually, the intervention video ended and the audience exhaled as one and relaxed. People looked emotionally drained, exhausted. The next video showed the reporters in the newsrooms that had relayed the films worldwide live via satellite connections. Their expressions changed rapidly as the relay proceeded. Having started with casual, amused smirks, they soon appeared to be extremely uncomfortable, perspiring and writhing in their seats, looking notably upset. (Black 1999)

The careful choreography of this performance was structured so as to situate the viewer in the place of the subject. The use of medical technology transformed Orlan into ‘other’ and the spectator experienced that displacement. “People covered their eyes, lowering their heads , looking nervously up at the screen.”

In Desire by Design – Body, Territories and New Technologies, Alexa Wright entitled a chapter ‘Partial Bodies’ (Wright 1999). She discusses how technology is altering our concept of the corporeal, with a particular concern with medical technologies. Although Wright doesn’t actually refer to Orlan, her comments on the status of the body during surgical operation are extremely relevant:

In surgery the flow and disorder inherent in the state of transition are restrained by the sterile field and, as the patient wakes, only the closure at the surface of the body is visible: the controlled environment of the hospital provides a shield against the abject fear engendered by the chaotic nature of an accidental wound. To see beyond the acceptable surface of the skin into the body is almost always undesirable; suggesting that detachment from, and objectification of, the body is not quite as advanced as we would like to imagine.(Wright 1994 PAGE REFERENCES)page 23 

It is this ‘seeing beyond the acceptable surface of the body’ that Orlan confronts us with. And it is painful to look at. As Orlan herself declares: ‘Few images force us to close our eyes: death, suffering, the opening of the body, certain aspects of pornography (for certain people), or for others, birth.’ (Orlan 1996 PAGE REFERENCES).page 83

She goes on to explain this discomfort: ‘Here the eyes become black holes into which the image is absorbed willingly or by force. These images plunge in and strike directly where it hurts, without passing through the habitual filters, as if the eyes no longer had any connection with the brain’. (Orlan 1996 PAGE REFERENCES) page 83

Holes, gaping bleeding holes, crying out for attention, we feel them and cringe. The viewer is placed in the position of the receiver. We identify with Orlan and feel her pain. She is anaesthetised, but we as an audience are not.” When the film became unbearable, which it often did, I looked around at the other faces and watched how they were responding. Some people sat with glazed eyes, pain clearly experienced, but unable to look away.”

In Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema, Barbara Creed writes of the ‘monstrous feminine’, the threatening effect  caused by the sight of the exposed female body (Creed 1990). When looking at an image of Orlan’s lip being injected, it is difficult not to identify it with that of an engorged labia. Creed describes the sight of a surgical incision as being comparable to the ‘gaping black hole’ of the female genitals

Strategies of identification are temporarily broken, as the spectator is constructed in the place of horror, the place where the sight/site can no longer be endured, the place where pleasure in looking is transformed into pain and the spectator is punished for his/her voyeuristic desires. Confronted by the sight of the monstrous, the viewing subject is put into crisis – boundaries, designed to keep the abject at bay, threaten to disintegrate and collapse. (Creed 1990 PAGE REFERENCES)page 137

Orlan’s display of the flesh being broken also threatens these boundaries and serves to enhance our awareness of our corporeal presence, our vulnerability as humans. It forces us to engage emotionally, demands that both our bodies and minds work in unison. Although we are presented with the corporeal as mere flesh, treated as a plastic medium, we cannot separate from it.  Just as Stelarc, who declares the body obsolete, depends on his own flesh as the host to his prosthetics, so Orlan relies on her physicality to host her surgery. Rather than rejecting the aesthetics of the body, they are magnifying its essentiality.

In Telling Flesh: the Substance of the Corporeal, Vicky Kirby (1997) proposes that the human subject is already digitised and decentred, that its hybrid state is changing our perception of the corporeal. To quote Kirby:

In the closing years of the millennium the self-evidence of the corporeal can no longer be assumed. Human tissue incorporates a complex weave of dacron, silicon, and metal; edible chemistries of a hybrid derivation routinely join the rhythms of biological dialogue; pig, human, baboon, and tomato are blended in strange recipes; electronic circuitry’s measure out the delicate pulse and possibility of life”.(Kirby 1997 PAGE REFERENCES) page 129

The body as we know it is ‘up for grabs’.  With surgery and drugs increasing our power to manipulate and alter our bodies by choice, our notion of ‘self’ has come under threat. Subjectivity has become unstable and we appear to be merely a sum of our parts.  Not only can surgery literally reconstruct the body  but chemical changes can also reconstruct the mind – altering our behaviour and perceptions.

It is evident that the work of Orlan exposes this flux to her audiences and challenges the concept of the fixed self. In doing so the viewer suffers on her behalf and becomes increasingly aware of his/her own physical presence. In doing so, the body is experienced as being far from obsolete. (The audience) “……..appeared  to be extremely uncomfortable, writhing in their seats, looking notably upset.

List of References

Creed Barbara, 1990, Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema, ed. Annette Kuhn, Verso

Kirby Vicki, 1997, Telling Flesh – the Substance of the Corporeal, Routledge, London

Open University (website), 1999, Digital Planet ‘Script for Cybersouls’, producer Cameron Balbirnie, 

Wilson, Onfray, Stone, Francois & Adams, 1996, Orlan,Black Dog Publishing Limited, UK page 91

Wright Alexa, 1999, Desire by Design – Body, Territories and New Technologies, Partial Bodies, I.B. Taurus London/New York, page 23









Response to the film: Sounds from Beneath by Mikhail Karikis & Uriel Orlow – essay

(This piece was written as an exercise on a course at Arvon.)

Twelve years before the miner’s strikes I was a teenager in D.H. Lawrence land. Pit villages went to battle against each other on Friday nights in the town centre. We gathered – the greasers from Calverton pit on one side of the street – the skinheads from Cotgrave pit on the other. Bottles, threats and punches were thrown, blood pooled on pavements. Girls and sirens screamed when the police arrived.

I chatted to Rob from Cotgrave, then crossed the road to talk to Mick, from Calverton.

Whose side are you on?


So neither side accepted me, or attacked me.

Two years later I lived in Belfast during the later years of the troubles. I had many friends, both Catholics and Protestants.

Whose side are you on?


So neither side accepted me, or attacked me.

My second child was born in the winter of discontent in 1984.

My sister chanted Thatcher Thatcher milk snatcher.

My parents were Tories.

They asked me whose side I was on – I said nothing.

I watched, listened and learned. This government has rekindled a flame in my heart from the dying coals. I see the welfare state being dismantled brick by brick and I am angry. Coalfields turned into leisure parks, fields into shopping malls.

Whose side are you on?


They are all the same – grey men in grey suits with black hearts, stained with coal dust. I join the choir of discontent and raise my voice with passion, I howl with fury.