25 Oct 2011

Rest Forever in The Sun

Made in Roath Festival, Roath Park
October 16th 2011

Rest Forever in the Sun was an anonymous act of remembrance for a person, Dorothy Russell, whom I never knew.

These benches are a place to rest, remember and reconnect. Much like grave, those who dedicated the benches to someone they knew and loved may no longer be able to be visit.

We typically consider black to be the colour of mourning. For me, Red signifies life and longevity. In China, a name written in red signifies their death- obituraries are often written in red ink. Red is also the colour of celebration and loylaty. In Africa, red is the colour of mourning.

A bell is rung, an indication of a three hour silence. The area is meticulously washed, scrubbed, chipped, sanded, cleared of mould, debris, chewing gum, patted dry. Carefully painted with clear varnish- signs of life and experience not erased completely but preserved in this space. The bell is rung again.

20 minutes later a man sits and enjoys a yoghurt on the Memorial for Dorothy Russell.

Photographs by Beth Scaplehorn and Sean Olsen

Live Drawing: One is Hiding in My Throat

One is Hiding in My Throat

Wales Millenium Centre, Cardiff
15th September 2011

Live Drawing/ Spoken Word Collaboration with Bob Gelsthorpe

One is Hiding in My Throat is the result of a collaborative spoken word and live drawing performance between myself and Bob Gelsthorpe. Gelsthorpe’s prose, having been deconstructed and rearranged was repeated for 90 minutes while I drew in response. The work physically explores the relationship between word and image, the fragmentation of both language and form and ideas of performative and ritualistic action during acts of creation. The piece is an intimate hybrid of the way one experiences, remembers and expresses oneself through the body.

One is Hiding in My Throat
Charcoal on Fabriano Paper
4ft x 7ft (approx)

Currently Exhibited at Wales Millenium Centre, Cardiff Bay.

One is Hiding In My Throat:
Fragments and Assembleages

The charcoal acted as a filter for the medic’s hands. They turned
over my palms and placed all you were in my trembling digits.
You sat cold in our metal studio flat.

And eyelids stained dark
Every eyelid stained dark was an extension of how exciting your life was.
One suffers cordyceps. While one migrates from throat to lung
Forcing out convicted breath like the first from birth.
The air reverbs, and is sung.


The words exiting my mouth came from my double tongue.
I have felt only comfortable conversing with my splinters.

Sleepless I lie, this feeling’s not missed
the burn of lips sore from a forceful kiss.

Lick this skyline, mottled and clean
As the second tongue dies.

Sleeping on healing backs reopening old wounds—the bandage from you, my first aid.

Splitting my lip on your ivory messages of total control and I love it- I want to fuck you while you’re wearing figure skates. Until marble floors grind down to Henry Moores.
You kissed it off me like it was honey
In this mouth where double tongues lie, the throat is tight.

Wrap your hands around.

one is hiding in my throat
They are muscles working,
and casually wear no gown or tie when they dance. Adding to my escape,
burning on to a nicotine armoire that broke my fall.

This wooden woman’s silhouette finds soft breath playing,
A rented bowstring from the basement of your breastplate mimics my hands, all it does is quiver
Tied up by Ms. Hesse’s knotted strings
All shapes return to flat plains and my mouth reeks of penitence.

Boa necktie constrictors
around my throat, I speak only in vowels
A nomadic ear, then sat on my shoulder and rested its burden,
it spoke of its travels.


I sit atop a Paper Mache palace, crumbling from all the spit you so generously donated like my name was Katrina.
Without warning I cut my teeth, in their ideal affairs
and touch my arm.
just safe—
one is wearing a yellow sock.

Now, it takes some of us longer to escape our spit palaces, holding onto modesty
But as a place of refuge I took out an insurance policy on honesty.
the passiveness left a bad taste in my house,
walls sit ill with their plight at the end of the tunnel and remain motionless,
from triangles of salt.
This new dandelion shaped vessel.

One is wearing a yellow sock; one is hiding in my throat.
One is shy, and sharp. One is hiding in my throat.

I enjoy it, and savour it like a cigar with my grandmother.


It is the first kiss you ever had, and the last kiss you were proud of.
It is 999 lives coming to an end, and 1000 new lives beginning.
It is remembering dead relatives with such fondness it bursts out of your chest.
All it does is quiver.


I miss you every day, You concrete-willed thunderstorm. You beautiful blonde mother. You unweeping, fearless earthquake. You are San Andreas, but without fault.

I have evolved.

Speaking in tongues, I told him
“it takes some of us longer to realise what is Godsend, it takes some of us longer to reach our dead ends.”
And took my hand, held it tight.

Bob Gelsthorpe


Photos by Harry Morgan