Game Over

Ver 0.28N

I stand Tall
The remains of Mee demolition
The crew:
Mee, the head man, Mo, Dow and Re-bow
Got started last week
The rest of the building knocked down:
Demolished
Kaput
No more

Outsides removed
Core kept in place
Outers ripped
Splattered to the ground

I stand as I have stood for fifty years
A geometric spiral
Staircase
Jagging my way upward
a point scoring-level
Increasing, jumping up

The internals of my handrail run free
Lashed, juxtaposed at angels
Level markers
Reds of point increase indicators
Borders to penetrate
Upper levels to target cross

Heading me off: the control box
The upper cube
Rooftop location
An outer look out
Generator casing
Roof maintenance portal facilitator

But the roof is now gone
The cube stands singular
The rain drip tray removed
The target level of console characters
Rubble to the ground

For the weekend I remain
The tower which survived
Friday knock off time
Mee said get off-ski
Mo, Dow and Re-bow
Made route: nearest watering hole
For two more days of the half century
I will stand tall
Monday morning, I shall fall
Crushed to rubble mush
The ultimate Game Over
No more
No longer
Nothing…

 

Game Over is an illustration and free flow text work created by Alison Little.

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Freshly Cut

revive

Free Fall text from Alison Little as a response to the tree wasted area located adjacent to the entrance to Wavertree Park in Liverpool.

 

Freshly Cut

Crisp Pinetree’
Cut freshly, discarded
Entry to the park space flanked
by the aftermath of festivity
Some burnt out
Shelled, garotted by flame
Others ripe
Everlife of the Evergreen

Not destruction
Void of waste

Revive, renewal, rejuvenation
Optimism
New Year: a fresh start

The festive season,
a portal, new beginnings
Pressures, Pitfalls left behind
Opportunities on the horizon
Mentally, leased a new life
Exhaustion, weariness
Past driven
Recovered

Fresh
Health gifted
Bright
Engulfed by optimism

Walking into the positivity of the future

Alison Little

 

Take away Lobster to Liverpool

Ver 0.28N

‘All the Fun of the Fair’ is the latest installation from Liverpool based artist Alison Little. As part of the Liverpool Independent Biennial, it is being exhibited at 5 Bold Place. She presents a scene based in the American seaside resorts of Maine Country where the lobster is king and sold from the takeaway food stalls which litter the coastal towns.

Alison Little is an Artist and Writer, though her work she looks to combine her creative practice across visual arts and literature. ‘All the Fun of the Fair’ in its first concept is a short story of a young student who is raped during a summer placement in fairground town in the United States. This was written by Alison Little and has been published on her Blog in addition to several zines. This has been developed into a full chapter for the novel she is writing: Casual Nexus. In combination with the creative writing process, Alison produced a giant, man-size Lobster made from a process of creating a polythene shell and filling this with shredded paper. As an artist, she has been developing this technique for several years and often identifies similar subject matters of sexual violence and mental health. The lobster was exhibited for Sound City in the Baltic Triangle in combination with a reading of the original fictional source in May of 2018.

‘All the Fun of the fair’ the installation suspends the giant lobster form in the windows of Bold place. The inner side of the works contains statements related to the violation which can be read when looked at the mirrors located on the lower level. Sand runs across the bottom of the installation, covered by an arrangement of broken beach toys and discarded low-cost trinkets. These elements suggest American, Maine County, in particular, beach holiday debris. We present a New England seaside town where the lobster is prominent on the takeaway food stalls which line the Seafront.

In the initial short story, the rapist is transformed into a giant lobster, the girl unable to move throughout the act. To the underside of the shelled creature, we have a collection of statements relating to sexual predication. ‘Invade’, ‘Assailant’ and ‘Molestation’ are all prominent terms amongst the others present. The broken mirror is positioned to the lower side of the giant sea creature, this allows the viewer to position themselves to read the terms from different angles.

The ground space of the installation is cover with sand to suggest the golden beaches of the North American seaside towns. However, the beach area is covered in litter to suggest adverse lifestyles. The discarded freezer blocks and pick nick cups, in addition to food stall waste, set the scene for an unpleasant beach holiday. The prominently positioned coffee cup displays a label from Maine County, combined with a Portland Take away lobster box indicate the New England North Atlantic Coast. The end of games and childhood fun are presented through the broken and lost assemblage of outdoor toys. The burst and deflating paddling pool suggest an end to the innocence of infancy. An indication of celebration but also destruction are introduced by the exploded firework and the burst balloon. Could this be a fourth of July party gone wrong? Cheap State side Larger is forefront in the window display, Budweiser cans convey a seafront drinking party where the cans have been swigged down at pace. The presence of rough sleepers, or more commonly terms vagrants is given through the squashed, toxically coloured cider bottle. The American term these individuals ‘Bums’, they are present in these towns during the summer months, they travel to the resorts when the population swells to solicit the tourists. On a darker note, we are presented with narcotics, the indication of a luminously coloured crack pipe, surrounded by packets of Rizzla, cigarette papers used to inhale cannabis. Do we have a scene of destruction where intoxication of controlled substances is a factor? Ultimately, we have a final item of sexual debris, a Durex wrapper, the Transatlantic term being ‘Sheaf’. Has there been a sex act gone wrong, a liaison which has ended in devastation?

On first inspection we see a Transatlantic beach holiday representation, on deeper investigation we see a holiday gone wrong. We see destruction and devastation, we see negativity and hostility.

Dates: 3 August – 3 September, 2018
Location: 5 Bold Place, Liverpool, L1 9DN

See Map

Times: 07:30 to 23:00 daily (viewing from street)


Art In Windows is a small organisation that works with landlords and artists to commission and curate temporary and permanent art works for display in empty windows in and around Liverpool.
Art in Windows

The Liverpool Biennal Independents runs from the 18th of July until the 28th of October.
Independents Biennial

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BBQ Weather?

BBQ IMage

BBQ Weather?

It most certainly is…….to make the occasion I thought I would share an extract from the novel being written: Casual Nexus. The events, characters and occurences are strictly fictitious.

 


Today had headed towards the same remote area of the National Park, finding a desolate parking area his odds had looked good, however it was still before midday and there may be more day trippers later in the afternoon. His first move was to go for a walk around, realistically he couldn’t carry the corpse for three or four hundred meters. He finds a spot surrounded by tree’s and shrubs, this is his spot he declares low in volume but out loud. He collects the shovel, grid and coals from the back seat of the car. He begins to dig a large pit, going down almost four feet, scattering much of the soil amongst the scrubs so as it appeared less had been dug. Starting a fire in the grid he puts the grid in place.

While collecting the burgers and the chicken he opts to grab the suitcase as well. On returning to the fire pit he places the meats on the grid, the perfect cover. The flames have died down and the coals are white, but the pit is too deep for the meats to cook. It doesn’t matter he thinks to himself, he can eat when he gets home, just as he was debating opening the suitcase a dog suddenly joins him. The spaniel begins to sniff around the meat, he shouts get away and goes to kick him hard. The owner appears, shouting the dog, as comes over to put him on his leash he looks into the pit:

‘Looks like you dug that a little too deep.’ he addresses the man.

‘I prefer it that way, the meat gets cooked over a longer period, I call it slow cooking out in the wilderness.’ he responds ‘What business is it of yours anyway?’

‘I was just expressing an opinion!’ retorts the dog walker, as he strides off he murmurs ‘That will never cook to himself.’

When the canine and owner are out of sight he decided to wait a while before the next step of his carnage plans in case they return. He had lost reception on his cell but the timer display way still accurate. After around ten minutes he had a quick scout around, as there was no-one to be seen he moves the grid and empties the contents of the of the suitcase into the pit. After adding some lighter fuel the flames rise high engulfing the bedding from the motel and the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening. Although it is summer it is an unusually cold day, he warms himself from the heat of the fire. As the fabric are reduced the cinders he replaces the grid and the illusion of the barb-e-queue re-enacted.

Becoming a waiting game he begins to work through time sequences in his mind as he waits for dusk. Twenty-four hours since he arrived at the motel, twenty-four hours since he entered the restaurant, twenty-four hours since he first met Bara. As the night falls he heads towards the parking lot,

‘Such a silly girl’ he thinks to himself, ‘If she had of been quiet I wouldn’t have needed to kill her.’

His car is the only one remaining and there is no sign of anyone in the vicinity. He carries the body in the duvet, again trying to make it look like a sports bag just in case someone is lurking about.

He had kept the fire going, into the pit goes what is left of the Czech girl, head first then legs bent around. Again lighter fuel intensifies the flames, corpse becomes engulfed in flames. First, the burning of the skin didn’t seem that different to the earlier smalls from the charcoal, the muscle scented like beef in a frying pan, the fat similar to pork on a grill. The iron-rich blood still present giving off a coppery aroma combined with a type of musky sweet perfume created by the bodily fluids. As he resists the urge to vomit he looks towards the bite marks on his wrists, ‘Such a silly girl,’ he retorts to himself.

After around thirty minutes and a good prod around with a stick, the remains look to have been reduced to ash as much as possible. He then begins to fill the pit with soil he had removed earlier. Now, only two feet deep he starts a new fire in the pit, as the flames flash up he picks up the grid, discarding the meat into the bushes and puts it back into place. As the flames diminish he decided to make a move, it will simply look like a BBQ pit tomorrow if anyone walks through the natural enclosure. The last twenty-four hour ago, marker clicks into his mind as he drives in the direction of home, twenty-four hours since she made me throttle her, such a silly girl.

Sound City: Performs

Claws

Alison Little, the artist and writer behind many North West based Arts and the creator of this very blog to perform a reading at this weekend’s Sound City.

Sound City is the award-winning Metropolitan Festival set to take over Liverpool’s Baltic Triangle this weekend. The unequalled Festival presents an array of new music and the Arts, re-enforces Liverpool’s cultural heritage. The very best of new acts are to include ‘Slow Readers Club’ and ‘Low Island’ in addition to a variety of acts from all over Europe. Now, over a decade old the Festival is in its eleventh year and looks to be most anticipated to date.

The Unusual Arts Sourcing Company is set to take over the former Cains Brewery site. Named one of the Best things about Sound City 2017 they are back for the second year. We are to join in with life drawing, listen to poetry and watch the operatic performance over the two-day event. Tapas and an array of drinks available from the cafés and bars present in the newly transformed arts venue.

‘All the Fun of the Fair’ is an extract from the Novel ‘Casual Nexus’ which Alison is looking to publish in the autumn of this year. The novel follows a young girls journey from childhood into early adulthood encompassing all turns, many of which are ultimately tragic. The reading is to take place at 5:30 pm on Saturday and Sunday, the art form, a giant representation of a lobster to be present throughout both days.

The best on offer for this Bank Holiday weekend.

Saturday 5th and Sunday 6th of May, Cains Brewery, Liverpool.

Free Entry to Cains Brewery Village

Sound City

The Unusual Art Sourcing Company

Cains Brewery Village

 

Making an old £5 note count again

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Birkenhead based artist Nigel Leslie has been selected as 1 of 100 important artists to decorate an old £5 note for a charity auction. Names already signed up include the Chapman Brothers, Gilbert and George, Gavin Turk, Liverpool’s iconic Peter Blake in addition to Cyrano Denn aka Danny Crone.

‘Fivers for Artistic’ is a bright new charity set up to help mentor new young artists to overcome barriers and become self-sustaining within the art world. Fivers for Artistic said:

‘The aim of “FIVERSFORARTISTIC” is to collect 100 old fivers and convince important contemporary artists to sign and then decorate the fiver in any way they wish making the note completely original. Artistic will then auction the collection of fivers to raise enough money to launch Artistic as a CIO charity.’

‘Artistic’ the charity behind ‘Fivers for Artistic’ is a wonderful charity ran by volunteers to build creative communities and support artist’s, many of the participants are autistic.

Leslie spent the mid-nineties studying in the Capital, falling in with the Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn and Damien Hirst crowd that centred around St Martins. After a decade of hard parties, sofa loafing and at times making some Art. He returned to Liverpool in 1999. Through his abstracts, he combines figurative forms which play strong relation to the environment in which they are placed. Indications of human forms appear to effortlessly wiped onto the canvases. Some imply elements of bone structure and skull forms, weapon like straight edged are often added. The simplicity of the often brightly coloured environments which the figures have been placed often suggest disturbance. ‘Wrecked’, one of Leslie’s latest works was created last year and reflective of the emotive relationship which is played out within the Metropolis, directing us towards feelings of turmoil. We get the impression of a ship like for from the base, an indication of an old-fashioned wind powered, sailing vessel. Central to the ship there is an indication of a central figure, possible a human form of even a feline based creature. The pink tones of the water suggest a blood, combined with a simple line of the horizon they are not intrusive in regards to the central focus. The title ‘Wrecked’ looks at the idea of awakening from a night of drinking and general misadventure suffering the consequences and deciphering what had happened the evening previous evening.

On Thursday morning the postman posted a prominent package for Leslie: the old fiver had finally been delivered. So in fitting with Leslie’s creative practice when asked how he was intending to decorate the well-worn note:

‘Not sure yet.’

was an appropriate response. Like his studio application techniques where he cements on layers of paints then scrapes them off to imply rather than dictate a clear vision we will have to wait and see what emerges on the paper money base.

Nigel Leslie a true Liverpool talent and an old £5 note which will be immortalised for future generations when currency only exists in the electronic format.

http://www.nigelleslieart.com/

Artistic web

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A Way Through Everton Brow

Skull Everton Brow colour

A way through Everton Brow is a fictional works from Alison Little, none of the events of characters are based on real life.

Approaching the entrance to Everton Park I encounter a group congregated around the steps area. In having walked up from the town, then I decided to take a short cut through Everton Park, a pleasant walk through the eighties formed geometric botanical scape of the former slum-like dwellings. The steps ahead of me, encased by artificially positioned rock structures arching in my vision. Topped with beacons of the decade, semi-sphere finished, imitation Victorian meeting eighties manufacturing of plastic vacuum forming, lolly pop lighting. Many of the semi-spheres have been broken, the closest having fallen down from the teenage revelry of what looked like the previous evening. Up the hill to the left, there is the famed Everton tower, the moss lined former sweet shop which became an iconic symbol of the multi-million pound turnover of today’s Premier League. Towards the top of the hill, the soil of the parkland has been churned up, its annual transformation into a wild flower meadow taking place. A touch of England’s green and pleasant land of the rural communities bought into the inner city green space of North Liverpool. The distant tree’s masks the vision of the back-to-back housing which crowds the brow.

Coming up from the Netherton Road, a well-known prostitution zone, to my rear is one of the cities hostels for the homeless. The group look to be from this establishment, they are slouching on the steps and one of them is swagging cider from a toxically coloured bright blue plastic bottle, spilling much of it onto the white encrusted black T Shirt he has crawled into earlier in the day.

A motley, tooth lacking, hair overgrown crew, assembled in layers of clothing which looked to pad out their malnourished forms. As my eyes twitch slightly, the late afternoon sun distorts my vision. Two globes of the street lighting become eye sockets and the encircling steps become reflected into a mouth-like arch, smiling as the brick become teeth. I see the vision of a human skull, decaying, but deliriously enthused by its demise.

I consider walking around the long way, but on my approach one of the men slides to one side to allow my passageway through the group. There is a smell of fried chips from earlier in the day, proceeds of an afternoon spent begging.

As I walk closer I notice one girl amongst the group. An army like jacket combined with sprawling matt-like lengthy black hair trailing onto the ground, sweeping the debris from a day of spoils. A bag to her side looks to be her worldly possessions, easily lost and often replaced. A year, possibly two of grown out dark, dirty-blond ended hair from a cheap home dye treatment. She sits with her hood drowning over her face, the oversized jacket ruffled into her body stretching down over the well-frayed denim of the jeans. Legs entangled awkwardly, the knee joints almost too large for her frame, her upper limbs animated motion as she speaks. I look towards her face, the skin is pale, translucent and muddy in texture, common in the appearance of a heroin addict. As I pass through the group, her arms in moving, I hear her say:

‘If you could just lend us twenty quid’

She pleads, then in begging tones, she repeats her request again. As I walk forward and up towards the top of the brow I ponder over what her life must be like, reduced to the bleak state presented to myself.

In twitching my eyes again I am confronted with a new vision. I am in Everton Park when it first opened, the grasslands newly grown, the dusty smell from the demolition work still present. The trees are young, growing being guided, nurtured into what will become strong features of this green space. The lighting is new, the semi-sphere’ all intact and there is an air of excitement and optimism for this newly formed natural breathing space allowing an escape from the urban sprawl.

The swing park is alive with children’s games, delighted by their new found play-scape. Back and throw on the swings, mothers pushing younger children, grandmas and granddads holding coats and bags. Chase games over climbing structures, up and down, rhetoric, over and under. Spinning at full speed at the roundabout encircles while the occupants cling on as it reached optimum speeds. Concrete still fresh, neatly finished off with a waist height fence in line with the latest trends.

Outside of the fenced area, we have several dog walkers, one Staff is off its lead, squatting down. The owner blasé, no need to pick up, poop bags and scoops a thing of the future. Just left to rot as nature intended, a child standing in it simply wiping their shoe on the verge, no fuss, commonplace.

A mother is pushing a young girl in a buggy. The mother sports a purple dot dye blouse, no collar, large baggy sleeves cuffed inwards. A knee length skirt gathers volume in tiers, the purple mix of dyes finished off with a tie cord fitting. Her large curls flow in the wind as she pushes the buggy, a navy and grey MacClaren stroller, four wheels and the hood up to protect from the sun. The bottom compartment packed full of what they might need for the day, wet wipes and a well planned packed picnic lunch in addition to a few carefully selected outdoor toys.

Content in her push chair the daughter is happy for her mother to guide her, taking care not to hit any larger stones. Hair neatly combed into bunches, a glossy full fringe finished off with plastic animal clips. Her top is light green, wasted but with a short skirt built in. Micky and Mini mouse are in discussion on the front of the top. The girl pulls up her blanket, it scrunches around her and her sun hat seems to fall forward, she suddenly seems morphed by the buggy, then I hear her say:

‘Mum, can I have £2?’

I see before me the girl in the camouflage jacket thirty years ago. I see her when she was innocent and pure, unspoilt by the evils of life.

Reflecting on her upbringing, loving and good, decent and playful. I wonder again what had happened to her, where had it all gone wrong?

Walking towards the exit near the brow the strange eye twitching sensation happens again. I am now in a terraced street, the road ascending steeply ahead. To my right, the houses back onto the pavement, gated containing small yard area’s and possibly even outside toilets. To my left, there is a row of terraces front on with steps leading up the main doors. Only a few cars, one is parked up not far ahead, it is racing green in colour with a long stretched bonnet and a soft top, as it glistens in the sun I identify it as a Ford Thunderbird. I contemplate what its owner was doing parking a classic car of such high value in these dwellings and how it was in such good condition?

As I ascend further up the hill I pass two women chatting, both are wearing dark coats and head scarf’s, one has a loaf of bread under her arm, brown bagged and looking to be purchased from a traditional baker. I gaze over the new location and further up the street I see a woman sitting on her front step, she has a can of cider in one hand, to the far side of her, there is a baby in a well used Moses basket. As the baby cries out she shakes the basket and spits out ‘Shush’. Hardly more than a teenager herself she devours the can of cider. I hear a radio playing:

New release…..Sargent Pepper…….the Beetles.

Now I know where I am, it’s 1967, the Summer of Love, I am in Everton Park before all the demolition work and the housing schemes made way for the park. I look towards the baby, she was dirty from her mother’s lack of care, she tries to wipe her face clean with her hands having given up on crying due to lack of response. A purple dotted cardigan has been clambered into her, in need of a wash but still nice in appearance, it looks to have been a gift. A man staggers towards the group, leering as he sways, the Mother appeared to know him:

‘Lend me a few bob will ya?’ she slurs, ‘I need to get stuff in for the baby!’

Her honourable intentions being clearly unconvincing, her feet littered with crushed cans of cider from earlier in the day. I realise who the group are, the baby is the mother who was pushing the pram earlier and her mother would be the original girl’s grandmother.

My mind questions the trilogy, an alcoholic mother, a child who grows up to be respectable, tried to raise her own daughter well, her child growing up to be a heroin addict. A gene pool skipping a generation laid dormant waiting to strike again. Environment and upbringing cast aside, genetics have re-surfaced in the form of a truly destructive lifestyle.

A brow well travelled.