Saint of Newcastle University

‘Consider the audience’ in art school contexts does not make sense to me. I am not in the business of advertisement. I am also selective in who I want to seduce. Some days, no one at all. And even then, seduction varies. To what extent and in which way do I want to move?
I get very prickly when suggestions are put to me by way of professional advice by some art world yardstick.
Why study art, in the institution, if i do not want to become it? There are a plethora answers to that which would upset the nobility of many a professional artist. Such as “ i don't know, i just ended up here” or “out of curiosity”. Does it then follow that i don't care? Care about what? Maybe the things i care about i try to protect, protect especially from the capitalization of professionalism. The things i care about, maybe i don't speak them at all, and if i do speak them, i don't speak them right on purpose. Because i love them. How not to speak right? Well, speak too much. Over speak. Over speak and over spill. I hate the voice overs in documentaries in the same way i hate to check my privilege. I am not woke. I don't say grace before eating a meal and i don't savour each moment of my life in an appreciative mindfulness. I’m new money. I regulate myself differently to you. My constellation of care is pinned to the ceiling in a different manner to that of the art schools. I am not just a scorpio. I'm possessed. I don't wait for god, i let her pass through me. Waiting for god would be me anticipating the audience. I don't make for the anonymous, i make from the anonymous; I am the audience. 
When i was gestating in the black sky, i was told before entering the world “you will be a person”. And so here i try my best to be a person, not an artist, not a saint, not a leftie, not a this or that, all those ideal definitions that pull me into place. They are the not-me of my posture, the not-me of my gait, the not-me of my countenance.
The personhood of a plant.
And i only ever get corner of the eye glimpses of the animal that i am. How can something with the posture-gait-countenance of a primate in fact be a sort of fish from the abyss?
I don't know, but here it is and here i am.
I pursue the shadow that hides in my face.
The circle outlined by objects decides my place.
Situates me.
But i can go anywhere. And i've been everywhere.
Draw the circle. Its aforementioned objects are ‘artist’ ‘saint’ ‘leftie’ ‘this’ ‘that’.
Boring? Yes. Very.
I almost for a moment there, in my consistency, created an air of integrity.
The integrity of a lineage.
A lineage of abysmal sea plants.

Star and Shadow

On site free style at star and shadow cinema.
Day 1: take photos of the surrounding area and make into 7 collages.
Day 2: set up the 7 collages in the women's bathroom of the venue plus partial and disparate collage pieces add to the already-there posters by way of free-association. Photo these constellations and again make more collages.
Day 3: Place the phase three collages around the rest of the venue. Also collages made from bits of other peoples work as a detour.

I worked the three day event, its set up, as a method of free-association. The images become distilled through the process. Certain strands would repeat themselves, like the flower i created, and it multiplied throughout as a echoing emblem.

The night of the event a woman was giving tarot readings in the women's toilets. I had mine read, and named the collages to my left in accordance to this reading.

More images to follow 

graveyard rose

moody swan

ghost

heroine

The technology I've been using culminates in lana del rays song ‘heroin’ as i speak it simultaneously as heroine, which i like to imagine is an electric flickering in the breaking machine; It's time to leave.
Many of the recent images were created within the space of social media as a drunken exposure (and I wasn't even drunk). Facebook as mirror re-configuring me. I felt the cruel urge to mutilate and destroy myself as slowly and painfully as possible in front of this imaginary audience of men. Pulling from me a long and gory scream, faking my own death. Faking it so well that at times i felt i was really dying. I felt the drawing out of my death would asphyxiate them. Like pulling someone under with you. I was holding my breath. I wanted my exit to leave a poison in their water. This machine that is as discreet as a ballerina in a jewellery box. And now I'm exhausted, id be lying if i said I wasn't sick of it.
So see these following images as the spectre of a non-death. I've faked my death and left my body in order to buy myself some time as i go on the run.

"life rocked me, ultra-softly"

"flying to the moon again"

What im made of today is not a nice thing. I feel nasty. I've made a mess i cannot tidy. Irredeemable. And all the more scary was its suddenness. I take myself by surprise. What images do we have lingering in mid air? We have the damsel running from haunted mansions windswept wearing silk. In that i should have anticipated my mad-dash for the door. We also have photos of me looking intoxicated and un-sexy. How do i put this disaster together in a way which will make its substance love? How do i give it a countenance that will inspire nothing but love? To be able to love, most of all, it is the most of the alls. And i am sure it is in the tenderness of creating. But i am too panicky as though im in a rush. But for what? If i held a baby right now it would begin to cry, it would pick up the seemingly imperceptible trembling in my composure. And there, i would have ruined its entire life. That fearful trembling would have set the ricocheting rhythm of its destiny; fear. Its better off being given to someone else. Do you know how many babies i have given away for fear of killing them? All these children that i love but never got to see grow. Who do not even know me or know that i exist.

This time it's too much of a mess, and im panicking. I should go lock myself in a room alone and work on myself. And especially breath in long enough to suspend any dangerous fecundity, which in my case is never ripe fruit but some unwanted excess, like vermin proliferating. But i happen despite myself, so holding still is not an option for some of us. And some vitriolic errors are so far beyond my redeeming touch that i have to sit helplessly and hope someone else will be able to do what i in those moments cannot; love.
And yet, it is too easy to love rats, what is not to love? but do they find it easy to love me? A rats love would make my life complete.