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Rose McLaren

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.



Articles Available Online


Talk Into My Bullet Hole

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July 2015

Rose McLaren

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July 2015

‘Someday people are going to read about you in a story or a poem. Will you describe yourself for those people?’ ‘Oh, I don’t...

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May 2014

Art Does Not Know a Beyond: On Karl Ove Knausgaard

Rose McLaren

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May 2014

Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle has an oddly medieval form: a cycle, composed of six auto-biographical books about the...

There were flickers of red in the water, a tint the colour of blood He stood in the river, naked as a stone, and opened his hands and drew the water to his lips and tasted it He knew the tastes of the river well, its differences like moods, as after a storm when the earth washed down from the fields and the clay sediment left his mouth bone dry He gazed upstream at the horizon, at the evening sun and the evening sky, at the river He was cold and began to shake, and though it was the beginning of summer and the air was warm his lips turned a bright blue   A package wrapped in cloth came to a still against his stomach and he scooped it from the water and unwrapped a small baby, so dead that it seemed a doll, and strange though it was, he reparcelled the dead thing in the cloth and returned it to the river where he watched it go, turning his toes in the silt and stones, his feet hardened against the medley of sharp rocks that formed the riverbed He remembered the still hot corpses of the burnt out men in what was left of the church, expiring smoke from their chimney mouths and whistling like so many kettles His father smouldering among them   A larger body appeared in chase of the child Signs of torture riddled the chest and face of the man, who was dead and naked He took hold of the body and waded through the river with it wrapped intimate in his thick arms and lifted it onto the rocks and laid it down He sat facing the water and waved the flies from the dead man’s pulpy face There followed another man, spilling over himself in the shallow breaks, reaching out a hand – it looked like He caught the second man, but he was also dead and he dragged him clear of the current and left him in the company of his fellow corpse Their black and bloody faces twinned by bruising

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.

The Prosaic Sublime of Béla Tarr

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Issue No. 6

Rose McLaren

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Issue No. 6

I have to recognise it’s cosmical; the shit is cosmical. It’s not just social, it’s not just ontological, it’s really huge. And that’s why we...
Stalker, Writer or Professor? Geoff Dyer's Zona and Genre

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February 2012

Rose McLaren

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February 2012

‘So what kind of a writer am I, reduced to writing a summary of a film?’ wonders Geoff Dyer half way through Zona. Such...

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Interview

June 2013

Interview with Lars Iyer

David Morris

Interview

June 2013

Like so much of the dialogue that marks time across Lars Iyer’s books, this conversation began in the pub....

Prize Entry

Issue No. 17

Grace

Sophie Mackintosh

Prize Entry

Issue No. 17

14. It comes for me in the middle of the day when I am preparing lunch, quartering a tomato...

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October 2012

Film: Palestinian Airlines

Eddie Wrey

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October 2012

    Palestinian Airlines Produced and Directed by Eddie Wrey Co-produced and translated by Max Wrey Co-edited by Rye...

 

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