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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...

 1 PhD   Blue bedroom, Grandma’s house, Aigburth, Liverpool   I gave birth to one hundred thousand words Tessellated, affectless, still   I was in a pair of stirrups, draped in black Behind me were cascades of water and municipal marble, people sitting inanimately I printed me out on acetate for the overhead projector   Vagabond pronunciation, vigilant renunciation, off with her head   Brashness and redness and badness and rudeness and leaving and wasting and waste   Fat lowly bearable extrapolation, fine gradations of change   Grandma came in and turned the big light on, offered photographs Women in terracotta silk, cars parked outside garage doors, Mum shoving an apple in Jeremy’s mouth She put a cup of Douwe Egbert’s on the side Was I sad because I wanted a boyfriend? I turned away, rinsed in salt     Hornsey, London   Matthew was in the kitchen, glancing with accusation at a Bolognese tidemark in the sink His grey jogging bottoms were tucked under his heels, nestling in his arches He switched off the little lights underneath the kitchen cupboards and turned it into the sort of conversation that is a prelude to an unlit room I don’t like those sorts of conversation He wished me luck   On the train a little boy was talking at his dad, who was thumbing his screen with maniacal grace They started a game of what five things the little boy would put in his supermarket basket Cucumber, ice cream, tomato, all the puddings, and trifle   Lunch with Paul He kneaded his sandwich with his fingers It was doughy and airless at the perimeters and the butter and salmon fattened into triangular pouches, a sophisticated solution to refrigerated bread His teeth were translucent   We spoke for ninety minutes, the foetus on my lap He gave me a gift, his book I asked him if he wanted to sign it My cheeks were hot Let me look at it No I need to see it No Can’t you blog it?     Rose’s, Bristol   We went to a café in the rain Children ate sausages from Falcon enamel The goats at the petting zoo had their horns zapped off If Rose were an animal she would be a fox Not

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

Issue No. 4

Interview with Ahdaf Soueif

Jacques Testard

Interview

Issue No. 4

In 1999, Ahdaf Soueif’s second novel, The Map of Love, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, eventually losing out...

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May 2014

How Imagination Remembers

Maria Fusco

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May 2014

How imagination remembers is twofold, an enfolded act of greed and ingenuity. I believe these impulses to be linked...

poetry

Issue No. 19

Two Poems

Sophie Robinson

poetry

Issue No. 19

sweet sweet agency   the candy here is hard & filled & there is nothing i love more than...

 

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