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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...

A pale three-quarter moon lit up the state highway at two in the morning The road connected the province of Taranto to Bari, and at that time of night it was usually deserted As it ran north, the road oscillated, aligning with and diverging from an imaginary axis, leaving behind it olive groves and vineyards and short rows of industrial sheds that resembled aeroplane hangars At kilometre marker 38, a service station appeared It was the last one for a while, and aside from the self-service pumps, vending machines serving coffee and cold food had recently been installed To promote the new attractions, the owner had installed a sky dancer on the roof of the auto repair shop One of those puppets that stand 15 feet tall, pumped up by powerful motorised fans   The inflatable barker fluttered in the empty air and would continue to do so until the morning light More than anything else, it made one think of a restless ghost   After passing that strange apparition the countryside ran on, flat and unvarying for miles It was almost like moving through the desert Then, in the distance, a sizzling tiara marked the city Beyond the guardrail, in contrast, lay untilled fields, fruit trees, and a few country houses nicely concealed by hedges Through those expanses moved nocturnal animals   Tawny owls traced long slanting lines through the air Gliding, they waited to flap their wings until they were just inches from the ground so that insects, terrified by the sudden tempest of shrubs and dead leaves, would rush out into the open, sealing their own fates A cricket, perched on a jasmine leaf, extended its antennae unevenly And, all around, impalpably, like a vast tide suspended in the air, a fleet of moths moved in the polarised light of the celestial vault   Unchanged over millions of years, the tiny, fuzzy-winged creatures were one with the formula that ensured their stability in flight Tied to the moon’s invisible thread, they were scouring the territory in their thousands, swaying from side to side to dodge the attacks of birds of prey Then, as had

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...

READ NEXT

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January 2014

Afterword: The Death of the Translator

George Szirtes

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January 2014

1. The translator meets himself emerging from his lover’s bedroom. So much for fidelity, he thinks. 2. Je est...

Art

December 2016

Bonnie Camplin: Is it a Crime to Love a Prawn

Bonnie Camplin

Art

December 2016

  The title of Bonnie Camplin’s exhibition at 3236RLS Gallery, ‘Is it a Crime to Love a Prawn’, brings...

fiction

September 2012

Sarah Palin Night

Agustín Fernández Mallo

TR. Michael McDevitt

fiction

September 2012

It was a Sunday afternoon, siesta time: my phone buzzed in my pocket. ‘Is this Agustín Fernández Mallo?’ ‘Yes,...

 

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