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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...

When the water first left us, so did the birds   Manzour1, the great white pelican, no longer flew over our disappeared shores His excessive grunt was arrested, he was denied the pleasure of dipping his feet in the water like before    When the water first began to leave us, it was the year 20302 and panic ripped through our town like a swarm of locusts The fishermen, in the dead of night, called on their mystic, Umm Qays, to perform the ritual of Irja’ ya bahr, whose song asks for the return of the sea Umm Qays emerged from her abode, a clay house with white windows, carrying a bright flame that revealed the kohl under her eyes ‘Said and Radi, take me to the manba’3,’ she said to the youngest of the fishermen Arriving at the last source of water, she knelt in front of it, kissing the sand, and as her lips drew to the shore it turned crimson    ‘Said, Radi, lift me up,’ she said She sat on their shoulders as her words poured down ‘Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea, Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea, Irja’ ya bahr, enough oh sea’ She commanded the water to end its mischief     Said and Radi, with their limbs arranged in perfect symmetry, lifted Umm Qays higher as her voice got louder Her words entered their bodies, and as they chanted they formed a single tapestry of sound: ‘It is your Lord who drives the ship for you through the sea that you may seek of His bounty Indeed, He is ever, to you, merciful!’    Umm Qays licked the flame she was carrying in her arm and it grew into a majestic, bright light It took over the sky, covering the few stars ‘Now,’ she said, as she buried the flame in the water The fishermen, with their eyes falling to their knees, recited silent prayers, hoping the extinguished flame would bring an end to their anguish   But their optimism was cruel, as was Umm Qays’ promise The water did not return   *   After years of drought, our government

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. 2

Interview with Michael Hardt

Chris Catanese

Karim Wissa

Interview

Issue No. 2

Michael Hardt is a philosopher and theorist best known for his collaboration with Antonio Negri on a trilogy of...

Interview

November 2012

Interview with Simon Critchley

John Douglas Millar

Interview

November 2012

Over the last twenty years Simon Critchley has produced a series of elegant works of political and cultural theory....

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October 2013

The Good Soldier

Jess Cotton

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October 2013

Two hundred names are inscribed in a totemic list that opens Alice Oswald’s Memorial. The deaths of the Greek heroes,...

 

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