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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...

Two years ago I was walking up a mountain path having been told of excellent views from the summit The day was clear and hot, the sky wide and cloudless There was only the sound of my breath, my boots treading, and the faint clonking of cowbells back down the track What little wind there was on the climb soon dropped as I reached the summit, as if it had been distracted or called upon to cover events elsewhere I drank eagerly, catching my breath, and then took in the view, which was as spectacular as I had been told I could make out a tree, a shrub, really  (it being so distant in the valley below I couldn’t say how high), silently on fire, the smoke trailing a vertical black line before dissipating I watched the flames consume the whole shrub No one came to stop it No one seemed to be around to see it, and I felt very alone From nowhere a great tearing came: a fighter-jet, low and aggressive, ripped above me and, surprised, I dropped on one knee and watched it zoom, bellowing overhead As it passed I saw a shred of something fall, a rag, spinning I shielded my eyes to see, bewildered and pinned watching the object, the rag, gather its falling weight, its speed, until it flumped down without a bounce, only ten footsteps to my right It was part of a white bird, a gull No head, just a wing and a hunk of body No leg, or tail, just the wing and the torso: purple and bloodied A violent puddle surrounded it, already mixing with the grit Ferrous blood wafted and I recoiled feeling suddenly cold and very high up and the view swam madly: I saw for a second the flaming tree as I staggered backwards and became aware that I was sitting, I had fallen, but I felt as if I was falling and falling still, my mind unable to connect the events which were real and terrifying because they were real, only now I think it was not, perhaps, a mountain, it was not, perhaps, a shrub on fire, and not a fighter-jet boring its noise through the sky, and I am certain now, it was not me, or a wing

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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Art

May 2016

Sharon Hayes

Edwina Attlee

Art

May 2016

Sharon Hayes’ In My Little Corner of the World, Anyone Would Love You at Studio Voltaire features a five-channel...

fiction

January 2014

Son of Man

Yi Mun-yol

TR. Brother Anthony of Taizé

fiction

January 2014

Rain falling onto thick layers of accumulated dust had left the windows of the criminal investigations office so mottled...

Interview

June 2017

Interview with Elif Batuman

Yen Pham

Interview

June 2017

Elif Batuman never intended to become a non-fiction writer. She always planned to write novels, and it was only...

 

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