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Rose McLaren

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.



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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...

On Sunday right after lunch, my father began preparing muskrat skins and cut his finger on a dirty penknife An orange erythema appeared around the wound When he got a fever, his lymph nodes swelled up and purple spots spread over his back, my mother called the ambulance from the village mayor’s house It came two hours later and took him away to the hospital, sirens blaring, with a suspected case of blood poisoning My mother said they replaced all his blood and pumped medicines into his stomach with a special pump   Miraculously, he managed to turn the corner after three weeks, but when he came home I hardly recognised him: he had lost more than twenty pounds and had gone almost completely deaf His eyes had lost their brightness, and his formerly swarthy face had turned the colour of a horseradish root He was given sick leave and for the time being stopped going to the paper mill He would get up at seven, throw his camouflage jacket over his shoulders and look out of the dining room window at the pond and the beehives, which stood scattered among bare currant bushes At nine, he would wash, put on his loafers and change into a shirt and his favourite, slightly too tight jumper with a black and white diamond pattern After swallowing two raw eggs, he’d look through old illustrated books about birds and fish which he’d brought home from the recycling centre at the mill, or he’d take out an old hunting knife with a deer-hoof handle from his taxidermy box and would sit opening and closing it as if he were playing some sort of game That’s how it was almost every day: he didn’t stuff animals any more, he didn’t play poker, he didn’t go fishing and, increasingly, he hardly ever said a word to anyone   He perked up only when he read in Beekeeping magazine that over the course of the harsh winter the frost had destroyed numerous apiaries in southern Poland He jumped up from the sofa, fetched a blackened saucepan from the dresser, poured

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

July 2012

Interview with Ben Rivers

Alice Hattrick

Art

July 2012

Ben Rivers is an artist who makes films. Two Years at Sea, his first feature-length film, was released to...

poetry

January 2015

My Beloved Uncles

Tove Jansson

TR. Thomas Teal

poetry

January 2015

However tired of each other they must have grown from time to time, there was always great solidarity among...

poetry

Issue No. 11

Poems from [---] Placeholder

Rob Halpern

poetry

Issue No. 11

Obscene Intimacy My soldier was found unresponsive restrained In his cell death being due to blunt force injuries To...

 

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