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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...

Moments ago, the woman with the lovely dimples had been shivering, utterly ravaged by the evening, but now her face was plastered with a smile, her dimples deepening as she gathered up her clothes A moment ago she had been a newlywed, teeth chattering, pale and in agony Now she was a happy young divorcee   The man had already dissolved their union He had emphatically recited his three talaq: I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you Their first night together was also their last Sitting on the bed’s golden sheets with the scent of jasmine floating in the air, Dimples had taken stock of the situation Sweat still clung to her skin and her long hair fell across her back onto the pillow She was still half-naked but she had to leave immediately, because she was no longer the mistress of the house   There was the sound of the man’s impatient steps behind the door, keplak-keplak She recalled him stripping her naked and then undressing himself, just a short while ago Dimples had frozen like ice while that man was on fire, leaping upon her and thrusting ferociously Then he stopped for a moment, his forehead wrinkled Not for very long, but long enough for Dimples to ask silently, What’s wrong? Am I too young for you, Master? The man’s reply was to make the bed rattle like a palm tree branch being thrashed by a hurricane as he hurriedly finished his lovemaking Then they both lay back for a moment, flooded with sweat and gasping for breath   But the man was still on fire – not with desire, but with rage He threw a blanket over Dimples, jumped up from the bed and pulled on his shorts Without even looking in her direction, he cursed her before severing the ties between them, slamming the door of their wedding chamber with a final shout: ‘You whore!’   *   The woman with the two snot-nosed kids had watched stonily as the headman had bound Dimples and her destiny to that man Dimples didn’t have the strength to return her malicious stare – drowning in

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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fiction

March 2016

Red

Madeleine Watts

fiction

March 2016

It was the first week of 1976 and she had just turned 17.   The day school let out...

Art

September 2011

Interview with Marnie Weber

Timothée Chaillou

Art

September 2011

Los Angeles-based artist Marnie Weber has spent her career weaving music, performance, collage, photography and performance together into her...

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Issue No. 7

On a Decline in British Fiction

Jennifer Hodgson

Patricia Waugh

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Issue No. 7

‘The special fate of the novel,’ Frank Kermode has written, ‘is always to be dying.’ In Britain, the terminal...

 

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