I'm a victim of this song.

Pipolotti Rist perhaps my favourite artist and maybe has been for the last 5 years.
Fresh from the hayward gallery exhib "Eye Massage" (and then a few drinks and discussions with the superb Lucy Vann) I must urge you to see this, so feminine and wonderful and erotic and grotesque and so incredibly beautiful. Perhaps the master of desire leading perception/anamorphicly wonderous perspective. Not that these two are any sort of hint as to what to expect but actually Pipilottis has great taste in music/is a sweet recording artist...

(click on the image above and go to youtube I urge you!)

I'm not a girl who misses much...
(+ love of the beatles whilst decapitated - YES!)



The Reading Room at The Kenton is now a regular thing. Every 4th Wednesday of the Month (excluding December)

The Reading Room would like to invite the avid readers, the casual readers, the curious minded and the tactile natured to browse our collection. We present a selection of unpublished works, hand made books, zines, manuscripts and texts from writers and artists with a D.I.Y. mentality. Grab a drink, pull up a chair and relax with a book you may not have the opportunity to engage with otherwise.

The Reading Room is always looking to expand its collection, if you have something that you feel we may be interested in - whether you're an artist book maker, a zinester, a writer, whatever - if you have something which you may wish to donate (or loan out if it's a little bit precious) then please email mandigoodier@gmail.com


Language + The Flesh + Artaud (+ Spero)

When the pen pierces the page does it penetrate the skin. When the words cover the face does it become disfigured. When the mark marries with the body, is the trace erased or does it burn deeper. When language and the body are at one, does the father die?

All writing is pigshit, because it bares the mark of something else, because it becomes an object outside of the body - a partial object that survives its start point - at the authors throat. That lingers and becomes autonomous, that seems to "out grow the natural limitations of the organism affected by it". What of autonomy and the written word?

Where is the body that escapes me. Where is the body that is alien within me. Where words become the signal for the anamorphic real, where signs are permitted with enjoyment, with jouissance, which is replayed but never touched.


Wish I could be in this band

"No one knows who the Beattle-ettes were. They were one more answer record knocked off responding to the maelstrom of the Beatles’ invasion of New York in 1964. (It was rushed out so fast, in fact, that they got the spelling of the boys’ name wrong, with an extra ‘T’!) But it is sure that they were produced by “Shadow” Morton just before his breakout success with the fabulous Shangri-La’s. Because of this, and the definite New York moxie of the singers, many believe it might actually be the Shangs! This would be cool as all hell, of course, but no one knows for sure.

What we do know is this is a rockin’ two minutes of punky Beat music that sticks in your head all day."

Then I wish I was this band

.... Which turns out to be suzi quatro and sister patti and arlene...

I also wish I would have wrote A Lovers Discourse, but I didn't, Roland Barthes did.

And I wish I could have wrote The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But I didn't

These both written by men but I consider to be feminine in a lot of respects.

And the reason I didn't was because I wasn't born yet. Everyone got there first. I may be too old to be in a teenage girl band, but I'm making moves on all the other things. Now the main dilemma is plagiarism, iteration, or envy? "Let's start over," is a mode of Art Writing according to Adrian Rifkin. He could be very very right.


The hilariously insightful philosopher and (Lacanian :) psychoanalyst Slavoj Zizek guides us through the real (super ego) symobolic (ego ideal) and imagined (ego) in cinema.

Possibly my favorite ever movie scene, Charlie Chaplin you beautiful man:


Out of practice/Return to practice/Lacanian Paradigms...

A good strong woman, as if anyone needs to be convinced of that, has mirrors fixed to a wall in every room of her house. They are positioned unusually, awkward to stand before, easy to walk past and catch a glimpse at another potential being, present, absent, unknown, a glimpse. Her head rests upon good strong posture in a fixed forwards position, it is only the eyes that betray good strong posture and head held high tautness. They stretch themselves to the furthest corners, painfully but briefly, springing back to forward facing, correct positioning in order to aid with navigation and general observation. When out in the street she maintains correct postulation, sure footed strides, flowing sweeps of her arms through the air, masterful composition. But a smile forms in those disobedient eyes at passer-bys and reflective window displays close circuit TV and distorted images upon vehicle bodies. They turn and glance from left to right, but head strong strolls on.

A good strong woman, no proof required, shows signs of weakness, where perhaps her strength is not tested but highlighted. Upon darkness's descent the surfaces which held the figure of her constant companion depicts a new shadowed creature haloed by the glow of street lights, moon light, head lights, stop lights. Go, go, go. Her pace is quickened her posture flails and she fights against the invisible hands stiffening her legs. Her chest is tight, her head turns slight - determination prevails and curiosity does not get the better of her. She is not alone. As she progresses between street lamp after street lamp a shadowy figure looms ever closer, only to fall behind when absolutely beneath their glare. And cars which pass cause the shadowy creature to gain ferocity, increasing velocity and to pounce upon the next shaded area - allowing her to catch up. She is a strong woman who feels terrified by the figure that creeps her, that won't leave her within the lightness of night. Upon returning home all lights are turned on and she races to her sanctuary. She sits at an empty desk. Hands pressed together between her thighs. She raises her head. Corrects her posture. Before her is a sheath of mirrored glass. The remnant of one once shattered.

One once shattered then walked over in bare feet, sharpened edges digging into her penetrating her souls, her spine jolting backwards then stiffening as if a pole were shunted along side it, straightening her out, displacing the weight of her body, opening up her lungs, widening her mouth for the cries of pain they were expected to carry. Not a sound was heard that night nor any other. Good posture = self sedation. Primitive war tactics passed down unknowingly from generation to generation, when human recognised itself, an animal, and instinct determined everything else. The glass remained in her feet until scabs formed embracing them, welcome to the family. At this point she stood up reenforcing her good posture, pressing the shards into nerve endings and reopening the scabs of good intent. She lifted herself so as not to further the injury to her feet, a strong woman can carry her own weight, metaphysically heavy. She placed her body into a hot bath and watched the sweat drip from her forehead, sometimes joining the bath water, sometimes evaporating into the surrounding steam. She took hold of her submerged foot caressed each protrusion of glass before sharply removing each and every piece. Never once did she tear her eyes from the surface of the water; did the back of her head leave the nook it rested upon. Once the last shard was removed she rested in red waters.

At her desk she looks into the remaining sheath positioned at eye level. Too thin to see a full image of her face, wide enough to gaze into her companions eyes. And in those eyes she is fixated, she stares desperately into them, flicking from left to right rapidly, before settling on one or the other. Dead eyes with no soul attached beyond the reflection she sees inside them, a figure, darkened, silhouetted. She sees herself.

(video nasty Boogeyman 2)