I must have fallen asleep, for all of a sudden there was the moon, a huge moon framed in the window. Two bars divided it in three segments, of which the middle remained constant, while little by little the right gained what the left lost. For the moon was moving from left to right, or the room was moving from right to left, or both together perhaps, or both were moving from left to right, but the room not so fast as the moon, or from right to left, but the moon not so fast as the room. But can one speak of right and left in such circumstances? That movements of an extreme complexity were taking place seemed certain, and yet what a simple thing it seemed, that vast yellow light sailing slowly behind my bars and which little by little the dense wall devoured, and finally eclipsed. And now its tranquil course was written on the walls, a radiance scored with shadow, then a brief quivering of leaves, if they were leaves, then that too went out, leaving me in the dark. How difficult it is to speak of the moon and not lose one’s head, the witless moon. It must be her arse she shows us always. Yes, I once took an interest in astronomy, I don’t deny it.

from Molloy by Samuel Beckett

While I was at Central St Martins I played with bricks and paint, went back into my comfort zone of photography and video, started to get bored by my own work, had a bit of a crisis, doodled my way out of it, and worked my way up to this, my degree show piece. I was rather pleased with it. They weren’t.

Thanks to the great Sinéad Rushe for being in it.

Clearly, I Misunderstood

At first I was predictably dismissive of Tracey Emin and walked around her 1999 Turner Prize show thinking “self-indulgent”, “hype” etc  until I saw a video the Tate had made about her. Seeing and hearing her talk about the work made me realise two things: she meant it and it wasn’t easy. And made me reflect on how little I was personally at risk in what I did. So I thought about how I could be as frank and honest as her in my own way. The first fruit was a series of ten photographs – a roll of 6×7 – of myself, identically framed and posed. The rest, you’ll have to see for yourself, but I’m not putting them on the internet. Not now.


Hannah & screen, Asitis 1

The flyer said:

7.30pm, 15 & 16 June. 4 or 3 pounds. Red Rose Club, 129 Seven Sisters Road, Finsbury Park tube.

Music by Pete Flood, Michael Oliva, Tom Armstrong and Andrew Melvin, performed by Hannah Marshall. Visual art by Julian Richards. The first in a series.

Music for cello and electronics. Improvisation, darkness and the sound of breath aim to contribute to a soft but strong experience of music and sound. Projections, a web and things.

Continue reading Asitis

A photographer and film-maker working in art and documentary who lives in London