Patterns of Sensation – the bodies of dolls by Salma Caller

Silk Velvet Purse Doll Tiny invisible stitches hold rivets that hold rivulets Of silk ending in the darkness Where dreaming continues The sleeping and dreaming of her invisible body

Silk Velvet Purse Doll   A mille-feuille A body of a thousand layers A thousand gauze tissues A thousand substances Concealing a darkened chamber Entombing A heavy velvet pouch Profligate sensual reclining body feeling inwardly Reaching caressing touching exploring the textures of the inside of a dark and empty space Where nothing is also everything A costly ornate body of sensation Silk velvet skin silk thread silk tassel nerve endings Silent silken hair spreading A dense and tactile embroidery surrounds her slits tips lips edges and borders Wires closely over-sewn create Her ribs Brushing stroking heating and burnishing Made a body that is close textured lustrous gleaming and smooth Intricate and laborious twisting and twirling of twines Tiny invisible stitches hold rivets that hold rivulets                        Of silk ending in the darkness                        Where dreaming continues                        The sleeping and dreaming of her invisible body That dreaming heavy velvet body Held in the darkness by a skin of sound Pearl fastenings fasten her breast                                                     Silk velvet velvet silk Threads pulled tightly holding her in holding her inwards Net gauze tissue Lace wire mesh Feathers Locks of glossy hair Fine shimmering strands of metal thread Seeds metal beads sequins A weaving of delicate traps that subdue mesmerise and enclose Hiding her in intricacy and leading to labyrinths of the eternal

Chinking of bells
Clicking of shells

Tiny invisible stitches hold rivets that hold rivulets Of silk ending in the darkness Where dreaming continues The sleeping and dreaming of her invisible body   Where nothing is also everything A costly ornate body of sensation   Seeds metal beads sequins A weaving of delicate traps that subdue mesmerise and enclose Hiding her in intricacy The Shell Bell Shaking Doll   (Aluminium silver wax fur hair beads glass twine carved wooden body musk leather lace shells bells) She was a multi-purpose object And made a variety of textural sounds Chinking of bells Clicking of shells The dull thud of organs suspended within a hollow Their deep and heavy percussion Reverberating Tasselling around her Prickling Metallic fragments Sound out from pale bells And whitish shells A chalky body Carved and curved Arching over Her painfully embroidered beaded fabric heart Lungs of lace rustling Under a dome Her shells and her bells Rang out in another realm Skeins of silvered twine Slivers of shivering glass Pelts of soft fur that cannot warm her Hand strokes of paint are Memories of a gentle touch An aura of sound and movement Are shaking out of her still She was a multi-purpose object And made a variety of textural sounds Chinking of bells Clicking of shells The dull thud of organs suspended within a hollow The Unravelling Glassfire Doll Her painfully embroidered beaded fabric heart Lungs of lace rustling Under a dome Her shells and her bells Rang out in another realm Skeins of silvered twine Slivers of shivering glass   Myriad   Myriad of the hollows With an eye in every cell Splitting and spitting Seeds and jewels Saint of the hollows Myriad of the Sorrows The vessel of the body curves about a sacred hollow of emptiness Out of which a carved voice unfolds   That dark pod concealed with a shimmering Membrane   Infinitely embracing each pip   Myriad Miriam Maryam Madonna of the Pomegranate Resurrection of shadows. Net gauze tissue Lace wire mesh Feathers Locks of glossy hair Fine shimmering strands of metal thread About Patterns of Sensation – the bodies of dolls This series of works on paper by artist Salma Ahmad Caller, explores the notion of the female body as an idea that is constructed, made like a folk doll’s body, from materials both real and imagined. The folk doll or fashion model is patterned and marked by how a society thinks about femininity. Each material used to make ‘her’ carries it’s own set of cultural notions, sensations and associations. ‘She’ is often ornamented with patterned textiles, jewels, silk, velvet, embroidery, pearls, shells, tassels, bells, or associated with flowers, fruits and fertility, or with lace, nets, knots and webs, creating textures that carve ‘her’ body into zones of social and sexual importance. Forces of cultural and social expectations mark and carve our bodies but also the things we touch and feel are etched onto us, mapping zones and patterns of our experiences, our traumas and losses, our sensuality and feeling. Bringing the biological and the ornamental together to subvert the usual imagery of the female body, Salma uses decorative and ornamental forms, arabesques, whiplash and sinuous lines, and curvilinear shapes in her work, as a language of the biological sensational body, to try and capture the body we feel not the body we think we see. The shape of the bodies of the ‘dolls’ in this series is based on the paisley tear drop shape or Boteh. An ‘Eastern’ ornamental form that has travelled and transformed across time. It has complex origins in many cultures, mainly from Iran, Azerbaijan and India and now has many connotations, of colonial trade, and a feminised and orientalised idea about ornament. Yet it had a previous changing life of meaning across cultures, symbolising or embodying concepts of eternity, life, of humility, of being bent under the weight of conquest, a fruit, a seed, a pine, a flower, a tear, that were not reserved for the feminine only. These works on paper have been made using graphite, Indian Ink, collage, watercolour, acrylic and gold pigment. The Infinite Body Of Sensation; visual poetry by Salma Caller

“Trompe L’Oeil” and other poems by Patricia Walsh

Trompe L’Oeil Tidied away, fast disappeared, what’s lost in the house isn’t lost. In a mid-sentence, blasting myths and fairytales I avoid the radiance of your eye. Hidden phallic symbols litter the test crunchy fallen leaves subdue the table reference books stand-offish, yet useful the clock, used to stares, reigns supreme. What escaped thought becomes you? What line unwritten begs attention? The trompe l’oeil of art crumbles a piece of fiction no longer necessary. It would do well to save ink and rest, watch Love/Hate till my eyeballs dissolve, or the TV licence man catches me. Anyway smartphones, smart bombs pave the way. Eyeball to eyeball, keeping in check a double decker bus is crashing into me, foolproof suicide, if you stand next to me, always having money to keep me sweet. Stuck in the village. You’re lost, after all. Winding through people, an avoidance strategy, cold calling my fantasies, standing aloof no eye contact can remedy this. Citrus Refresh Bruised flesh, eaten by spinsters’ cries calling for regional order. Sated for now, tomorrow might never arrive. No one spies without a purpose fearing for their own safety, paramount twitching the lens to a heart’s craving. The scented candle reverberates with intent for one’s own good, uncomfortable as it is being beaten or insulted is still normal. Choosing select friends for me, the more mature, the better, despite age. Sinking apples instead of sweets is approved. Identical dress, though hips not developed the smallest size bra fits to a tee knowledge of a curricular activity is key. Associating with local heroes falls flat, due to a lack of interest I am not part of this charade, as ever. Waiting for this mess to subside, my own freedom answering to itself scandal contained in pint glasses and pizza. Not caring for silent soldiers, speed bumps as such fattening lectures from betters all the time scented with envy, cries from another pillow. Skin on Skin It rubs me up the wrong way, this intermittent friction, hard graft producing nothing, save hard-won tears. Woken up by solid cold extension, I slowly realise things could be better, divorcing circumstance from comfortable creatures. I am not amused, or inspired to catch a structure of yours in my arms embracing a lifestyle already broken. Outlining separation procedures close to hand never realising this could be the end waking up to hubris, fashion condemned. Bloody finale, a pregnant conclusion signs away your status, folding a future declarations of convenience finish the task. You lie down, beyond reproach, not seen again until the Armageddon proves you right, living in pockets too rich to bother you. They croon in time to your desecration anal therapy, skin on skin not above their station serving them right, suburban whores. Open Wound A cooked nerve, gaping at nothing in particular, festers at will. Suppurates on demand, a carving of a foot a thorny lesson in kitten heels. Bespoke man-shoes don’t avoid the issue, mashed with sticking plaster for some hours blood, on occasion, washes out the gunk a moist challenge in another’s footwear. Dancing in time to excruciating pain, I can only offer up so much misery at a time, suffering has its limits caught in the heel, pouring out its filth. It will pass, I know. Avoiding gangrene is good, blood poisoning is the only comfort I know, respecting my privacy over all other causes not yelping at will, suffering under umbrage. Using my head for something, besides bright fantasy, pick off the scabs on its final journey, some satisfaction on its ultimate trip a limit to endurance, a finite walk. Fine Feathers Do Not Make Fine Birds By foul means or otherwise, I stake my claim on a grandmother’s cast-offs clearing slides, fastening hair, prettified. Not so much rebellion as assertion a desired scenario always in my head, a disco for one person, but where’s the joy in that? Is my eyeshadow too obvious? Does this hair cream scream usage? Or is this lipstick too red for your liking? Puberty drags its heels, so do I, take up the slack with cosmetics to go pound shop treats accumulated on the sly. My friends can’t figure me out. Innocence eroding away, but not quite, doll-faced presentations still ringing true. Invisible curfews taken as read cut and dried regulations rest weary heads a maturity missed, a freedom curtailed. Trompe L’Oeil and other poems are © Patricia Walsh, Patricia Walsh image © Linda Ibbotson

Image Linda Ibbotson Patricia Walsh was born in Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. She was educated in University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology in 2000. Previously she has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors (Lapwing Press, 2010) Her poetry is published in The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears; Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet’s Wing, Narrator International, and The Evening Echo, a local Cork newspaper with a wide circulation. She was the featured artist for June 2015 in the Rain Party Disaster Journal. In addition, She has also published a novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014.

“The Infinite Body of Sensation”; Visual poetry by Salma Caller

Sound is a shell Sound is a shell An ear Curves of sound Vibrating and condensing air Echoes in a curved space An ocean in the shell of sound

Pearls Things that stand in for other things
The Witches Pouches Bags of velvet black Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells Spells Pearls Things that stand in for other things

Nets entangling objects Bones of birds The insides of shells

Black Lace Turn this talk into a tale A small dark textured cloth Shadows with shades of velvet Borders and edges tactile Spaces glittering and ornate An elaborate intertwining language Of touching A complex dance of bodies Claustrophobic close Obscure ornate organs Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations Rose Point Point de Neige Gros Point Punto in aria

Lying in a dark net of black stuffs Needles like obsidian beaks Braiding sound into A florid calligraphy of sensations

Rose Rose coloured lips swirling around a dark spot Tasting a baroque sound Inspired by graffiti in Barcelona On a corrugated shutter Inside a temple Incense in the darkness leads you To the glint of the gold cloth The curl of the baroque frame and deep blue gaze

A florid calligraphy of sensations

Salma Ahmad Caller is an artist and a hybrid of cultures and faiths. She is drawn to hybrid and ornamental forms, and to how the body expresses itself in the mind to create an embodied ‘image’. UK based, she was born in Iraq to an Egyptian father and a British mother and grew up in Nigeria and Saudi Arabia. With a background in art history and theory, medicine and pharmacology, and several years teaching cross-cultural ways of seeing via non-Western artefacts at Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, she now works as an independent artist and teacher. salma caller artists statement [PDF] word flows by Salma Caller [PDF] Salma Caller’s website

“The Surrealist ” by Csilla Toldy

The Surrealist – honouring Leonora Carrington –   A young lady, treated as merchandise.   Society made no sense for Leonora, and her best friend the hyena.   She fell in love with a surrealist painting and sought out its creator to take him, too, on a free fall.   Life was real in France, married to their work of art, (and his wife) till the Gestapo took over the city and Max was arrested –   Leonora broke down, now fully. She fled to Spain, But not from family and pain. (After being sanctioned to electroshock therapy for three years), She ran   from the care of an Irish nun to the Mexican embassy in Lisbon, where united with Max and their entourage: his wife, his new lover and saviour, her own saviour ambassador, stand-in-husband – they held wake – over the corpse of Love.   Travelling together on the same boat, towards New York, in two distinctly different directions, she found herself in a weird future, alive and sane, in the company of livid creatures.   The Surrealist – honouring Leonora Carrington – is © Csilla Toldy

Photo by Alistair Livingstone Csilla Toldy was born in Budapest. After a long odyssey in Europe she entered the UK with a writer’s visa to work on films and ended up living in Northern Ireland in 1998. Her prose appeared in Southword, Black Mountain Review and anthology, Fortnight, The Incubator Journal, Strictly Writing and Cutalongstory. Her poetry was published online and in print literary magazines, such as Snakeskin and Poetry24, Savitri, Lagan Online, Headstuff, Visible Verse, A New Ulster and in two chapbooks published by Lapwing Belfast: Red Roots – Orange Sky and The Emigrant Woman’s Tale. Csilla makes videopoems, available on her website: www.csillatoldy.co.uk & https://soundcloud.com/ctoldy

SCA/OPES – by Nicole Peyrafitte

SCA/OPES   Tidepools Westwing Lake Palourde

Tide Pools Encinitas, California, October 2013

 

Re-visiting Encinitas California & measuring the past:  “how to measure such distances how to count such measures” sz PJ   in step with Pacific ocean memories’ ebb & flow tide-pools of hardy organisms cast reflection but what measure measures the past? remains? newbies? Anthopleura elegantissima? I too stretch & clone myself wear a shrapnel shell camouflage practice both sexual & asexual reproduction temporarily attached to immersed objects Pollicipes polymerus? our peduncle is plump short edible attached to a rock beaten by the waves coping with flux & reflux anemones, goose barnacles pelagic witnesses symbiotic walk on provisory bottom where onlookers mirror life of constant changes shared illusion with sardines & mackerel the alternate rhythmic condition back & fro movement decline & renewal  a mighty fear a sounded fear a good fear in a rare intertidal zone mussels prey on barnacle larvae

Revoir Encinitas, Californie  & mesurer le passé: “comment mesurer de telles distances  comment compter de telles mesures” dit PJ   dans la foulée du Pacifique ebbe et jusant des mémoires flaques résiduelles d’organismes hardis jètent une réflexion quelle mesure mesure le passé? les restes? le neuf? Anthopleura elegantissima? moi aussi je m’étire & me clone porte un camouflage d’éclats de coquillages je pratique les reproductions sexuées & non-sexuées attachée temporairement aux objets immergés Pollicipes polymerus? notre pédoncule est charnu court comestible fixé à un rocher battu par les vagues surmonte flux et reflux anémones pouces-pied témoins pélagiques marche symbiotique sur fond provisoire où les spectateurs reflètent les changements constants une illusion partagée avec sardines & maquereaux une condition rythmique alternée avec mouvement avant arrière déclin & renouveauune peur puissante une peur raisonnée une bonne peur dans l’estran rare les moules se gorgent de leur larves

West Wing In Flight To Seattle, Washington, March 2014

 

Nicole Peyrafitte is a pluridisciplinary artist born and raised in the Gascony part of the Pyrenees & residing in Brooklyn, N.Y with her husband poet, essayist, translator Pierre Joris. Her texts, voice-work, paintings, videos, films, translations & cooking are displayed in a range of multi lingual & multi-faceted performances. Peyrafitte’s work is informed & characterized by a daily practice — a quest for life in art and art in life between two continents & four languages.  Latest publication: Bi-Valve: Vulvic Space/Vulvic Knowledge, 17 paintings, 17 multilingual texts, 1 recipe & 1 CD (Stockport Flats, 2013). Forthcoming: Land0Scape (bi-langual texts), éditions Plaine Page, France. Her translations work includes, Nicole Brossard, Yoko Otomo, Gary Hill, Marcela Delpastre, Bernat Manciet.                                         Images and words are © Nicole Peyrafitte More info on publications & more: www.nicolepeyrafitte.com