IN SIDE OUT 'little land'.
It is built around a complex piece of text initially written immediately after my Grandmother had died aged 91. She was, and remains, a significant figure in my life. The text sort of focused on personal histories and nostalgia and patriotism. I've subsequently added to the text over the years since she died, editing along the way...
The physical pieces in this piece are, I suppose, quite illustrative in a way. But clearly, the materials and process are a major part of the visual dialogue. This time I've left a great deal of the detritus of process in place as well... What's complete / incomplete, what is made / not made, is this some sort of art?
There is, to some degree, significant conceptual and practical cross overs between the 12X12 series, cyhmn at Derby Art Gallery and 'little land'. It could then be seen as a kind of visual lo-fi re-mix, a de-construction, an appraisal, a last hurrah or simply a bowing out with a whimper...

In the year of the diamond jubilee, the Olympics and Euro 2012, patriotic fever will be high. some kind of analysis (no matter how lo-fi, experimental or even obscure and scruffy) about England seemed pertinent.

'little land' attempts to peel back a few dusty layers and scratch away at a few half truths here and there. It attempts to turn my current practise inside out, again...

- text;

In little land, in little land.
Wallpaper skin. Holds the crumbling walls guts in.
Little land of ghosts and dreams.
Aches and bulges at its seams.
The walls are dripping, with condensation slipping,
a thousand and one coagulated conversations.
Inch deep dust years of hair ‘n’ skin ‘n’ mourning ‘n’ celebrations 'n' some proper fuckin sadness.

This garden and this house in little land will outlive us all.
Lopsided lean to shed compacted chicken shit piled edifice and rotting,
Little lands natural history organic archive - a fucking useless piece of shit.
Listen to the song of little land… la la la la...

Cup your ear to the old skew whiff coal house wall and hear echoes of kids hide ‘n’ seek ‘n’ bow ‘n’ arrow,
wartime bombers drone doubly deep bass throb overhead and all over little land.
Listen to the song of little land... la la la la...

Chickens necks snapped unemotionally for a little land Sunday feast. Hawthorn spikes that bristle like a Tudor Ark Royal the flagship of little land.
Floods ‘n’ snow ‘n’ heat waves are always getting far worse in little land. The end of the world the beginning of the end of the world the olden days dying are all the same in little land.

Long dead monarchs, abdications, coronation mugs full of smooth hard earned pennies ‘n’ thimbles ‘n’ dead spiders legs and flies wings and god knows what collect dust on mantle shelves in little land front rooms. Coal fires that light up your life on a Jack Frost morning, fires that tell tall tales and the truth if you stare for too long in little land.

There’s a tree in little land that grows in a blizzard that cuts like a knife and razor raindrops give it life.
In the spring, tiny daggers begin to grow from its ravaged bark and twigs. Anyone with common sense would not decide to have a picnic or a fuck under this tree when the blades are fully ripened and ready to drop.
Little land is almost completely devoid of common sense.

Little land sets it’s sights from behind a water barrel that’s full of rotting leaves, rotting dead birds, dead rotten bugs and other dead life and some water from the sky that’s been collecting for quite a while in little land.
Little land inhabitants love to peep through yellow tinged twitching net curtains festooned with dead legs of daddy long legs.

The grime of bulldog spirit prevails in little land. It is eternally engrained in calloused wrinkled skin and cruelly cut fingernails as well as clumsy shoes and heavy overcoats.
Some Little land men say ‘eye for an eye’. Little land is the kingdom of the blind, deaf, dumb, sporadically stupid and permanently paranoid.
In little land homes are really castles, with walls as thick as one of those crusader fortresses. Some are as thick as a thug’s neck. Some are as thick as a river of congealed blood. Some are really like shitholes like cardboard boxes stacked up in piles or summat like that, with slogans like
'I am a product of this sick society' plastered over them.

Little land is covered in a huge black cloud.
No one really knows if it’s going to kill him or her or all of them or just drift away on a gentle breeze.
Gentle breezes are not very common in little land. And some folks say 'boo fuckin hoo' and dont really give a flying fuck.
Little land has rigid rules for it’s rabid residents. Incidentally, Little land has a few good books, but no one in little land can actually read them. Everyone in little land has an opinion. Some folk say yes, some say no,some folk dont know either way. They shout stuff like 'modern artists are cunts' or 'are monkeys idiots?' or 'priests are cunts'. Some folk in little land have a mantra they repeat daily, it sort of goes like this; 'Im so fucking sick of being so fucking reasonable it fucking stinks like a piece of fucking shit'.
A lot of folk in little land have simple messages under the skin on their knuckles to express the extremes of their emotions about any situation they might find themselves in.
They might pat your dog on its head, or ruffle the hair of your child, or smack you in the kisser, or make you feel like a total cock. It all depends. And quite a few people in little land are frightened and full of fear.
In little land it is wise to make friends with the enemy of the person you hate and to learn the words to all the chart topping songs, 'cause little land is actually karaoke nation and the catchy chorus is 'fucking worship me please' or 'can you hear me now?'

In little land, in little land.
Wallpaper skin. Holds the crumbling walls guts in.
Little land of ghosts and dreams. Aches and bulges at its seams.
The walls are dripping, with condensation slipping,
A thousand and one coagulated conversations.
Inch deep dust years of hair ‘n’ skin ‘n’ mourning ‘n’ celebrations.

And, for what its worth, Mother’s in little land are so happy when the men folk are heard to say,
‘No news is good news’, in little land and they sort of weep a few tears of joy and praise the (fucking) lord they were made in little land.

© Stephen Carley 2012.