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Orlando Reade

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette Yiadom-Boakye can be read in The White Review No. 13.



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Wildness of the Day

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December 2016

Orlando Reade

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December 2016

One day in late 2011, waiting outside Green Park station, my gaze was drawn to an unexpected sight. Earlier that year a canopy of...

Interview

Issue No. 13

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

Orlando Reade

Interview

Issue No. 13

Modern philosophy is threatened by love, whose objects are never only objects. Philosophers have discovered in love a lived...

 1 PhD   Blue bedroom, Grandma’s house, Aigburth, Liverpool   I gave birth to one hundred thousand words Tessellated, affectless, still   I was in a pair of stirrups, draped in black Behind me were cascades of water and municipal marble, people sitting inanimately I printed me out on acetate for the overhead projector   Vagabond pronunciation, vigilant renunciation, off with her head   Brashness and redness and badness and rudeness and leaving and wasting and waste   Fat lowly bearable extrapolation, fine gradations of change   Grandma came in and turned the big light on, offered photographs Women in terracotta silk, cars parked outside garage doors, Mum shoving an apple in Jeremy’s mouth She put a cup of Douwe Egbert’s on the side Was I sad because I wanted a boyfriend? I turned away, rinsed in salt     Hornsey, London   Matthew was in the kitchen, glancing with accusation at a Bolognese tidemark in the sink His grey jogging bottoms were tucked under his heels, nestling in his arches He switched off the little lights underneath the kitchen cupboards and turned it into the sort of conversation that is a prelude to an unlit room I don’t like those sorts of conversation He wished me luck   On the train a little boy was talking at his dad, who was thumbing his screen with maniacal grace They started a game of what five things the little boy would put in his supermarket basket Cucumber, ice cream, tomato, all the puddings, and trifle   Lunch with Paul He kneaded his sandwich with his fingers It was doughy and airless at the perimeters and the butter and salmon fattened into triangular pouches, a sophisticated solution to refrigerated bread His teeth were translucent   We spoke for ninety minutes, the foetus on my lap He gave me a gift, his book I asked him if he wanted to sign it My cheeks were hot Let me look at it No I need to see it No Can’t you blog it?     Rose’s, Bristol   We went to a café in the rain Children ate sausages from Falcon enamel The goats at the petting zoo had their horns zapped off If Rose were an animal she would be a fox Not

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade

Contributor

August 2014

Orlando Reade is writing a Ph.D. on English poetry and cosmology in the seventeenth century. His interview with Lynette...

Life outside the Manet Paradise Resort : On the paintings of Lynette Yiadom-Boakye

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November 2012

Orlando Reade

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November 2012

*   A person is represented, sitting in what appears to be the banal and conventional pose of a high street studio portrait photographer:...

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Interview

June 2015

Interview with Moyra Davey

Hannah Gregory

Interview

June 2015

One way to think about Moyra Davey’s way of working across photography, film and text is in terms of...

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Issue No. 7

Comment is Fraught: A Polemic

Mr Guardianista

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Issue No. 7

When not listening to the phone messages of recently deceased children or smearing those killed in stadium disasters, journalists...

Art

December 2011

James Richards: Not Blacking Out...

Chris Newlove Horton

Art

December 2011

Artist James Richards appropriates audio-visual material gathered from a range of sources, which he then edits into elaborate, fragmented...

 

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