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Rose McLaren

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.



Articles Available Online


Talk Into My Bullet Hole

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July 2015

Rose McLaren

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July 2015

‘Someday people are going to read about you in a story or a poem. Will you describe yourself for those people?’ ‘Oh, I don’t...

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May 2014

Art Does Not Know a Beyond: On Karl Ove Knausgaard

Rose McLaren

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May 2014

Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle has an oddly medieval form: a cycle, composed of six auto-biographical books about the...

She had performed alone in the past, lunging at Patriarch Kirill, but on the morning of this protest, her heart was racing She placed an iron stave in a tote bag, covering it with a scarf She had on a grey hooded sweatshirt and a jacket which she planned to pull open, but otherwise wore no costume Yana Zhdanova finds the trappings of Femen protests – flower crowns, impasto make-up – unnecessary when their message is already clear Half an hour before Yana was due to leave, Oxana Shachko called to say she wouldn’t be able to come Alone, in a rush, Yana used a mirror to write Kill Putin on her chest, not realising she had it the wrong way around, a mirror image She ran to the bathroom and vomited   On the Métro, she observed the people around her To them, she thought, I look calm Calm duly settled over her As she walked through the Musée Grevin on 5 June, 2014, Yana felt a sense of inevitability She arrived earlier than she had planned and wandered through a children’s exhibition, failing to meditate Finally, she made her way to the waxwork of Vladimir Putin It referred to a version of the Russian president with a shock of blond hair and a thinner face; the focus of its blue eyes was unusually soft Putin stood amongst an improbable congress of world leaders The walls, carpet, and curtains flanking them were red and plush, like the inside of a jewellery box Yana was still ten minutes early, but the photojournalists she’d called were in position   She opened her jacket, drew the stave, screamed in English ‘Fuck dictator’, and stabbed the waxwork in the chest She had assumed the base was firmly connected to the floor, but the statue toppled to the ground, the head collapsing into fragments strewn on the carpet like a cracked egg She had expected the museum guards to stop her, but now realised that they weren’t going to, not until she was through They found her frightening, they would tell her afterwards Improvising, she straddled the statue, balancing

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren

Contributor

August 2014

Rose McLaren is an artist in London.

The Prosaic Sublime of Béla Tarr

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Issue No. 6

Rose McLaren

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Issue No. 6

I have to recognise it’s cosmical; the shit is cosmical. It’s not just social, it’s not just ontological, it’s really huge. And that’s why we...
Stalker, Writer or Professor? Geoff Dyer's Zona and Genre

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February 2012

Rose McLaren

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February 2012

‘So what kind of a writer am I, reduced to writing a summary of a film?’ wonders Geoff Dyer half way through Zona. Such...

READ NEXT

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April 2017

The White Review Short Story Prize 2017 Shortlist (UK & Ireland)

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April 2017

  click on the title to read the story   A Journey Through Famous by Kanye West by Liam...

Interview

July 2014

Interview with Geoff Dyer

Tom Overton

Interview

July 2014

‘I’ve always believed that an artist is someone who turns everything that happens to him to his advantage’, Geoff...

fiction

January 2016

By the River

Esther Kinsky

TR. Martin Chalmers

fiction

January 2016

  For Aljoscha   ST LAWRENCE SEAWAY   Under my finger the map, this quiet pale blue of the...

 

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