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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...

In the morning, the square was white Voula’s hair was white A pigeon on a bronze horse shifted, sent snow down a flank the colour of Voula’s hair as it had been yesterday The girls at the factory were stumped They searched her locker for the necessary products They touched their heads and snapped at each other Their hair remained the colour of the bronze horses defending the square They distinguished themselves by minor differences in length and thickness There were those with fringes and those without They bought special tonics from daughters-in-law and dentists and women who spent their working days sat at bus stops staring at the pavements Tonics were expensive and they hadn’t the heart to tell each other that it made no difference  The factory air flattened and thinned their hair How did Voula manage it? Nothing stayed white in this square for long, except the square itself She had arrived slightly later than the other girls, this morning They had been seated at their machines when she entered, smiling widely, blaming the snow She took her place in the corner, her back to the other girls, her white bob standing for the whole of her head Their eyes watched it while their hands fed what would become the white sleeves of men’s shirts through the machines When the girls returned from lunch, her machine was empty Half a sleeve They were as worried as they were triumphant One of them peered into the office of the supervisor, who sat vacantly running a screwdriver through his flat, thin hair ‘Voula has had an emergency,’ he answered, before she could ask ‘I have given her the afternoon off’ And then: ‘She had the necessary papers’ She explained everything to her husband He sat in their bedroom a few blocks from the factory, listening to the horses running through the radio She had woken up earlier than usual She had left the flat quietly and walked through the streets The sun had not been quite ready She passed the supermarket and the chemist and a shop selling

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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September 2014

Missing Footage

Raphael Rubinstein

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September 2014

The discovery of absences (lacks, lacunae) and their definition must in turn lead the filmmaker as composer to the...

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October 2015

War is Easy, Peace is Hard

Alexander Christie-Miller

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October 2015

At around midday on 19 July, Koray Türkay boarded a bus in Istanbul and set off for the Syrian...

Interview

Issue No. 14

Interview with Hal Foster

Chris Reitz

Interview

Issue No. 14

HAL FOSTER’S WORK FOLLOWS in the tradition of the modernist art critic-historian, a public intellectual whose reflection on, and...

 

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