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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...

On a pale marble fountain in Dubrovnik, I posed I pretended I too was a stone figure, water gushing from my smooth, full breasts A focal point in a crowded square of coffee drinkers and nuns, radiating from within I couldn’t wait for my vision of a woman to emerge In my grandmother’s wooded garden, I wore my red plaid dress backwards, playing at having a bust, three buttons undone My collarbones would be something beautiful, I knew Like me, my friends rehearsed womanhood One friend would lead me to her mother’s closet and pull out the silks and laces for us to wear Another drew a brassiere, stockings and garters on her Barbie doll Barbie and Ken slept naked I pressed them together and held them still I imagined this cool, dry embrace was the path to ecstasy The hair jarred me out of this fantasy I was dreaming in the dusk of a blanket fort, my arm behind my head Springing from my underarm was crooked, pale brown wire I felt too old for my t-shirt – painted birds in puffed, bright colours If I ignored the strands, would they disappear? My first menstruation came on Easter Sunday And the next at Christmas Then again at Easter, Christmas and in some years at high summer I felt connected to something great, God or otherwise, yet wanted nothing to do with the blood I wanted only to be an effigy Now, I tried to will it away I thought the dry time between bleeding meant I was succeeding ** My father and I hiked up the hill behind our house, past where the fires burned, past the horse stalls, past the fire roads and to the strip mall where I took karate lessons I felt strong, free, free again Free as one can only feel in suburban Los Angeles when one realises it is possible to live without a car I loved my breasts, small, nonetheless there, my strong legs The way the fabric clung to me, the yellow dust and sweat on my skin My

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...

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poetry

September 2014

Breath-Manifester & Drones

Ned Denny

poetry

September 2014

Breath-Manifester   Each bared morning is a swell time to die, Leaving the town’s ornate maze for the level...

poetry

August 2016

No Holds Barred

Rodrigo Rey Rosa

TR. Brian Hagenbuch

poetry

August 2016

Hello. Dr Rivers’ clinic? Thank you. Yes. Yes, doctor, I would like to be your patient. With your permission,...

Interview

October 2013

Interview with Nick Goss

James Cahill

Interview

October 2013

Nick Goss has emerged in recent years as one of the UK’s most feted young painters. Evoking indistinct places...

 

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