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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...

But how could anyone have known? Known or believed that even now, nearly three decades since your sister’s death from aggressive breast cancer at her tender age of forty-one, that remembering it today would feel so eviscerating even now, in the present day? It wouldn’t have been possible for anyone who knew you back then, as someone who often smiled a great deal (even if sometimes clearly disingenuously), and who laughed and joked frequently (though the jokes rarely succeeded) that such fierce remembering, forced through the guts, would have the power and stamina even now to clench itself so painfully in the chest   The chest and heart: exactly where your sister still really is, while on this earth she absolutely no longer is, and for a long time now hasn’t been Your only sibling (Even now it’s a little easier if you don’t write her name) On that rainy Sunday afternoon back in 1991, after receiving the news over the telephone of her sudden and unexpected death after so many years of her combating that pre-menopausal cancer, did you really believe that you’d someday still feel this angry? (And this furious at God or whomever, and this prepared to rip apart the world with your bare hands… yet in spite of so much shaking of your fist in God’s sometimes cruel face, and even daring to spit at His face, risking the palpable threat of eternal damnation, you somehow managed to remain a faithful Catholic… even a sincerely penitent one, even when scorned by agnostic and atheist friends for what they viewed as possession of a ludicrous faith) Your slack-jawed gaze upon learning of her death aside, could you have believed that such rage, that kind that burns in the bowels and really does taste worse than shit, could have endured for so long?    But how did it endure so long? How, in a world of so many more important things, a world filled with the most hideous tragedies? A world of wars that even when they eventually end (fortunately not always in a mushroom cloud) invariably begin again; the

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

October 2013

Steam

Jon Stone

poetry

October 2013

Steam in the changing rooms, stripping off after the race, breathes like an engine. The air is filled up...

Art

September 2014

Semi Floating Sculpture

Luke Hart

Patrick Langley

Art

September 2014

Luke Hart will meet me at Gate 7. I get the text on the DLR, heading east past Canary...

Art

July 2014

Operation Paperclip

Naomi Pearce

Patrick Goddard

Art

July 2014

‘I began at this point to feel that politics was not something “out there” but something “in here” and of...

 

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