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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...

The peculiar thing was that Astrid appeared exactly as she did on screen She was neither taller nor shorter Her smile had the same stretched quality, as if it had been worn thin from overuse She seemed less like a star and more like one of her movie roles, a beautiful but otherwise normal woman who swore in traffic and ate takeout in bed Jenny tried to imagine how she would describe this moment to her brother The house was large and the drive was gated The leaves of the terracotta-potted ficus trees looked glossier and more recently watered than the ones outside Jenny’s own small house But the light that hit Astrid’s face was no spotlight The same sun was jerking sweat from Jenny’s forehead   ‘Jenny Narahashi, the Japanese tutor,’ Jenny said Strictly speaking, Jenny was not a tutor — she was a translator The fee was generous, but that wasn’t why Jenny was here She was doing this for her brother Franklin had been the sort of movie geek who, unprompted, informed strangers that to shoot Barry Lyndon, Kubrick used the low light lenses NASA designed for the dark side of the moon   What would he make of the soft pucker of Astrid’s eyebrows as she peered at Jenny? There was something disorientating about being so close to someone famous It was disorienting Jenny needed a moment to make sure that Astrid was not recoiling but stepping back to let Jenny inside   The kitchen, like its owner, was almost too normal A stained mug loitered in the sink The fridge was magnet-poxed The countertops were marble; but whether it was Egyptian, French or Tunisian, Jenny couldn’t tell   The boy sat on a barstool at the kitchen island He had a child’s slouch and a leading man’s designer sunglasses balancing on styled hair So this was her prospective tutee, drinking Italian mineral water The glass bottle dripped green light onto the white counter-top   ‘Marlow, Jenny,’ said Astrid ‘Jenny, Marlow’ Jenny supposed movie stars didn’t have to ask to use your first name ‘The Japanese tutor, the one who translates Dinowhatever’ Astrid paused  The kid rolled

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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Art

June 2013

Ghosts and Relics: The Haunting Avant-Garde

John Douglas Millar

Art

June 2013

‘The avant-garde can’t be ignored, so to ignore it – as most humanist British novelists do – is the...

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May 2011

Short Cuts

Charles Boyle

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May 2011

1.. Whatever it is that the literature department of Arts Council England (ACE) is for, it can’t be for...

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September 2013

Seiobo There Below

László Krasznahorkai

TR. Ottilie Mulzet

fiction

September 2013

1 KAMO-HUNTER Everything around it moves, as if just this one time and one time only, as if the...

 

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