Sometimes slight, modest appearing things suddenly get very large in volume
& presence. I am writing of Kit Robinson's "poem" which just arrived in the
mail. Two feather weight pieces of 8.5 x 10" gray paper folded in half,
printed both sides and staple stitched together, complete with a full double
page minimalist piece of art, a grid work by Ericka McConnell, that looks
like a metal grated shop gate slashed with one dark splash of shadow.
Indeed the segments/increments of Kit's work seems so appropriate to the
grid as a format - each poem's space a rectangle somehow connected to the
next one so that the entire sequence becomes a well ordered screen though
which some sense of completed order finds its resonance.
I leave a sample "increment", one of fourteen:
The Smallest Increment
Writing, as running, an exercise for the breath. A way of
engaging time. Lest time take all away.
A physical, sensual art, bound into the body, not evidently the
stuff of pure ideation. Rhythm, always of the essence.
Signs that the writer is still awake, attempting something, even
Though...
The smallest increment, a light or sound, being enough to satisfy,
the impulse to record.
Note lack of verbs. To say that something "does" something
would already be too much.
*
The whole shot is available from:
Tolling Elves
9 The Parade, Upper Brockley Road
London SE4 1SX
[log in to unmask]
It's actually a subscription series:
6 issues pounds 12/ $25
12 issues pounds 20 / $40
Your occasional roaming critic here,
Stephen Vincent
|