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How Led Canvas Wall Art Is Going To Change Your Business Strategies | Led Canvas Wall Art

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A admirable landscape, block patterns and abstruse designs — the lockdown has led bodies to analyze their aesthetic side. So abundant so, our Instagram feeds accept been amphibian with pictures of Bollywood celebrities unleashing their close Picasso with acclamation of art. And like them, abounding bodies accept added angry appear sketching, painting or appearance to accord with abreast blues.

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With aberrant times, cursory joys, alike in acute circumstances, generally appear through art therapy. Anita Gautam, analyst says, “In this time of crisis and isolation, the role of art becomes added axial to our lives, whether we apprehend it or not. Art analysis is application person’s adroitness and aesthetic adjustment to advice in ambidextrous cerebral problems. It releases absolute endorphins, abatement accent hormones in academician and advice able blast of affections to abstain depression, anxiety, agitation attacks, etc.”

Shrikant G Poddar drew a account of asleep amateur Irrfan Khan as a accolade to his life.

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Shrikant G Poddar, accomplished arts assistant adds, “Art analysis puts all your accent into the appropriate place. Art has no boundaries and that’s the adorableness of this form. You can acrylic your apple on a allotment of paper, and you don’t accept to be exact about it.”

The artlessness of colouring has fabricated abounding booty it up. Srishti Khare, a abecedary says, “I took to art during lockdown as it helped allay my stress. It gave me wings to fly abroad through imaginations.”

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The best of colours can accomplish a huge appulse on one’s brainy accompaniment and affect those who watch it. Neeti Banga, a assistant at NIFT Delhi says, “It connects the artist’s apperception and body and makes them relax. Art creates absolute accordance in the world.”

Derryl Daniel’s artwork blue-blooded Light as a Feather which she drew during lockdown

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For some, growing up meant amusing break from their painting pursuits. The lockdown however, fabricated them acquisition their long-lost love. Derryl Daniel, administrator shares, “Just alert to coronavirus updates fabricated me fatigued so my ancestor asked me to alpha abstraction to alter myself from all the negativity. I hadn’t done art back academy but now every day I deathwatch up with a anticipation of creating article new.” Echoing the sentiment, Bhavishya Diswar, a additional year apprentice of bachelors in amusing assignment says, “I had abandoned how huge a accent buster art is, until lockdown happened. Now I am alert to my canvas in my house.”

People draw not because they could, but because it heals them. Sunanda Basu Mallik, a 10th chic apprentice from West Bengal says, “One day I kept all my art food hidden and out of sight, because was fed up with myself, alone to acquisition myself appetite to authority that besom again. It gave me immense pleasure. That day I absolutely accepted

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Masterpiece (Artist!Laurens x Artist!Reader)

Request from the sweet Anon: Could you possibly do a John Lauren's Imagine? Where the reader has to get a drawing project done that night and they're super stressed but Lauren's is there to help, if not that's ok! ^^"

Words: 2,113

“No… No… No! Dammit!!”

John looked up from cooking lunch for him and his girlfriend to the sound of crashing coming from down the hall of their apartment. He turned off the heat on the stove and made his way to their little studio.

Both John and (Name) were artists, having met each other at a gallery two years ago, it was love at first sight.

But they didn’t fall in love when they saw each other in person, it wasn’t that simple for the two of them.

They fell in love with each other’s work.

John had a knack for photorealism, his paintings always looked like they could just pop off the canvas and walk around. (Name), on the other hand, was very talented in the art of impressionism. Her brush strokes were so delicate, in every single painting she made. The two spotting the other’s painting and scoured the gallery in order to give their complements to the artist.

Upon finding each other, they talked until the gallery was closing.

After two years, the couple had been working together, living together, and sharing studio space with each other. Neither could be happier… Except when (Name) ran into one of her many ruts.

Every artist falls into a sort of state where they can’t do what they love without hating it. There was a point where John couldn’t paint a single piece without getting angry and throwing the canvas at the wall. That led to many nights on the couch with (Name), watching movies after having patched up the hole he put into the wall.

(Name), however, had episodes of artist's block very often. She wouldn’t even be able to bring herself to look at her works in progress because she didn’t think they could be finished. She didn’t think that her art was good enough to be exhibited in any gallery or museum. John, on the other hand, was always there to convince her otherwise. (Name)’s paintings, as John thought, belonged in galleries in France, sharing space with paintings like the Mona Lisa, or Luncheon of the Boating Party. He was always there to help her pick her brush back up and continue a piece.

As he popped his head into the doorway of the studio, he spotting his girlfriend sitting on the hardwood floor, her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting on top of them. Her easel was tipped over, and the canvas that had been set up on it was face down on the ground. Her brush and paints were on the floor not too far from where the easel would have been if it stood upright.

The freckled young man stepped into the room, glancing around at the havoc that was their studio. On either side wall were paintings hung, some framed from the galleries that they were exhibited in. In the far corner was a table and cabinet where they kept their supplies; brushes, paints, palettes, whatever. In the other corner were stacks of blank canvases, the couple always kept blank canvases in the studio in case there was a burst of inspiration. The far wall was nothing but a large window that looked out on the bustling streets of New York. (Name) had made a few paintings using their view of the city, but the window was a better source of natural light than anything.

John walked over to (Name), sitting down in front of her. “What’s wrong, (Name)? I thought you were making good progress on this one…”

The young woman sighed, averting her gaze from John’s. “I can’t… I don’t like how it looks.” She answered quietly.

Giving his girlfriend a sympathetic smile, John tipped his head to the side, his brown curls moving as he did so. “Come on, I’m sure it looks beautiful.”

She scoffed. “You would say that.”

He shook his head, moving a hand to cup her cheeks. “I’m saying that because it’s true.” He told her gently. “How many times have I told you that I love one of your pieces, and that piece just so happens got a spot in a gallery?”

(Name)’s eyes rolled at the question. “A few…”

“So what’s wrong with this one?”

She sighed, moving from her spot to her toppled canvas. (Name) turned it over, looking back at John to motion him to come over.

Upon moving to stand over his girlfriend, John immediately recognized the picture she was painting. It was a portrait of a beach at Montauk It was a view of the stony beach with grass, water, and the lighthouse. John and (Name) went with a couple of their friends last summer, Alexander and his wife Eliza, Lafayette, Hercules, and Eliza’s younger sister Peggy. Angelica was sad that she missed it, but she was studying abroad at London at the time. Eliza and Peggy’s family owned a cabin at Montauk, so the group of friends took a weekend out there to just get away from the city.

“Why don’t you like this? I think it looks amazing.” John spoke, his hand moving to touch the edge of the canvas.

“I… I feel like it’s missing something, John.” She answered. “I mean, sure it has the beach, the grass, and the lighthouse… But it’s still missing something!”

John gave his girlfriend a sympathetic smile, moving to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Do you want to take a break?” He asked. “You can get away from it for a little bit while we eat lunch… We could watch a movie while we eat.”

She looked from her canvas to him, still looking unconvinced.

“If you say no I am going to pick you up and take you to the couch myself.” He warned. “I worked hard on lunch.”

A faint smile worked its way onto (Name)’s lips. John wasn’t the best cook, he wasn’t the worst, not at all… He just could use a little work. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

John and (Name) had settled on the couch, sitting close to each other while eating the meal that John had made. Sauteed chicken and vegetables. He didn’t cut the vegetables small enough, really, but everything was cooked thoroughly. They had decided on a movie.

La La Land.

“Okay, I get that it’s a really sweet story, but the ending just ruins it all for me.” John sighed, leaning his head against his girlfriend’s shoulder. “Just, that whole dream sequence of Sebastian and Mia being together. It made me hope so much!”

(Name) let out a laugh. “Yeah… It is sad, when you think about it.” She agreed. “Seeing what could have been with someone that you left behind after you reach your dreams.”

John sighed, setting his empty plate down on the table in front of the two and wrapped his arms around his girlfriend. “Makes me glad that I’ve achieved my dreams, with the one I want to be with.”

The woman’s cheeks flushed red before laughing bashfully, leaning her head against John’s. “God, you are such a sap.”

“I’m your sap.” He responded, turning and pressing a quick kiss against (Name)’s lips.

She smiled into the kiss, pulling away for a moment and letting out a contented sigh. “How is it that you always know how to make me feel better when I’m going through an art block?”

“Because you’re able to help me when I’m having trouble… Since you’re able to help me, I ought to be able to help you.” He answered, moving a hand to gently cup his girlfriend’s soft cheek. “After all, not only am I returning the favor… I get to spend more time with you.”

(Name) leaned into her boyfriend’s touch, enjoying the feeling of the warmth of his calloused hand against her skin. To think he could have followed in his father’s footsteps and become a lawyer. Not only would John probably have been such a different person. The two would never have even met.

“John?” She asked softly.

“Hm?”

“Do you really think I have what it takes to be an artist?” She inquired her soft (e/c) eyes meeting his deep amber orbs.

He quirked a brow at her question. “Of course I do, (Name). You know I do.” He told her, bringing his other hand to cup her other cheek so that he was holding her face. “I have always thought you were an amazing artist, and no matter what happens, I’m always gonna be here for you… Even if that means cheering you up when you have a case of art block.”

The woman felt a smile creep onto her lips as she leaned forward to press a kiss to her boyfriend’s lips. “You’re wonderful.” She murmured softly

“Thanks for noticing.” He answered with a small grin

Once again, (Name) sat in front of her painting in order to try and give it the finishing touches that it needed… Only she couldn’t.

And what made it worse, John was out so he wasn’t there to help.

A frustrated sigh left (Name) as she fisted her hair in order to try and think of what else her painting needed. Sure, it looked pretty, she followed the scenery of the New York beach right to the picture, but it just seemed empty. As if it were missing something.

After a few more minutes of giving her painting a mean stare, (Name) moved away from it in order to try and clear her head. As she got further away from her easel, she moved closer to the paintings that hung on the wall of the studio.

She couldn’t help but smile at John’s old pieces, and sometimes even her own. There was always a nice sense of nostalgia whenever (Name) looked up at the hanging pieces, each of them holding a memory from the past.

Soon, (Name)’s eyes settled on a painting that John had painted specifically for her. It was a dark scene of a figure walking down a rainy sidewalk, holding an umbrella over their head. He had painted it when (Name)’s beloved grandfather had passed almost two years prior. The girl was inconsolable, but John still remained by her side to be her shoulder to cry on.

John had a habit of painting her pieces whenever a certain event had been occurring in either of their lives. She found one of a woman standing at an open window that overlooked the New York City skyline. He made that for (Name) when she and her friend had gotten into a fight. There was another one of a beach where a sea turtle was emerging from the water. He painted that one after (Name)’s first beach portrait had won an exhibition spot.

So many fond memories were painted into each piece, and (Name) couldn’t help but smile at the thought of John and how wonderful he could be.

She turned back to her painting, biting her lip as she walked towards the canvas and picked up her brush once more.

She was going to finish this painting.

She was going to turn it in to the gallery to be presented.

She was going to make sure that John saw it, and loved it.

The two artists walked hand in hand through the museum, looking around at the vast gallery of paintings.

“There are some interesting concepts here, babe.” John spoke, looking down at (Name) as she was glancing at a portrait.

She nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it’s always nice to see new talent popping up.”

John smiled down at her. “So, you got your painting handed in, right?”

The woman grinned. “Yep, last minute, but it’s hanging up somewhere.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” John questioned, his own grin coming to his face. “We gotta find it!”

(Name) let out a laugh as John pulled her through the hall, easily evading other people as they searched the walls for the painting that (Name) had antagonized over.

Finally, after what seemed like a solid twenty minutes, John stopped at an alcove and stared at the painting that hung on the white wall.

It was (Name)’s painting, of course. The lighthouse and rocky shore were definitely hers… But there was some extra detail to the piece that he hadn’t seen before.

Walking along the shore was a couple, a man and a woman, holding each other’s hand as they both walked along the shore. The freckled artist of course noticed the physic of the couple, making note of the man’s long mess of curls and the familiar frame of his beloved (Name). John looked down at (Name), who was waiting anxiously to hear his opinion.

“Well?” She asked softly, biting her lip. “What do you think?”

He looked back at the painting, giving her hand a squeeze before looking back down at her. “A masterpiece.” He answered simply with a wide smile.

[rebeccadunne]

Your Chroma

by Sinead Gleeson from the latest edition of essential Irish literary journal Gorse

I

How does it start? The black of pre-consciousness, the pink

of uterine breaths, the red highways of arteries, splayed.

The beginning is red.

II

Fly over

This country

Of the body.

A spy photographer

On an aerial loop.

There is

breast and

brain and

bladder and

bowel.

Begin the descent to bone.

Dive into fissures of marrow,

To the source,

The red and white cells

of the blood.

Canada,

Japan,

Poland,

Peru.

Venal Vexillology.

III

To put down words about the body—medical, biological,

anatomical—is to present the body as fact. Its being in the

world—a being ‘being’—is irrefutable.

IV

There is a photo of you. Your child body in a red dress at

a trout farm, the brown glitter of a fish wriggling on the

end of the rod’s line. You smile for the camera, and avoid

looking at the bubble of blood at its mouth. Its red gasps.

V

‘Colour is consciousness itself, colour is feeling,’ said William

Gass, who prioritised blue above red. Blue, he writes, is ‘most

suitable as the colour of interior life.’ Blue, above corporeal

red? What was he thinking?

VI

How do we decide this interior colour? We are one colour in

life, another in death; one in youth, another in old age; one

in sickness, another in good health. We channel Yves Klein

and create a new shade for the interior. A born again hue.

VII

Because of his synaesthesia, Wassily Kandinsky associated

colours with shapes, and sounds. For him, red was a square,

the ‘sound of a loud drum beat.’

VIII

Repeat red over and over—red red red red red red red red

red red red red red red red red red red red red red red red

red red red red red—and it’s a hum, a drill, a drumroll. It is

also not-blue, not-green, not-black, not-white.

IX

In the Tate, Rothko’s reds are dreamlike, hazy around

the edges. Are they on the canvas or under it, bleeding

through?

X

In an old cinema, long closed down, we watched Derek

Jarman’s Blue. I’m curious about his choice of colour, but

don’t question his motivation to use blue. In his book Chroma,

he says: ‘I know my colours are not yours. Two colours are

never the same, even if they’re from the same tube.’ I think

of his eyes and his failing sight. To be a person who has

spent their life looking, photographing, regarding—and

now cannot see.

XI

You are both redheads, and tell me you like to mark this

by taking photos of the backs of your heads. You do this

in special places. Howth pier, the Cliffs of Moher, various

lighthouses.

XII

There is a black and white photo in a local newspaper,

dating from the 1930s. It’s creased, and heavily pixelated,

with that old photo blur. But it’s him, Red Con. This is the

only photo we’ve tracked down. I’ve never met him, nor has

my father, but we are related. I descend from red hair.

XIII

If blue, as Gass argues, is the colour of interior life, this

makes red a colour of the exterior. But red is the body. Red

is blood, organs, tendons, the red elements:

Rashes

Hives

Sores

The raised bridge of a new scar

Platelets working on the crust of a cut

The speckle of heat rash, like pebbles on the bed of a

stream.

XIV

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge in a convertible,

sucking in cool Californian air, they argue about the shade

of the steel. Red. Scarlet. Terracotta. Red again, some

consensus. Circular talk of colour under the shadow of

heavy cables, but he knows the bridge’s shade is officially

called ‘International Orange.’ The company that makes the

paint sells a cheaper version called ‘Fireweed.’ He takes this

as a sign to roll a joint and tells his friends that 98% of

people who jump into the bay don’t survive. Those who do

always have the same injuries: broken vertebrae, smashed

ribs, punctured lungs.

XV

You say tomato

I say blood

You say traffic light

I say muscle

You say fire engine

I say vein

XVI

LITTLE

Across the woods, basket swinging on a girlish arm, she

weaves off the path to pick flowers. Hood as protector—

stay hidden, girl, cover yourself up—in a tocsin shade of red.

Anti-camouflage. Here I am, come and get me! it says. And so

the wolf did.

RED

Get up! Her mother pulls the blanket off her teenage bed.

Take this to your granny, and wear your hood, it’s cold. The girl

is menstrual, cramped, innards torn. Her mother relents,

returning with a hot water bottle, and a box of Feminax.

There is a wolf in her womb, and she placates it with hot,

vulcanised rubber and codeine.

RIDING

The girl remarks on the size of her grandmother’s ears, eyes,

and teeth, failing to notice the lupine mouth, the rich pelt,

the cross-dressing, the anthropomorphic imposter in the

bed.

HOOD

In the belly of the wolf, she is safe. She cannot be eaten again.

Consumption saves her from more (male) consumption.

Stay hidden girl. Belly as cave.

XVII

Fairytales are always about women’s bodies. Rapunzel’s hair

and Sleeping Beauty’s somnolent face and Snow White

choking and Cinderella dancing with glass-slippered feet.

XVIII

Not glass slippers, but her aunt buys her red clogs, the first

shoes she ever loves. The heavy wooden stomp on the

concrete of the street, the scarlet curve of the leather a

possibility. She learns that women are meant to wear heels;

that heels appear to lengthen a woman’s leg, to accentuate

her calf, to make her more attractive. She decides she will

only wear clogs, or no shoes at all.

XVIX

Four women in black body con dresses gyrate to a 1980s

song. Robert Palmer, dressed like someone’s office manager

dad rolls through Addicted to Love. The women are heavily

made up, their eye shadow a palette of storm-cloud colours,

but it’s their lipstick I’m obsessed with: my mother’s matt

pinks and creamy browns having nothing on this. This red is

a declaration of war. The gloss is so high it looks like glass.

I practise on my lips with saliva. The models are arranged

democratically, two either side of Palmer. The only contrast

in uniformity is their faces and length of their dresses. Their

whiteness is a shock, the scraped-back hair severe. These

porcelain-faced, storm-eyed she-tomatons are part homage

to Art Deco painter Patrick Nagel’s women. The shock and

sheen of their scarlet lips is the only thing that interrupts their

monochrome faces. Is it because it’s the ’80s that the scene

is so homogenous, so lacking in multiculturalism? White

bodies the epitome of capitalism, even in pop music.

XX

How should we present our face to the world?

How should we present our (female) face to the world?

Make-upped, pore-blocked in shades of ivory and sand.

Brow-arched, lash-lacquered, glitter-lidded. Branded by

brands.

XXI

We used to paint our lips with whale blubber, but now it’s

mostly wax and oils. I have yet to find the perfect shade of

red lipstick. Too orange, too ephemeral, too knife slash.

XXII

I once worked as editor of a spa magazine. I wrote dull

copy about acrylic nails and Glycolic peels, and was sent

endless products: emery boards and seaweed unguents,

poultices and tanning sprays; exfoliation aids in wood and

sisal. I interviewed a woman who gave facials with coloured

oils selected for a person’s mood and personality. Part spa

treatment, part mystical woo. In her tiny salon, above a pub,

she told me about oneness and inner beauty, self-examination

and higher powers. After a pause in her well-rehearsed pitch,

she pointed to a fleshy bump on my forehead and said:

Would you not get that removed?

XXIII

In 1967, Irish-born writer Lucy Grealy moved to the US

with her family. Life opened up with possibility, but aged

nine she was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a rare facial

cancer. Grealy endured thirty operations, radiation and

chemotherapy. In Autobiography of a Face, her novelistic

memoir, she writes: ‘This singularity of meaning—I was

my face, I was ugliness—though sometimes unbearable, also

offered a possible point of escape. It became the launching

pad from which to lift off, the one immediately recognisable

place to point to when asked what was wrong with my life.

Everything led to it, everything receded from it—my face as

personal vanishing point.’

XXIV

I have never broken a limb, even if my bones are

troublesome.

I have never needed stitches because of a cut.

I have never exposed my insides except for surgical

wounds.

My skin resealed with metal, paper and thread.

XXV

When my teenage hip started to disintegrate, baffled doctors

kept asking increasingly random questions:

Did you fall?

(Who doesn’t?)

Have you ever been knocked down by a car? (Once, but the driver

was going slow and we lived in a cul-de-sac.)

Have you ever had a tropical disease? (Can you get one from

going to Spain?)

Have you ever been bitten by an animal or strange creature? (I tell

him about Lough Derg.)

XXVI

At Dromineer, Lough Derg was like a beach. I swam out

far from the shore to float in the navy current that skirted

the lake like isobars. Swimming back, I stood when the

water was knee high, and felt a sharp pinch on my foot. It

wasn’t glass, and felt more like a bite, but I couldn’t see what

lurked beneath. I thought of monsters and sea demons, the

creature of the lake. There are not enough horror films set

underwater.

XXVII

A hotel exterior, painted walls, a fleeing woman in a scarlet

coat, the vertical lines of blood on a hanging woman’s legs, a

nosebleed, a trickle from a mouth. In Suspiria, Dario Argento

reminds us that we bleed; that the body is vulnerable—not

just to psychologies and fear—but to knives and violence.

The body is the ultimate horror setting.

XXVIII

I look at the mottled skin at your back as a forensic scientist

examines blood splatter.

XXIX

After major surgery:

I wake up to find my skin yellow and assume this is iodine

or antiseptic used to prep the body for being opened to the

elements.

I wake up to find that this yellow is not an ointment, but

bruising, from the pressure of knives, the kneading of

hands.

I wake up to red and yellow patches, pools of colour, the

body’s semaphore.

I wake up during hip replacement surgery and feel strong

hands shoving, the weight of arms, a rearrangement.

Who’s pushing me? I ask, before the anaesthetist tops up

the spinal block, shoving me back under the waves.

XXX

Arthritis and surgery withered my bones. My left leg is

thinner than the right, full of metal and scars. Frida Kahlo’s

right leg was thinner than her left, a result of childhood polio.

Kahlo painted not just her body, not just pain, but body and

pain united. Exposed spinal columns, a womb that triggered

miscarriages, herself pierced by nails in multiple works. In

her diary, she wrote: ‘I am DISINTEGRATION.’

XXXI

Eventually Kahlo’s leg was amputated below the knee and

in 1953, a year before her death, she had a prosthetic limb

made. A laced-platform boot with Chinese embroidery in

red leather. Red as defiance, and for the body and for all the

blood she’d shed.

XXXII

For nearly three months, I wore a cast that covered most

of me. When it was removed, the skin had piled up, and

looked like wax. The sediment of immobility. Removing it

was like rubbing smudges on a windowpane. I felt like a

snake shedding its skin.

XXXIII

Bones are hard as rock but our edges—skin, lids—are not

shores. The body is an island of sorts, containing several

isthmuses, in the throat, fallopian tube, prostate, thyroid,

urethra, aorta, uterus. Body as outpost, as tidal island.

XXXIV

In Northern Ireland we pass bays and inlets, but also red

phone boxes, red postboxes. Imperial, post-Colonial red.

The red stripe of St George’s flag, many Red Hands of

Ulster.

XXXV

I think of you as though you are a map. Of the contours of

your jaw, the hill of your back, the compass of your arms. I

see them now, at 10 and 2, an almost-Jesus on a cross. I try

to imagine your body at 11:11, or 12:34.

XXXVI

We play The Alphabet Body game and you laugh when I get

Z. What about Zinn’s Zonule? I offer, but you think I’m making

it up. The suspensory ligament holding the crystalline lens

of the eye in place. It’s not immediately tangible; there are

no children’s flash cards like there are for eye or mouth.

Zygomatic Bone you say, and ask me its location. It sounds like

zygote, so I guess it is uterine or cervical. I’ll answer by kissing

you there you say, and brush your lips against my cheekbone.

XXXVII

After the birth of my daughter, by C-section, my husband

said he looked up at the wrong time and saw my intestines.

The operating theatre floor looked like a murder had been

committed. And you were red too on the outside, viscous

and slippery as albumen, but your skin was blue, your lungs

working to inflate.

XXXVIII

After the birth of my son, he weighs no more than a couple

of bags of sugar, but I cannot pick him up. A new pain

in my wrist is intense, and feels close to the surface, like

someone tipping a scalding cup over it. I take a glass lift five

floors to see a man who will fix it. De Quervain’s Syndrome,

he says. Can you get it from lifting babies, who are light,

almost not there? Two tendons wrap around each other in a

red embrace. One surgical slit with a scalpel, like a ribbon-

cutting ceremony and it will be free. This injury is also called

Washerwoman’s Sprain (not Washerman’s).

XXXIX

The patron saint of childbirth, St. Margaret of Antioch, was

a committed virgin. Tortured for her faith, her flesh slashed

with nails, she was given the title after an encounter with

a dragon. The creature swallowed her whole, so Margaret

made the sign of the cross and promptly burst out of its

stomach, Alien-style. (Film critic Mark Kermode once said

that Alien is a film about male fear of childbirth).

XL

I know a girl with Rosacea, which makes me think of

‘Rosary,’ not red. The skin is affected with papules and

pustules, reminding me of holy beads. I love these words

for awful things, and the galaxy of red under the moons of

her eyes.

XLI

You do not own your body if you live in this country. Your

womb is not under your control. Legislation owns your

ovaries. Lawyers lay claim to your fallopian tubes. The

government pays stamp duty on your cervix.

XLII

Tick tock, women’s body clocks.

Have a baby even though you’re not ready.

Have a baby when you can’t afford a home.

Have a baby when you’ve been raped.

Have a baby because you can’t afford the airfare to London

or Liverpool.

Have a baby between twenty and thirty-four, it’s the optimum

fertility window, they

keep

reminding

us.

The ticking of ovaries, your body as timepiece, swinging on

a chain.

XLIII

Heads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

Or

HIPS! TITS! LIPS! POWER! (REPEAT)

XLIV

Once you enter the medical system, there are rooms and

hospital numbers, blue disposable gowns and Styrofoam

cups. There are people speaking—always speaking—asking

questions, taking details. The body you think of as yours

is not private. It is in the system, on charts, in operating

theatres. Your body needs to take the lift to x-ray. Your body

needs to drink more fluids. Your body needs to come back

in three months. Your body is ours.

XLV

Just before her lumpectomy, photographer Jo Spence wrote

on her left breast: Property of Jo Spence? The question mark is

defiant and panic-stricken. The need to hold on to this part

of herself. To assert autonomy, even over the toxic growth

in her chest. To have a say in her own medical life. Later,

post-lumpectomy, Spence is photographed in profile, breast

puckered and scarred. Wearing a crash helmet, the image is

uncompromising. Come at me, it says.

XLVI

In the hospital, you are not supposed to use your hands.

In the bathroom, toilets flush and taps spill and blue

paper towels dispense with the wave of a sensor. Germs,

cleanliness, DO NOT TOUCH. The ward is a bubble,

confined and contained, and I feel like Margaret Atwood’s

‘Girl Without Hands.’

No one can enter that circle

you have made, that clean circle

of dead space you have made

and stay inside,

mourning because it is clean.*

XLVII

He used to give himself stigmata. Burning the hollow of his

hand with cigarettes. Pressing the red sieve tip into his heart

line, head line, life line. This is for you, he said, but I know it

connected him to himself.

XLVIII

The Catholic Church’s list of notable stigmatics is comprised

mostly of women, including St. Catherine of Siena. Born in

the mid-fourteenth century, she believed she was married

to Jesus, and that her (invisible) wedding ring was made of

his foreskin. Her stigmatic wounds were visible only to her,

and she suffered from anaemia. Every day, she fasted and

engaged in self-flagellation until she drew blood. In one of

many letters to her confessor, Raymond of Capua, she spoke

of a vision where she leads her followers into the wound in

Christ’s side, guiding an army into his blood.

XLIX

My birthday is the anniversary of the death of St. Ignatius

Loyola. Once a soldier, he was shot through the hip,

shattering his leg. I’ve never gone to war or been beatified.

L

There is no redness in death. Maybe this is where William

Gass’ interior blue comes in. But the body turns many

colours at the end: white, grey, blue, purple, a tinge of green.

The body spent and stopped and still is not red.

But when will the red stop?

When will I die?

  When will you?

[wallpaperpainting]

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Curriculum vitaeHis ancestor was the bottle adept František Xaver Riedel (1786-1844) and his mother Josefina Weberová (1808-1882). He was their third child, but his ancestor had three added daughters from his antecedent marriage. [4]In 1851 he advised in engineering, but he advised painting in the flat of Maximilian Haushofer (1811-1866) from 1852 to 1856. After admission from Prague, he connected his studies at Andreas Achenbach’s clandestine academy in Düsseldorf, breadth he spent four years. He again catholic to Italy, breadth he visited Rome, Tivoli, Campagno or Agrigento, and was aggressive by his landmarks, which were again a common affection of his paintings. Riedel’s abutting cruise led to France in 1864, breadth he visited Paris, Fontainebleau, the breadth about the River Seine, the boondocks of Barbizon, Brittany or the Channel Islands. [4]In 1870 he alternate to Bohemia and acclimatized in Prague. Too generally he did not leave and catholic from actuality mainly to his mother’s aggregation for alleviative cures to the Czech spa in Karlovy Vary, Dubi or Teplice. It was added and added afflicted by tuberculosis, which prevented him from alive too much. He died at the age of 44 for a medical break in Kundratia. His burial took abode in Liberec on June 14, 1876.

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