Friday, 7 November 2008
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Monday, 3 November 2008
Monday, 27 October 2008
A new brief was given out on Friday 24th October and once again the Landscape students all trundled gleefully down to Greenhithe.
It was an incredibly bright day. I took the opportunity to photograph, catalogue and explore...
Saturday, 25 October 2008
"All the things that dragged me here are tangled up around the pier"
-suffused with an orange glow, bi-sected by the bridge-
smiled its hello.
I ran to greet her, to stretch my aching limbs.
I ran to the prow to steer the ship home.
"SO THIS IS ENGLAND! WONDERFUL, MAGICKAL ENGLAND!"
A solitary Eddie Stobart crawled across the bridge.
My shoe fell in the water. It slipped off.
I, fearing mother's anger,
and engulfed with shame
at arriving in my new country
with one shoe off and one shoe on
Jumped into the dark water..
And so the ship that brought me here
left me tangled up, beneath the pier.
Friday, 17 October 2008
We were provided with three different images from the built environment. Our task was to prepare two designs to fill the gap between two buildings. Whilst we were free to pursue whichever avenues of research we desired- and were expected to record such journeys, alongside initial idesas, in our sketchbooks- the final image had to be produced in photoshop and graphic elements had to be introduced from provided images.
However, these experiments did help to practice some of the techniques picked up in the class.
As has been stated: we were expected to keep a full record of the design processin our sketchbooks- which was assessed alongside our final prints.
The programme of study for Year 1, Term 1 BA Landscape Architecture is composed of the following courses:
Basic Landscape Design
Design and Communication I
Hard and Soft Materials I
Postings relating to assignments will be coded in accordance with the nature of the assignment eg. my work for the Design and Communication photoshop Lab will be posted as
BA LArch DCI- Photoshop Assignment
I will try to post them as I hand them- but please be warned, I will backdate late postings so I have an accurate record of my work!
Thursday, 13 March 2008
They are jingles
snipped passage melody
memories of early childhood.
Brightly coloured postcards
i whistle them because they are stuck
i whistle them all day long.
A little boy i try and remember, humming contentedly to himself.
The one they all said was a dream?
I wasn’t napping.
I was playing with my lego bricks.
Building a duplo totem of babel,
arching from its ridiculous height
finally collapsing in a rubble mound of primary colours
gleaming in the light
refracting through the nicotine yellow nets.
A ghost is watching.
Comes right up to me, hovering over.
Until the moment I look up i think its my mother.
Falling bricks pass through barely tangible feet
grey dust death shroud
in an empty terrace
carpeted with dog hair.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
So Goldsmith thinks children should pledge loyalty to the Crown and the State...
Repeat after me: fuck queen and country.
Swear allegiance? Anyone else feel like the state owes us rather than the other way round? Things like the provision of democratic, representative government; proportional representation; abolition of heriditary privelage; corporate responsibility; tackling child povety; decent education and work prospects for all; an end to involvement in illegal wars?
Maybe not. Lets build more flats!
Friday, 18 January 2008
NECROPLITAN recognises that in this throwaway culture people appreciate products that are made to be valued and cherished more than ever- especially when manufactured from objects most people would just shove in the ground and forget! For this reason the volume is beautifully bound in the tanned hide of an unbaptised child. The title is embossed in the surface in a dramatic, Gothic-esque script (actually an entirely new typface- neogotha- devised especially for this publication) and illuminated with the molten silver teeth obtained from those who no longer require them.
Each of the beautifully bound six hundred and sixty six pages is manufactured from our own, in-house paper. A composite of dead skin, moths' wings and the pages of bibles torn out in anger, each is 100% recycled, peace of mind indeed for today's environmentaly conscious reader. And every page is uniquely scented with a bespoke perfume created by our master perfumier, Moloch. A whiff of sulphur, a hint of opium, the slightest touch of burning tar- the very smell of our publication excites curiosity and exhilarates the senses.
At the turning of every page, small insects escape, fluttering delicately about the reader's head. They bite. Not all are poisonous or pestilence-ridden.Some pages are written in a near illegible scrawl, others in beautiful copperplate calligraphy. Articles are written in English, Amharic, French, Greek, Arabic, Latin, Hebrew and Aramaic. The illustrations are beautiful but it contains no photography.
It is big enough to be enjoyed with both hands but small enough to slip discretely into most ladies' handbags. Articles cover most subjects- from shoes to scarves to starving Africans- though the magazine is mostly adverts.
Monday, 14 January 2008
Grappled with demons etc. got some good moves down, ultimately lost but ran away. Youssef fled. I apologise. The music, the poetry, the man, the myth- lost to the mists of time. Weep, my children, weep, though your tears be in vain. You may cry an ocean before the Blessed Bastard returns to stage or screen. He haunts my nightmares, maybe your dreams... but I am strong.
When I am awake, I have freedom. In sleep I am a slave. But now, awake, I assert the right to me own identity. To my own name. Not quite that with which I was born, but one by which I am known to many. Josef Donovan.
Having written for so long, indeed existed for so long under the wretched pseudonym, lived alongside the cruel beautiful creature of my imaginings, it is a struggle to assert who I am, as above I have attempted. For many months in the shadows hidden, now emergent into this glorious world, this wonderful year, a moth free of the cocoon, his wings heavy with mucus, drying in the moonlight the he so desires to swallow. It is far, the moon, though it near. Do not be distracted by pretty lights. Especially candles.
Youssef was his name- a wretched child
born disfigured and half lame- his flesh defiled
once beset by guilt and shame- abandoned to the wild
claimed that one day he'd be tamed- god only smiled...
well, I was that wretched boy stayed hidden in the shadows
embittered, twisted and annoyed, humour of the gallows
until the city promised fame with a travelling show....
Youssef was my name...
now they call me Joe.