23 Feb 2017

Stitches to Save 9 With - Solo Show, March 9th, The Mine

No (Wo)man's an Island, 2017. PVC leather, embroidery. Dimensions variable
As a result of experimenting with sculptural forms inside the gallery context, and outside in areas of designated 'public space', I've created a mainly textile series that plays on language, meaning and memory. The works involve spoken lines, often linked to their own rhythmic or melodic chant, in the mind of the onlooker. The sing-song delivery of many of these sayings, learned along with the lines, should make them indelible in the mind. Ironically however these maxims, truisms, dictums, although often useful, are largely forgotten or half remembered.

Parts of longer works, or speeches, for example by John Dunne (1572-1631) or Seneca (4 BC–AD 65), these common 'verbal tools' are falling out of use.  Yet writers such as Dunne, wrote about such lasting and recurring dangers as the dangers of isolationism, which could not be more relevant to the politics of today as questions of citizenship, 'race', and movement arise.

Many of the phrases we know and remember are described in different words in other languages, (for example 'Break a leg' translates as 'Into the wolf's the mouth' in Italian). As these translated sayings impart the same message, they are at once cultural markers of both our overall oneness as well as our localised differences.

On another level, a reading of these words of wisdom brings into focus aspects of a distinctly male view of the world, revealing archaic, even damaging ideas. There is therefore a tension between what is needed in language, what we recall and what we are allowing ourselves in contemporary culture. The textiles I've used echo this tension, I feel, about memory and inheritance, fast culture, the disposable production-ethic of today and the way we read and absorb and how that related to the way we view art.

What could the truisms for today be, and what would they have been if women written history?

With Stitches to Save 9 With plays with art's ability to draw attention to aspects of our lives, of our identities, in the same way that poetry does, with that highly elucidating power it commands to suggests nuanced layers of meaning. The press release below, edited by Dr. Ali MacGilp, explains the concept as well as its relation to the overall materiality of the show.

Stitches to Save 9 With

PV March 9th - April 25th
The Mine
Al Serkal Avenue
Al Quoz Industrial Area 1
United Arab Emirates

Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
by John Donne 
No man is an island entire of itself; every man 
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; 
if a clod(1) be washed away by the sea, Europe 
is the less, as well as if a promontory(2) were, as 
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine 
own were; any man's death diminishes me, 
because I am involved in mankind. 
And therefore never send to know for whom 
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. 
1 Piece of earth 
2 A high point of land or rock projecting into ta body of water

In this exhibition, Fari Bradley explores the nuances of language, history and memory. Contemplating either the usefulness or destructive nature of traditionally recited proverbs, truisms, and dictums alongside several new ones for today, Bradley renders them as signifiers, using textile and mixed media.

Stitches to Save 9 With pits the deliberate form of stitching against quickly spoken lines, fleeting inspirations and ‘quippage’. A proverbial expression, 'a stitch in time saves nine' is an incentive: to stitch a tear in a cloth, now, before the tear becomes larger and harder to mend.  The ‘nine’ refers to the greater number of stitches that will be needed later, if one quick stitch isn't performed ‘in time’. This and other wise homilies in this body of work are falling out of use - just as hand stitching itself is disappearing.

Using a range of materials, Bradley employs methods and tools that formed part of her upbringing. With a parent who studied and practiced professional dress-making, offcuts had been Bradley's childhood playthings. Here, alien found objects, chanced upon threads and remnants serve as inspiration for her work, chiming with the popular reaction for a DIY aesthetic, against today's overwhelmingly disposable culture of low cost production. Such stitched works, while historically a hobby for the upper classes, also reference a certain Anglo-Saxon work ethic preached at the poor. Referencing this WWII 'make do and mend' work ethic, spoken, chanted lessons for life are rendered in traditionally feminine techniques, employing domestic skills that young girls once had to demonstrate in order to become 'marriage material'.

Decoratively Bradley's pieces resist a perspective framed in language, that often posits the idea that human experience is 'male experience'; No man is an island, for example. Yet while Stitches to Save 9 With is founded on the often sombre messages behind these mechanically memorised sayings, Bradley's techniques employ layers of satirical significance and testingly playful semantics.

Working mainly as a sound and radio artist, Bradley's previous works include musical scores rendered in weave, or sculptures combining textiles and electronics. Knitting patterns were a doorway into the algorithmic processes of electronic music, while sewing patterns were parallels to the diagrams used in building electronic circuits, and are a visual language Bradley has explored in her arts practice since 2006.

Marcel Proust’s observation“The remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were” inspired Bradley to visualise memory expressed as an imperfect picture, on which we have all embroidered our own threads, colouring experience as we saw them. Here the emotion involved in remembering contrasts with the automated way in which, for centuries, past generations have handed down these immutable wisdoms. Such spoken adages were modified to make them easy to remember and repeat, yet lack the vital quality of adaptation for the future, by which all things must survive.
My past work with The Mine includes a performance with Chris Weaver, for which we invited artists Jumairy and Sofia Chatsisaranti to collaborate: 

10 Feb 2017

How do You Fealh? Lying Fallow for a Season.

Question: Is an artist a machine?


(făl′ō) adj.
fal′low·ness n.

To rest is to gather energy and ideas, does this make you a better human, a better artist? If output is continuous, are you an unthinking machine. It's a bit of a leap, to let go of continuous action, to pause creative output. Like a library taking time to restock itself.
The age old wisdom of 'lying fallow' for a season, which was 4 months in London, has been most instructive.
A period of gathering.  It has been both wonderful and a chore.
As a result I'm able to say, one does not waste talent lying fallow, but instead, one allows it to deepen.

A fallow field is:
1. Plowed and left unseeded during one growing season.
2. Characterized by apparent inactivity: a fallow gold market.
3. Plowed and tilled (land), time taken to eradicate or reduce weeds.

[Middle English falow, from Old English fealh, fallow land.]

How do you fealh?
Harvest will be around March, with a series of surround sound performances in Sharjah in the UAE for Maraya Art Centre, a solo showing of my work in Dubai at The Mine and a short music residency at New York University in Abu Dhabi in February.

February also sees the launch of our radio works for Sharjah Art Foundation, When the Near Becomes Far.

Meanwhile my two weekly radio shows on Resonance 104.4FM and Resonance Extra have continued, so perhaps it wasn't a completely fallow period: Six Pillars and Free Lab Radio.

17 Dec 2016

So How'd the Year of the Monkey Turn Out for You?

These waves,
Emitted not by rhythms,
Waves that are if unheeded, utterly silent.
A data ocean, in which
You buoy yourself, 
You embroil yourself,
To which you give up Life's greatest credit,
 You give time,
These waves in which
You swim, only to sink in at the first real news;
Speculation, gambling, affectation,
The binary coded sounds of a species confused.

2016 was the year of the Monkey. How did it turn out for you? 
Monkey: "I am the seasoned traveler
Of the Labyrinth.
The genius of alacrity,
Wizard of the impossible.
My brilliance is yet 

In its originality.
My heart’s filled with potent magic
That could cast a hundred spells.
I am put together
For mine own pleasure

2016, The Year of the Monkey, in January this year, was discussed with some trepidation by observers of Chinese calendar tradition.

Now at the year's close, bookshops in London stock the pictured publication.

5 Dec 2016

Keep Woke

To 'Keep Calm' is one thing, to cocoon your mind in self-centred obsession another;
your projects your friends your events your circle...your output your income your appearance.

This inward turning, a narcissistic echo and webbed mirror we have been sold
gives common ground over to those who damage;
extremists and mortally dangerous businesses pursuing profit and power,
in every sphere, at every level
while we look the other way.

Sanity would demand it.

Waking up is talking to a stranger,
doing something you'll receive nothing, apparently, back for.

Take up the mantle. A steward of all that common good.

#woke blitz spirit

"A flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life."


2 Dec 2016

Standard Oil Company and Petro-Subjectivity, Performance - Radio Revolten

"Just a note to say I had a listen to 'Petro-Subjectivity, attracted by the title, and love it -- you really get to the heart of the toxic mess....
and the Neruda poem, oh yes.... in every dimension, really beautiful work....."  
Gregory Whitehead, radio artist.

Making notes is the key to being a good poet, we were told, as we sat cross legged on the lawn of an Indian music academy in Maharastra, India in 1999. The speaker was a retired accountant, now renowned not only for the music academy he founded, but the many Qawaalis and poems he had penned since. He went on Write down anything that springs to mind; a line, a phrase, you never know what it may blossom into.

Now, years later, in a new century, in which the fall out from past actions by BP in Iran are still surfacing, old lines come to mind. On this reflection, we performed an hour's live piece for Radio Revolten, composed of my recordings of the sounds of my surroundings in Halle, a town full of astoundingly detailed architecture. I also pulled in a thread begun in my last post, the poem by Neruda, and a book on my shelf, Petrosubjectivity by Brett Bloom, who I'd interviewed many years ago for Resonance104.4FM.  The sounds of Halle were: football hooligans (one wearing an electronic tag on his ankle), the train from Leipzig to Halle, an impressive array of musical instruments decorating our Airbnb: Persian tar, a guitar I prepared, electronic keyboards, an accordion, a ukelele, a berimbau...and voices at Radio Revolten. Here Georg Nicholl translates my Neruda reading spontaneously into German, in an improvised ping pong of thought and suggested images. The sounds of being in Germany then, with thoughts of a reoccurring greed for profit.
What has Neruda's pen done to stem the growth of hatred, except to identify more clearly the uninhabited gestures of a common enemy.

21 Oct 2016

All Hallows' Eve

I made these videos on my phone, both are with the original ambient sound, one made in a shopping Mall in the UAE, the other in a homestead in UK. I post them here as a note, because it struck me, again, this Halloween that no fiction is scarier than the reality of what, in fact, men to do one another, and to themselves; from the swift impact of war, to the slower seeping poisons of capitalism.
Neruda says it most clearly, below, an extract from his early poem Standard Oil Company: 

Standard Oil Company
Their obese emperors from New York
are suave smiling assassins
who buy silk, nylon, cigars
petty tyrants and dictators.
They buy countries, people, seas, police, county councils,
distant regions where the poor hoard their corn
like misers their gold:
Standard Oil awakens them,
clothes them in uniforms, designates
which brother is the enemy.
the Paraguayan fights its war,
and the Bolivian wastes away
in the jungle with its machine gun.
A President assassinated for a drop of petroleum,
a million-acre mortgage,
a swift execution on a morning mortal with light, petrified,
a new prison camp for subversives,
in Patagonia, a betrayal, scattered shots
beneath a petroliferous moon,
a subtle change of ministers
in the capital, a whisper
like an oil tide,
and zap, you’ll see
how Standard Oil’s letters shine above the clouds,
above the seas, in your home,
illuminating their dominions.
Extract, Pablo Neruda

17 Sep 2016

Jebel Hafeet Mountain - جبل حفيت‎

Driving to Al Ain, towards Oman, at Jebel Hafeet the coral has formed an immense natural totem. 

The pink of the rock body, reaching up to the uninterrupted sky, meets its hue in the glowing tail of the receding sun.

Hundreds of creatures, a mass of butterflies, thrive around caves at the base, where a hot water spring pools out in the horizon.
 Graffiti behind iron railings, speaks of a millennia old human gesture; to daub on naturally occurring walls. Mountain felines convene around commercial food sources.

 As day pulls away, electricity announces its dominion in the void of the night, and the landscape, the distance, becomes a transitory circuit board.