For everyone: whether your week began less than smoothly, or rolling out of bed this Wednesday causes more groans than usual; or, if your Monday and Tuesday were wonderful, and you wish for that trend to continue. This is for you.
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One of the best films about witchcraft and revenge is this great little horror called City of the Dead, or as it is known in the U.S., Horror Hotel which stars Christopher Lee and Dennis Lotis. The film begins with a woman being burned alive for being a witch and as it is happening, thunder in the sky booms. So it is that Elizabeth Selwyn swears to serve Lucifer if he grants her life and in the same breath curses the town and those who live in it. Unbeknownst to the townsfolk who are gathered around, there is one among them who also swears fealty to the devil. Many years later, the same two are still alive in the town of Whitewood, a town that is well aware of its curse and as long as the witches continue to sacrifice virgins, that curse will remain.
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Words and Images: Lauren Taylor
The morning’s lecture was available for all students, and was an introduction to narratives, and how they can transform and inform the creative process.
Alice Kettle began the lecture, with a brief overview of her practice and how she uses thread to tell a story. She showed the students projects she has been part of and how she uses materials as a means of communication, encouraging people to listen and understand their language. She also discussed her involvement with the Pairings Project at Manchester Metropolitan University, set up to explore the potential of collaborative creative practice. Displaying examples of how collaboration can enrich a narrative, bringing together different skills, characters and concepts.
Next, Cj O’Neill explained how narratives have driven her practice forward, telling personal stories and finding value in everyday ceramics. Cj’s work revolves around interaction with others, creating relationships with people, connecting with…
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Protests over the tragic death of Freddie Gray continue in Baltimore, and like clockwork dogwhistle words like “thug” and misdirection like blaming the breakdown of the “family structure” are on the upswing. Whatever debates one wants to have about tactics, we must not forget a crucial fact: people are reacting viscerally to years of violent oppression, oppression that deserves far more attention and outrage than what’s being directed now at mostly peaceful protests. Oppression that, in the age of Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Rekia Boyd, and so many more, is clearly not going away without a fight, whatever dubious claims one wants to make about our “post-racial” society.
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When his spine snapped, Freddie
Gray became kindling, became
New England pond water.
intact, he was free to move
The movement of his neck
was one of inquiry, one of commas
bent into question marks. Joining Thoreau, then,
on Walden Pond, the only sound
they both heard was a distant rumble from the railroad
as it churned toward profit,
coal burning –
like the storefronts
on Pennsylvania Avenue. Freddie
Gray trusted his own instincts,
the way we are told not to. He ran –
his thighs, locomotives, engines, accelerating
towards a broken track –
street. His gospel was written
on the sidewalk then, the place all holy texts are written –
the street – the intersection where
son of man
son of law.
Note: When Jesus found people selling merchandise in the temple courtyard…
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