The Manchester Hermit

Anopheles Mosquito

A live performance piece that is both intriguing and unusual has taken root at the Manchester Museum. For 40 days, artist Ansuman Biswas, aka the Manchester Hermit, will live in isolation in the Museum's gothic tower, reflecting and ruminating on the relationship between man, object and nature.  

Biswas states:

"I see this role as a chance to channel the natural feelings of awe and wonder we feel at the incredible diversity that is around us, and a chance to celebrate the small, quiet things that are often forgotten. Amongst the many physical objects in its collection the Museum has chosen to value a spiritual activity. I hope I can live up to this important duty."

Biswas' only interaction with the outside world will be one-way internet communication via his blog, The Manchester Hermit, which holds his meditations on the museum's collections. Furthermore, each day Biswas choose an object from the museum's collection to destroy... that is, if no one steps forward to care for it. Seems a tad drastic, but proves a severe and effective commentary on decay, destruction and extinction... check out his blog for more on his process and how you can involve yourself in the conversation.

And, of course, if you are feeling a bit voyeuristic, be sure to check out his webcam. I've yet to catch a glimpse of the elusive hermit on the cam myself, but he is sure to make an appearance at some point (hopefully in a non-compromising position. awkward.).

activistas feministas

what the stars meant

Francis Bacon, Blood on Pavement, 1988

excerpt from falling water

john koethe

Who cares if life - someone's actual life - is  

Finally insignificant and small. There's still a  

Splendor in the way it flowers once and fades 

And leaves a carapace behind. There isn't time to 

Linger over why it happened, or attempt to make its 

Mystery come to life again and last, like someone 

Still embracing the confused perceptions of  himself 

Embedded in the past, as though eternity lay there - 

For heaven's a delusion, and eternity is in the details,  

And this tiny, insubstantial life is all there is.

Francis Bacon, Two Figures in the Grass, 1954

Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way

Marlene Dumas, Magdalena 1, 1996

excerpt from begging

charles bukowski

that we were perishable, perhaps didn't occur to  

him 

or  

that greater gods might be 

watching.

talking shit about a pretty sunset.

There is something indescribably sad about the clouds of Manchester at night. The city lights tint the atmosphere with burnt sepia and dull copper tones, a hazy, passionless blaze encompassing, suffocating those bellow. It's eery. Apocalyptic. 

The lack of blackness frustrates me. The logic of darkness at night doesn't hold in the city, with its manufactured neon happiness and superficial streetlight stars. There is no respite behind closed lids. The light remains, taunting, dancing on my eyelids, burning my retinas. It skips like stars, a galaxy etched into my skin, and I float, drifting within my kaleidoscope eyes. Blue, purple, white, orange...

I wish I could sleep.

Rothko, Untitled No. 4, 1964

PS. Birds suck. My head hurts.

fable of the mermaid and the drunks

I keep waiting for his face to show up. Anywhere. Just a jolt, electric, saving me from my revery. (Or does my revery save me from him? I can't figure it out. My revery saves me from THIS.) Detachment. Detachment was never necessary there. He was enough, electric. The only place I wanted to escape to was him. With him. 

Smoke-rimmed eyes under harsh street lamps, painted on smiles hiding fury-clenched teeth. Escape.

My beach, my moon, my rough sands and cool hands and caressing breeze. 

Floating.

Munch, Separation, 1900

every day you play...

pablo neruda

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Munch, Eye in Eye, 1894

Shit.