She Drew The Gun- Poem

SDTG-1T

Can’t believe what I’m reading when I open up these sheets
they’ve got police getting busier, cleaning up the streets
‘Cos that’s what we need now to make the place neat
take the homeless mans rags,no sleeping bags no place to sleep
Because we’re far too civilised around here to see
an unkempt human being, a broken human being
open up your eyes are you seeing what I’m seeing, yeah
a misplaced made to feel disgraced human being
what it’s not enough to just pretend that you don’t see him
you can’t stand the sight so you’ve got to disappear him
well I hope you feel more comfortable doing your sight seeing
taking pictures, buying fucking Union Jack magnets and keyrings

Life give me something to believe in
No lies, just something to believe in
Am I the only one that’s grieving
these things that belong to you and you and me that they are thieving
It’s time for something to believe in
I’m tired, need something to believe in
Am I the only one that’s grieving
these things that belong to me that they are thieving

And how long until they build a wall and call it a private city
they got walls made out of laws to exclude you and me
Now they take away our right, to fight those laws for free
no legal aid, no more justice, only for the wealthy
Oh but they’re trying to build a more healthy society
So that everybody knows you don’t get nothin’ for free
No scroungers, no living room loungers, living off me
Can I suggest you’re seeing exactly what they want you to see
a monster, cancer, threat to your liberty
How ’bout a scapegoat for their crimes, a victim of the times
everything that your not meant to be
How ’bout a badly prepared, scared human being
how about a necessary cog in their economic machines

If their was no unemployment tell me how would things be
would you still feel lucky to be working 40 hours a week
Well like a caged bird and they got us by the beak
give us enough to eat, enough to sleep, enough to tweet
but there’s not enough space between the ground and our feet
we’re singing songs of freedom but we’re not flying free

Life give me something to believe in
No lies, just something to believe in
Am I the only one that’s grieving
these things that belong to you and me that they are thieving
It’s time for something to believe in
I’m tired, need something to believe in
Am I the only one that’s grieving
these things that belong to me that they are thieving

And this whole world’s got me hurting
got me feeling undeserving
got me questioning my worth in this sad system that we’re serving
found no place in this twisted race for property
is making profit the sole aim of humanity
Protect the banks, bring out the tanks if they disagree
while we’re at it let’s invest some more in military
All our friends have shares so why shouldn’t we

And now the markets are demanding that we give away for free
everything that our grandparents fought for to some company
It’s called wealth creation, yeah, it’s more efficient you see
Well sorry I forgot the free market would set us free
I forgot to only think about I am and me
while brothers and sisters have nothing to eat
brothers and sisters, at home and over seas
So I can’t lie down and I wont let it be
While we are working for a market that doesn’t work for we

These things that they’re thieving, yours and mine
I know that they’re still stealing, but there’s still time
if you feel this way too


Lyrics: She Drew The Gun – Poem

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Among the Clouds- KGA

among-the-clouds

Here is an illustration I made for the song Among The Clouds by KGA. The song is intended to be used for relaxation and sleep aid and will be released with the artwork online. I will be printing the image for my own personal portfolio and designed the image with risograph printing in mind. I thoroughly enjoyed making the piece as it is such a contrast to the heavy research I have been ploughing through. I hope to work with KGA again in the future.

Knock Knock- Halloween Zine

I came across a call out for emerging Northern artists via the Art In Liverpool website asking them to submit images, poetry, short stories or any other interpretation of the season of Halloween.

I responded by illustrating the Irish Folk Tale by Lady Wilde; The Fairies Revenge.

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Here is the full text;

THE fairies have a great objection to the fairy raths, where they meet at night, being built upon by mortal man. A farmer called Johnstone, having plenty of money, bought some land, and chose a beautiful green spot to build a house on, the very spot the fairies loved best.

The neighbours warned him that it was a fairy rath; but he laughed and never minded (for he was from the north), and looked at such things as mere old-wives’ tales. So he built the house and made it beautiful to live in; and no people in the country were so well off as the Johnstones so that the people said the farmer must have found a pot of gold in the fairy rath.

But the fairies were all the time plotting how they could punish the farmer for taking away their dancing ground, and for cutting down the hawthorn bush where they held their revels when the moon was full. And one day when the cows were milking, a little old woman in a blue cloak came to Mrs. Johnstone and asked her for a porringer of milk.

“Go away,” said the mistress of the house, “you shall have no milk from me. I’ll have no tramps coming about my place.” And she told the farm servants to chase her away.

Some time after, the best and finest of the cows sickened and gave no milk, and lost her horns and teeth and finally died.

Then one day as Mrs. Johnstone was sitting spinning flax in the parlour, the same little woman in the blue cloak suddenly stood before her.

“Your maids are baking cakes in the kitchen,” she said; “give me some off the griddle to carry away with me.”

“Go out of this,” cried the farmers wife, angrily; “you are a wicked old wretch, and have poisoned my best cow.” And she bade the farm servants drive her off with sticks.

Now the Johnstones had one only child; a beautiful bright boy, as strong as a young colt, and as full of life and merriment. But soon after this he began to grow queer and strange, and was disturbed in his sleep; for he said the fairies came round him at night and pinched and beat. him, and some sat on his chest and he could neither breathe nor move. And they told him they would never leave him in peace unless he promised to give them a supper every night of a griddle cake and a porringer of milk. So to soothe the child the mother had these things laid every night on a table beside his bed, and in the morning they were gone.

But still the child pined away, and his eyes got a strange, wild look, as if he saw nothing near or around him, only something far, far away that troubled his spirit. And when they asked him what ailed him, he said the fairies carried him away to the hills every night, where he danced and danced with them till the morning, when they brought him back and laid him again in his bed.

At last the farmer and his wife were at their wits’ end from grief and despair, for the child was pining away before their eyes, and they could do nothing for him to help him. One night he cried out in great agony–

“Mother! mother! send for the priest to take away the fairies, for they are killing me; they are here on my chest, crushing me to death,” and his eyes were wild with terror.

Now the farmer and his wife believed in no fairies, and in no priest, but to soothe the child they did as he asked and sent for the priest, who prayed over him and sprinkled him with holy water.

The poor little fellow seemed calmer as the priest prayed, and he said the fairies were leaving him and going away, and then he sank into a quiet sleep. But when he woke in the morning he told his parents that he had a beautiful dream and was walking in a lovely garden with the angels; and he knew it was heaven, and that he would be there before night, for the angels told him they would come for him.

Then they watched by the sick child all through the night, for they saw the fever was still on him, but hoped a change would come before morning; for he now slept quite calmly with a smile on his lips.

But just as the clock struck midnight. he awoke and sat up, and when his mother put her arms round him weeping, he whispered to her–

“The angels are here, mother,” and then he sank back, and so died.

Now after this calamity the farmer never held up his head. He ceased to mind his farm, and the crops went to ruin and the cattle died, and finally before a year and a day were over he was laid in the grave by the side of his little son; and the land passed into other hands, and as no one would live in the house it was pulled down. No one, either, would plant on the rath; so the grass grew again all over it, green amid beautiful, and the fairies danced there once more in the moonlight as they used to do in the old time, free and happy; and thus the evil spell was broken for evermore.

But the people would have nothing to do with the childless mother, so she went away back to her own people, a brokenhearted, miserable woman–a warning to all who would arouse the vengeance of the fairies by interfering with their ancient rights and possessions and privileges.

The Lottie Project- Jacqueline Wilson. Experimentation.

 

Before I left university I spoke to my tutor, Amelia, about wanting to illustrate subject that have meaning and depth. I liked the thought of illustrating children’s books as I enjoy the artwork myself, but I wanted to illustrate weighty issues. Amelia pointed me to Jaqueline Wilson’s work as she addresses issues in life in a way that helps children to understand and cope. I have began to illustrate The Lottie project; a book written through the voice of a young girl that is used to having her mum to herself and how she struggles to accept her mum’s new love interest as well as money worries and school life too. I am experimenting with my work too. I’m making my collage 3d and then photographing them back to 2d. I am playing with composition and perspective and I’m thinking of adding some more digital collage to the images after they have been photographed.

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But the moment I set eyes on Miss Beckworth I knew none of us would be laughing. … ‘It’s three minutes past nine’, Miss Beckworth announced. ‘You’re late.’

Final Edit- Oxford; Privilege and Prejudice.

Oxford-privilage

I was left unhappy with my accompanying image for the article on Oxford’s lack of diversity within their admissions. I felt my image could of been easily misinterpreted with the arrows looking more like they were attacking the bird house rather than trying to get over the bushes to get in. Also, it wasn’t obvious enough that the arrow heads were cut from birds.

I chose to use the bare feet in this as a sign of assumed purity to illustrate the privilage to white (and with wealthy backgrounds) students. I toyed witht he idea of using the legs of men in suits as I felt this would convey the socio-economic and gender issue too, however you can not determin the colour of the men’s skin. I decided I would focus on the fact stated in the article that ony 27 black British students were addmitted in a single year.

Here is the full article:

http://www.theguardian.com/education/2016/jan/31/university-of-oxford-rebuts-camerons-claims-over-student-diversity

Poetry Illustration. Edgar Allan Poe- Romance.

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Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been -a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word,
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven’s on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

Poetry Illustration. Edgar Allan Poe- Evening Star

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Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro’ the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
‘Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass’d, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.