Series 1_Archive

Series 1

MOTH has grown out of an interest in both Cabinets of Curiosity – Wunderkammers; (a place where a collection of curiosities and rarities is exhibited, from the German, literally translated as wonder chamber) as well as an inevitable designers attraction to the Cult of Collecting. Using selected objects displayed in The Moth Cabinet of Curiosities we will explore how objects:

·Facilitate problem solving – as tools which articulate ‘process’.
·As triggers to creativity. Devices for narrative. Locus for chance and transition.
·As metaphors; with layers of meaning (specific to the ‘reader’, culture, historical context etc). As fragments and hybrids.

The ‘Cabinet of Curiosities’ was originally a personal collection of things of wonder (the cabinets were also referred to as Wunderkammer – or Cabinet of Wonders).These cabinets reached the peak of their popularity in the 17th Century; they were the personal and often idiosyncratic collections of individual, wealthy owners and contained both natural and man-made objects. There were not yet universal systems of scientific classification and each collection sported its own unique organisational structure.

The main function of cabinets was to provoke a sense of curiosity and wonder in the viewer. Their intention was to define, discover and possess the rare and unique but also to inscribe them within a special setting which would add layers of meaning. They wanted to discover new and extreme examples of the natural and the man-made, making connections across the whole field of human knowledge; experimenting with arranging, re-arranging and classifying:

Accumulation, definition and classification.

Through the 18th Century cabinets were mainly either broken up or transformed through the stricter standards of scientific classification and curatorship into the basis of museums. They reflected culturally a sense of a loss of wonder as ‘scientific’ thinking became the dominant way of looking at the world. Museums tended to become public displays of the knowledge and artefacts that a culture most valued in its own history, rather than the private display of the idiosyncratic interests of an individual. (The all-embracing nature of the cabinet as an influence on museums disappeared almost entirely during the 19th Century, as museums increasingly specialised in particular areas of art, natural history, and technology).

Later… The cult of curiosity was taken up by a of number of surrealists, who were avid collectors.‘The object’ played fundamental role in the sensibility and aestheticism of Surrealism. For them the internal representation of the object and ‘its relationship with the inner consciousness’ was as important as its reality/definition. The property of ‘strangeness’ of an object has always lain in the heart of the Culture of Curiosities, the ‘accidental’ or rareness of its being. Paradoxically this strangeness was the surest guarantee of a sort, of its reality – living proof. The surrealist view of an object going in and out of ‘reality’ assumed by contrast a polemic dimension – a dialectic for questioning the status of what is ‘reality’.

Graphic designers/consumers of visual arts are highly sophisticated readers of signs and symbols – they decode meaning. Desires and a sense of who we are is moulded by the signs and objects around us, and there is an embedded visual hierarchy and common cultural language within our societies.

In understanding the language of design: shape, colour, texture there are paradoxes between the function, language and context to be considered. For example certain colours can imply feminine or masculine, some materials might suggest luxury. Are these actual inherent qualities or acquired meanings established through exposure and convention? The object beyond being utilitarian also has symbolic meaning by the way it is designed – the nature of the thinking and the methods used and the language of the ‘branding’. For example a typeface beyond its legibility has personality and attributes which are distinct.

Don’t be Afraid of writing – given that graphic designers continually handle words and are called upon to edit, proof read and often called upon to write themselves it is important that we learn to engage with writing as part of our practice and enjoy it. In EYE 37 Vol 10. Paul Stiff of Reading University says; ‘When people talk about literacy they are talking about a rather demanding engagement with an extended text, monitoring discourse, integrated complex arguments but there are all kinds of literate activities that people engage with everyday. Glancing is a form of reading as well, pictures also demand to be read’.
The Author of the article Literacy in Graphic Design Lucienne Roberts; ‘Graphic Designers are the ultimate self improvers. Each new job and client demands empathy and introduces one to new territories with potential for learning. Words are no more frightening than pictures if one understands the language, and it is the language of Graphic Words that Graphic Designers are now called upon to learn’.

 

Series 1.1 MEMORY & FORGETTING

candles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE END OF CHILDHOOD

My 6th Birthday – Handmade by my Grandmother, a mis-shapen Bart
Simpson head cake, complete with lurid yellow icing and huge candles.
I’ve kept a photo of it.

My 11th Birthday – A handmade cake in the shape of a pig. My twin sister received one in the shape of a monkey.
Covered in sweets and candles, eaten in one day.

My 16th Birthday – Two handmade classic cakes – mum’s victoria sponge
and my ex-best friend’s chocolate cake. Too much cake to eat and I don’t
like chocolate cake. She’s not my friend anymore.

My 18th Birthday – Shop bought tray bake cake from Sainsburys. Had to
buy candles from local corner shop, mum forgot.

My 21st Birthday – Handmade, slightly burnt fruit cake. No icing, no candles.
I hate fruit cake.

My 22nd Birthday – No cake. No candles. No effort.

We have a tupperware box at home storing half used candles. There must be about 20 candles in the box, all from different packets, in a number of different colours and patterns. Every time there’s a birthday in our house, we go to this box. I pick any variety of candles to put on the cake, and like that they’re all different heights and colours. My mum gets annoyed at this and tells me to find the similar candles, or switches them over when I’m not looking. It makes me angry that she likes everything to be matching and logical all the time. She’s an accountant.

1.

A small birthday cake,
thirty five candles on top,
far too old for this.

2.

Three hundred and sixty fives day in the dark, dark myself.
A few hours of light, a few seconds of energy.
Joy, happiness, singing.
Wind, spit, dark once again.

by Guy Montag

The lights go off, voices turn to soft whisperings and
the dim flicker of fire licks at the doorway.

You know the time has come, the fun is over and you
now have to endure the inevitable five minutes of
torture that comes round once a year.

You hear a lone voice start unsteadily, on an undefinable note, “Haa-” waiting to be saved by a stronger more confident singer.

The note hangs there,
in the darkness,
the flames are getting closer,
the murmurings have stopped.

An uncle takes control, “HAPPY BURRTH-” he bellows, this time it catches. Spreads round the room, everyone warbling different notes as the tune reaches a crescendo.

And you stand there.

You giggle.
You shuffle.
You look up.
Then down.
Then up again.

How is this monstrous coalition of noise that can only tenuously be
described as ‘singing’ still going?

All eyes are on you, you begin to stumble over the words,

“Happy Birthday dear…”

You can’t sing you’re own name. That would be weird, right?
You stop.
And look down again.

Finally the cake is in front of you, you have a focus. The last line passes quickly before you can process what will happen next the applause starts, “MAKE A WISH! BLOW OUT YOUR CANDLES!”

It’s time.

You begin to inhale.

Maybe this time it will be different?
Maybe you can do it now?
10 candles blare in front of you.
10 years old, you can do this.
Your eyes are closed, your chest tight, your cheeks puffed you lean forward and exhale with all your might…

Entirely deflated you dare to open your eyes. There right in front of your face, arrogant and unwavering, stand 10 burning candles.

BEING 10

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
It’s the middle of January and my present is wrapped up with
Christmas paper.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Spaghetti bolognese and hedgehog cake with matchmakers for
prickles. Again.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR ME-EE
Not a whiff of a puppy, five years to ‘think about it’.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
Legs eleven next year.
My boobs might grow and Tony Branch might notice me.

They’re amazing!
They are really lovely.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
I can’t believe it.
Did you buy them all by yourself.
No, they’re perfect; honestly, yeah, they’re perfect.
You’re all really wonderful people, I couldn’t ask for anything more in my life,
I wish we could do this everyday.

Thank you so much, for everything.

You can’t be telling me this, no.
You can’t possibly be talking about me.
You don’t mean me.
This doesn’t happen to me, other people…
This can’t be real.
Why? Please, I don’t understand. I’m too young…
You’re sorry.
No, I’m, I’m sorry, I’m so confused, I just, I don’t believe it, this can’t happen.
What can I do?
Can we do anything?
Okay.

Thank you so much, for everything.

I wanted to write about all the candles she would have blown out. Wished on. 276 next month. That’s a lot of gaudy wax sticks. Then I looked up the dictionary definition of candle, which gave an example sentence; “She’s smart, but she’ll never hold a candle to her sister.” Sounds about right.

Open the drawer, fend off the loose screws, blu-tack, lightbulbs, keys that don’t open anything, crayons, electrical tape, grab a couple of dodgy looking birthday candles; different colours and sizes. Surely you realise you are blatantly not the first person to blow these out, but all the same, I stick them on the cake (that they brought with them) turn off a couple of lights, walk out, all eyes on me, start off the ‘happ-’, let them do the rest, and smile.

Then get back to business and wait for them to come over and say ‘thank you so much it was perfect, so lovely of you!’ Not that much effort on my part, always results in an extra tip and a wink from the slightly creepy older gentleman on the table (there’s always one) though.

Candles=Tips

Anonymous

Every year i celebrate a day that i don’t even remember.

The Party

Susan and John are going to a party.
Susan puts on her Blue party dress
She puts on her blue shoes.
Mummy ties her blue ribbons.
John puts on his grey shorts.
He puts on his white shirt.
Mummy ties his red tie.
Susan and John put on their red coats.
They walk down the road to Ann’s house.
Here is Ann’s house.
Ann opens the door.
Susan and John say ‘Happy Birthday’.
They give Ann her presents.
Ann says ‘thank you’ and opens the parcels.
There is a book from Susan and some pencils from John.
Susan and John take off their coats.
They all play hunt the thimble. (Can you see the thimble?).
Then they play blind Man’s Buff.
Ann’s Mummy says ‘Tea is ready’.
There are six candles on Ann’s cake.
Ann blows out the candles.
Then they all have a piece of Birthday cake.
After tea they play Oranges and Lemons.
Then they all put on their coats. They say ‘Goodbye’ and ‘Thank you.”
Susan and John write letters to Ann. They say, ‘Thank you for a lovely party.’

Candles

Simple things that mean so much
Long and thin and hot to the touch

Once a year they come out to play
Could be any month, week or day

The lights go out and it all gets dark
They drip and melt and leave their mark

Catching your eye they gleam so bright
Staring and enchanted by the dazzling light

And best of all the constant flames
Putting all the other candles to shame

Watching me they all gather round to see
The joy of this moment with faces of glee

Only a few seconds, it all goes so fast
With a swift puff of air, another year has past

As each year comes and each year goes
There will always be presents, candles and bows

Birthdays are always a magical day
Excitement and happiness are always the way

Candles are mismatched, a messy bunch
But they still mean we can eat cake for lunch

Spotted and striped and glittered and plain
Nothing could ruin these days, not even rain

When they are tiny they run out of Luck
No longer much use, off for the chuck

Many memories they’ve seen and they’ve shared
With all the people who have loved and cared

Magic eyes.
Transfixed,
As nature dances in a ballet made for one.
Wrapped in warm silence,
Unaware that the world has stopped spinning,
Or of angels,
Holding their breath in quiet expectation.
A rare and potent innocence,
Perfectly vulnerable and fearless.
Poised on the edge of a moment,
Caught in the free-fall of raw expectation,
Between the before and after,
Beautifully pure, and saturated with life.
Watching.
Waiting.
Waiting, and watching.
And then,
Gone in a whisper…

I wish for my second birthday again.

“I wish for ‘weeties’”

“I wish for a Barbie”

“I wish for a paddling book”

“I wish for a puppy”

“I wish for a puppy”

“I wish for a bike”

“I wish for dolls house”

“I wish for a puppy”

“I wish for my Grampy to be here”

Series 1.2 A GOOD DEATH

poison_cig

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The poisonous gases being inhaled as a stream of smoke enters the lungs vigorously.

She always liked a drink.

Kathy was the ninth of nine children and to be honest they all did. It flowed through them like DNA. Three of the brothers Jim, Joe and Tom drank like fish – but ‘did not have a problem’. What this meant in reality was, that everyone else had a problem with them, handling them with caution and distance when they were intoxicated. They argued with great passion and conviction about things that they could not remember in the morning and so would start the same argument the next evening with the same animated drinking talk. The familiarity of the situation was ludicrous from
the outside.

Her sister Sarah would constantly have a cup of tea on the go, cold and laced with odorless and colourless vodka. The tragedy of Sarah’s personal story somehow excused her in my eyes for drinking. Drinking to forget her lost baby son and drinking to forget her large and awkward husband. She miraculously continued as a nurse for years in this state always with a teacup in range.

Bridget made a successful marriage until the drink took her and her
marriage broke down. Moira married a policeman and took Jesus into
her heart. Pete took his own life. Bernadette took her son Patrick with her everywhere as he needed constant care and protection – she never touched a drop. Then there was Kathy, who always knew when to stop.
And when to stop others.

One day in August, she took to drinking brandy.
In the October, she took to her bed and vomited. Then the drink took
her too.

Smoke floats around them.
Consumes them.
Provides warmth in the cold.
This poison sparks conversation.
Creates a friendship.

Whilst i guard the drinks.

It is always handy, I have found, when poison is clearly labelled as such.
Then, when it is offered, I can politely decline without having to ask each time.

‘Smooth’
How so?
I’m reminded of our first kiss
Smoke on your lips, on mine
The way you stood that night
So muscular, so mysterious
Watching as I inhaled your smoky breath
Mayfair
No fair
I watched it dance across your lips
And hunger for that sweet bitter taste
Thus with a kiss I fell.

‘Chemist’
How so?
My lungs feel dirty, my lips even worse
My head spins and my eyes ache
In my head all night and when I wake,
My chest feels crushed like I shouldn’t breathe
Purity of air is now too clean
Too good for me
I crave that black smoke
No
I crave your black smoke
I’m reminded of our first kiss
Smoke on your lips, on mine
This with a kiss I am changed.

My Romeo?
You did drink all and left no friendly drop
No Shiny dagger to alleviate the pain
Her majesty’s green felt that you wear upon your head
Wear with pride
And know that my heart wouldn’t throb
If I didn’t truly care`

But the truth is you lead me
Then abandoned me with no way
Take down the enemy before they take down you
Mayfair
No Fair
Have no fear my love
For it is me who has taken a hit
Be safe and well
For you the best is all I wish
I’m reminded of our first kiss
Smoke on your lips, on mine
Thus with a kiss I die

B

Firstly add your lukewarm water to the mix,
Next heat your mixture,
Take time to constantly stir, at this point you should be
able do this with little resistance.
As the solution starts to thicken, a strong pungent aroma
should fill your nostrils, stealing your senses.
You should encounter a feeling of light-headedness.
When you have reached this critical point pour the liquid for two.
Making sure not too spill a drop, drink briskly.
As the warmth fills your body.
A cold stranger plots a course through your very being.
The end is near.
Now, relax, lay together and slowly drift away.

I’m woken up at 4am, a loud bang from the bathroom below. Friday
night, she must be drunk again—there’s no way I’m going down to
hold her hair back.

Odd sounds, silence, odds sounds, crash, silence.

I drift off again…

Morning, bruised head, delicate stomach, bad chicken.

He stopped smoking because, I went home from primary school and
cried because he had black lungs.
He stopped smoking because, he calculated the amount of money he
had spent on cigarettes throughout his lifetime.

Different kinds of ‘love’ it would seem. At least I had an influence on
one of them.

You took my breath away.

Poison and cigarettes

These two objects are one in the same
As much as some think its just not a game

Both are bad for you, on the inside and out
You should all know, theres clearly no doubt

People carry around these boxes of smokes
But you better watch out or you just might choke

As small as they are, don’t be fooled by the size
These little things, they could cause your demise

The smoke can be beautiful dancing to your eyes
Remember this beauty it isn’t far from a lie

As they are lit and burn, the red embers glow
Out in the dark the hot of the fire creates a show

You can smoke in the night time and smoke in the day
Why though Why would you want to be this way

Save your money and keep hold of your pounds
for it would be better to drop them on the ground

Our bodies and fires should never mix
Even if we seem to from them, gain kicks

Is it real pleasure or is it in your head
One things for shore its a shortcut to dead

Its the night time when it gets bad
For social smoking is a terrible fad

When its dim you’ll be hidden, hiding your face
However you can’t carry on going at this pace

All the signs are clear to others
especially your own mothers

The smell lingers on for days on end
To get rid of this your ways you must mend

Is it really addictive? That is what they say
I think its a myth to keep you at it every day

If you have children don’t share your bad habits
Fine reason and determination, go out and grab it

Your love and affection is what you should share
So put out you embers and show them you care

But do it for yourself, do it for you
and your friends and family too

My mother gave up smoking I’m proud to tell
Or with our asthma life would have been hell

The smell isn’t pleasant or kind to the nose
If i had my way id put them out with a hose

Fill your lungs with fresh air,
Breathe as deep as you dare

Start a new day and start a new trend
Be healthy and realise the air is your friend

You will soon feel better just try it and see
This change is for the better, set your lungs free

As next autumn rolls around take part in stoptober
You know you’ll feel better as soon as you’re smoke sober.

I hope this will give you a new train of thought
Time spent smoking will become much more short

So next time you’re walking in the centre of town
You can breathe and know you’re not attracting a frown

My friend says, “A menthol a day keeps the doctor away.” So I showed her the image, yeah this will give her something to think about! She looked and said, “ooo, I fancy a cigarette!”

Brilliant.

Hope there’s someone who’ll take care of me when I die.

– Anthony and the Johnsons.

I am cool
I am warm
I am calm
I am fiery
I am sexual
I am relaxation
I am addictive
I am social
I am everyday

I am death

Poisonous memories haunt me. The poisonous town of Bourton on the Water, Once a town full of love and laughter, but now its full of hatred and tears. Since that specific incident the mystery disturbs me. I have so many questions burning inside me, like smoke filling up in my lungs. There is no way of getting this smoke out until you are back. You are the cure for the poison inside me.

Series 1.3 THE SOUL

shells

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She used to sell shells down by the sea shore.
That was her job, but not any more.
It wasn’t because of the hours, it wasn’t bad pay.
It was just because her job was really hard to say.

I feel thirsty.

Shell Thief

Shells dry, dragged from the sea,
for people to gather and people to see,
In plastic wrap and cable ties,
We shan’t hear the breathless cries,

On the shelf one will be,
in the area of naked me,
and as the moisture fills the air,
their carcass lies feeble and bare,

Do we really want to store,
the shells we stole from the shore,
don’t you think they should stay,
where you stole it on that day.

It is often in such beauty that we find the deadliest of foes.
Something so iridescent, and alluring can often and does cut as sharp as
glass, the bare soles of our feet; baring our soul for all to see as we call
out in pain and wobble as we run toward the soothing sea.

Shell Tub

I look up.
A million, gazillion pinholes in the sky face towards me.
And I start to laugh.
‘Ah’ I said to me and myself.
This is where the shells must take their bath.

—… -… . –. .. -. —… / —… -.-. — ..- -. – / .. … / ….- -…. …– …– ..— ..— —… / .—- .-.-.- —.. .-.-.- —-. .—- .-.-.- / -.. . .- .-. / .- .-. – …. ..- .-. –..– / — -. / – …. . / … .- -. -.. / -… . …. .. -. -.. / — . / .-.. .. . / – …. . / …. — .-.. .-.. — .– / -… — -.. .. . … / — ..-. / – …. . / — .- -. -.– / -.-. .-. ..- … – .- -.-. . .- -. … / … …. .- – – . .-. . -.. / -… -.– / — -.– / -.-. .- .-. . .-.. . … … / ..-. . . – .-.-.- / .. / …. .- …- . / .– .- .-.. -.- . -.. / – …. . … . / -… . . -.-. …. . … / — .- -. -.– / – .. — . … / … .. -. -.-. . / — -.– / .. -. -.-. .- .-. -.-. . .-. .- – .. — -. –..– / -… ..- – / .. – / .. … / — -. .-.. -.– / -. — .– / – …. .- – / .. .—-. — / .-.. . -.. / – — / .– — -. -.. . .-. / .. ..-. / .. – .—-. … / .. -. . …- .. – .- -… .-.. . / – …. .- – / — ..- .-. / .- -.-. …. .. . …- . — . -. – … / .- .-. . / … ..- -… .— . -.-. – / – — / … .. — .. .-.. .- .-. / -.. . … – .-. ..- -.-. – .. …- . / ..-. — .-. -.-. . … / .- ..-. – . .-. / .– . / .- .-. . / –. — -. . .-.-.- / .. -. -.. . . -.. –..– / .. – .—-. … / — -. .-.. -.– / .-.. .. -.- . .-.. -.– / – …. .- – / — -.– / — .– -. / ..-. . . -… .-.. . / . ..-. ..-. — .-. – … / … – .- .-. – . -.. / ..- -. .-. .- …- . .-.. .-.. .. -. –. / — .. -. ..- – . … / .- ..-. – . .-. / — -.– / -.. . .–. .- .-. – ..- .-. . / ..-. .-. — — / – …. . / — .- .. -. .-.. .- -. -.. .-.-.- / .. – .—-. … / -… . -.-. .- ..- … . / — ..-. / —… — . … … .- –. . / — .. … … .. -. –. —… / -.– — ..- .—-. .-.. .-.. / .–. . .-. — .. – / — . / – — / .-. . – ..- .-. -. / – — / — -.– / . .- .-. .-.. .. . .-. / — . – .- .–. …. — .-. .-.-.- / .. -. / – …. . / … .- — . / .– .- -.– / -.-. …. .. .-.. -.. .-. . -. / .-.. — — -.- / .- ..-. – . .-. / – …. . … . / — – …. . .-. .– .. … . / -… .-. . .- -.- .- -… .-.. . / … …. . .-.. .-.. … / .- -. -.. / … …. .. . .-.. -.. / – …. . — / ..-. .-. — — / – …. . / — ..- – … .. -.. . / .– — .-. .-.. -.. –..– / … — / -.– — ..- / – — — / — ..- … – / .-.. — — -.- / .- ..-. – . .-. / – …. . — .-.-.- / – …. . / .– — .-. .-.. -.. / .– — ..- .-.. -.. / -… . / .– — .-. … . / — ..-. ..-. / .– .. – …. — ..- – / – …. . .. .-. / … .. -. –. ..- .-.. .- .-. .. – -.– .-.-.- / …. — .– . …- . .-. –..– / .. / .–. .-. .- -.– / – …. .- – / … — — . -… — -.. -.– / –. . – … / – …. .. … / — . … … .- –. . / .- -. -.. / ..-. .. -. -.. … / — . / … — / -.– — ..- / .– — -. .—-. – / …. .- …- . / – — .-.-.- / – .-. .- -.-. -.- / – …. . / … .. –. -. .- .-.. / .- -. -.. / .. .—-. .-.. .-.. / -… . / .– .- .. – .. -. –. –..– / . …- . .-. / .–. .- – .. . -. – / -… -.– / – …. . / – .-. .- -. … — .. – – . .-. .-.-.- / …. .-.-.- / —… – — -. . —… / —… – — -. . —… / —… .-. . .–. . .- – / ..-. .-. — — / -… . –. .. -. .-.-.- / .- -.. -.. / .—- / – — / -.-. — ..- -. – —…

I have lived by the sea for almost 3 years.
Have I used it much? Depends what you mean by used?
To get a Tan, float around, to collect sand and shells.
Or to look at it from my window. Is that enough?

I grew up in the Midlands, at the furthest point from the sea in the UK.

Shells to me had a mythical value, they were to be sought after, treasured, collected, listened to and held. Any chance I had to go to the beach was spent scouring through the rocks and debris for that one elusive shell that would be worthy of a place in my coat pocket collection.

Looking for shells was a solitary activity I would become engrossed in a
bubble of concentration, crouched low to the ground focusing only on a
little patch of beach in front of me. I always remember it as a silent time,
my intensity drowning out the sounds of waves, seagulls and holidaymakers.

Over time this fascination has gradually lessoned but even now if ever I’m feeling anxious, stressed or just want this feeling of escapism, I still feel in
my pocket for the solitary shell left inside.

The remains of death, the case of a long gone creature,
picked apart, cleaned by the sea.

Shells

Sea shells, sea shells on the sea shore
In between the pebbles, seaweed and more

Where we find them they won’t stay there for ever
They can be spotted or found with endeavour

Big and small they are scattered throughout
You will have to look they won’t respond to a shout

Along the beaches and rocks they sprawl
friends with the crabs that wander and crawl

They like to travel and journey around
From person to person, they like to be found

Hiding in the depths of pockets and snuck into bags
You know they will be present at the sight of life guard flags

As they are thrown they give the waves a throttle
Soon to be wrapped in a napkin or caught in a bottle

A little piece of the beach that can be brought home
Coming from the sea and appearing from the foam

Small, curved and simple
With a shell sporting dimples

Cool to the touch they are smooth and hard
Found as a whole shell or in pieces as shard

My own special piece of the beach
This one was pretty and hard to reach

Memories of this day it will always hold
Each shell has a story i have been told

As its held in my hand, the patterns are pretty
It feels damp and salty still leaving my skin gritty

Put it away in a box full of wonderful things
With letters and ribbons and old fashioned rings

One day it will be rediscovered and treasured once more
In its new and strange life, so far away from the shore

Mums shells from the sea shore. Many sea shores. Shores from all around the world. One for each holiday, some big, some small, all with natural beauty.

Series 1.4 REGRET

fetus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Developed together,
Born with company.
From creation to infusion.
Identical blueprints drawn and determined,
Like two froglets laid upon their backs, limbs out stretched, pink and rosy.

But difficulties…
A moment,
A fear,
A fluctuation,
A sigh of relief.
Premature and pre-Madonna.

From crucifix composition to incubation position,
We are destined to be together.
Bound by blood and book like bear cubs.

But adulthood comes running to pull us from our nest.
And I can’t cope with the realisation.

Two froglets pink and rosy,
Two bear cubs warm and cosy,
Entwined just to be pulled apart.

The excitement beams two hundred miles across the internet. The amount of joy one hundred and twenty characters can convey is astonishing at times.

He sat and stared, as still as she was; exhausted.

There was nothing left to think.

It was over. The pale blue sheets were pulled up. Over. “What if I’d…?” he whispered to himself, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

There was nothing left to say.

His red eyes were still, fixed on a point in the middle of the floor. Maybe if he stared there long enough… maybe if he really concentrated, she’d wake up. He tortured himself for a while with the idea that he could undo the last few hours. Go back and… no.

There was nothing left to do.

People came and went. Slowly the space became quieter until she was gone too. They took her away. They took them away. But really they had been gone for hours. He knew that.

There was nothing left.

“There was nothing more we could do.” the doctor informed him. “Cases like your wife’s are extremely rare, but once the hemorrhage reaches a certain point… I’m so sorry.”

There was nothing.

Still.

A Doctor?

A Teacher?

A Soldier?

My eyes glance over the headlines of the morning paper as I eat my toast. I look up briefly to see her pouring me some more coffee, her beautiful blonde hair glistening under the lights and she smiles. What a warm smile.
The heat pours through me as she kisses me good bye.

“Have a good day at work sweetie, and Jamie’s football match is at 6 ok?”

“Ok darling, I love you”

“Love you”

I search through my briefcase and pull out my diary. What’s on today’s
schedule?

Nothing

Because I was never given the chance to experience the warmth of a smile and the soft caress of the one I love. I don’t know love. I didn’t get that far.

I was torn from life and will never know what I could have become.

This hangs in time,
a snap shot of potential that will never be realised.
We can guess, ponder, speculate and more
but this is like taking a photo of an undeveloped Polaroid,
giving it to someone and asking them to guess what image
it would have depicted.

Did you see that?
Someone has just thrown me straight into this massive thingy of water!
Mental.
Well, I think I’ll just take a little nap.
It won’t hurt, just a few minutes.
Then I can figure out how to get out of here.

Foetus / Embryo

Such a tiny thing, so innocent and small
full of potential makes you want to stand tall

Made by two people, an amazing creation,
Which for women will cause a stomach inflation

Coming from love is the way it should be
Can only appear from a he and she

Although both are needed for a child to be made
Any sexes can give a love that won’t fade

You must be careful and kind with this delicate thing
And although some think so you don’t need a ring

A baby is a living treasure
Bringing so much pleasure

Gurgling and wriggling as it grows
Soon back to you love it will show

All you can do is your very best
Needing help is the ultimate test

For whats best for you offspring
Is always to strive to do the right thing

Gurgling and wriggling as it grows
Soon back to you love it will show

All you can do is your very best
Needing help is the ultimate test

For whats best for you offspring
Is always to strive to do the right thing

Giggles and laughter this soon will bring
A bountiful baby to be born in the spring

Parenting is a journey for life
Bringing both joy and sometimes strife

They say Its Almost impossible for us to understand
Until you have been there and have held a small hand

This magical moment we will always hold near
Nothing could be more important, more dear

Series 1.5 AFTER LIFE

shoes_watch

Developed together,
Born with company.
From creation to infusion.
Identical blueprints drawn and determined,
Like two froglets laid upon their backs, limbs out stretched, pink and rosy.

But difficulties…
A moment,
A fear,
A fluctuation,
A sigh of relief.
Premature and pre-Madonna.

From crucifix composition to incubation position,
We are destined to be together.
Bound by blood and book like bear cubs.

But adulthood comes running to pull us from our nest.
And I can’t cope with the realisation.

Two froglets pink and rosy,
Two bear cubs warm and cosy,
Entwined just to be pulled apart.

The excitement beams two hundred miles across the internet. The amount of joy one hundred and twenty characters can convey is astonishing at times.

He sat and stared, as still as she was; exhausted.

There was nothing left to think.

It was over. The pale blue sheets were pulled up. Over. “What if I’d…?” he whispered to himself, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

There was nothing left to say.

His red eyes were still, fixed on a point in the middle of the floor. Maybe if he stared there long enough… maybe if he really concentrated, she’d wake up. He tortured himself for a while with the idea that he could undo the last few hours. Go back and… no.

There was nothing left to do.

People came and went. Slowly the space became quieter until she was gone too. They took her away. They took them away. But really they had been gone for hours. He knew that.

There was nothing left.

“There was nothing more we could do.” the doctor informed him. “Cases like your wife’s are extremely rare, but once the hemorrhage reaches a certain point… I’m so sorry.”

There was nothing.

Still.

A Doctor?

A Teacher?

A Soldier?

My eyes glance over the headlines of the morning paper as I eat my toast. I look up briefly to see her pouring me some more coffee, her beautiful blonde hair glistening under the lights and she smiles. What a warm smile.
The heat pours through me as she kisses me good bye.

“Have a good day at work sweetie, and Jamie’s football match is at 6 ok?”

“Ok darling, I love you”

“Love you”

I search through my briefcase and pull out my diary. What’s on today’s
schedule?

Nothing

Because I was never given the chance to experience the warmth of a smile and the soft caress of the one I love. I don’t know love. I didn’t get that far.

I was torn from life and will never know what I could have become.

This hangs in time,
a snap shot of potential that will never be realised.
We can guess, ponder, speculate and more
but this is like taking a photo of an undeveloped Polaroid,
giving it to someone and asking them to guess what image
it would have depicted.

Did you see that?
Someone has just thrown me straight into this massive thingy of water!
Mental.
Well, I think I’ll just take a little nap.
It won’t hurt, just a few minutes.
Then I can figure out how to get out of here.

Foetus / Embryo

Such a tiny thing, so innocent and small
full of potential makes you want to stand tall

Made by two people, an amazing creation,
Which for women will cause a stomach inflation

Coming from love is the way it should be
Can only appear from a he and she

Although both are needed for a child to be made
Any sexes can give a love that won’t fade

You must be careful and kind with this delicate thing
And although some think so you don’t need a ring

A baby is a living treasure
Bringing so much pleasure

Gurgling and wriggling as it grows
Soon back to you love it will show

All you can do is your very best
Needing help is the ultimate test

For whats best for you offspring
Is always to strive to do the right thing

Gurgling and wriggling as it grows
Soon back to you love it will show

All you can do is your very best
Needing help is the ultimate test

For whats best for you offspring
Is always to strive to do the right thing

Giggles and laughter this soon will bring
A bountiful baby to be born in the spring

Parenting is a journey for life
Bringing both joy and sometimes strife

They say Its Almost impossible for us to understand
Until you have been there and have held a small hand

This magical moment we will always hold near
Nothing could be more important, more dear

Series 1.6 COLLECTIVE GRIEF

poppy

THE LAST POST.

1 ELEPHANT 2 ELEPHANT 3 ELEPHANT 4 ELEPHANT 5 ELEPHANT 6 ELEPHANT 7 ELEPHANT 8 ELEPHANT 9 ELEPHANT 10 ELEPHANT 11 ELEPHANT 12 ELEPHANT 13 ELEPHANT 14 ELEPHANT 15 ELEPHANT 16 ELEPHANT 17 ELEPHANT 18 ELEPHANT 19 ELEPHANT 20 ELEPHANT 21 ELEPHANT 22 ELEPHANT 23 ELEPHANT 24 ELEPHANT 25 ELEPHANT 26 ELEPHANT 27 ELEPHANT 28 ELEPHANT 29 ELEPHANT 30 ELEPHANT 31 ELEPHANT 32 ELEPHANT 33 ELEPHANT 34 ELEPHANT 35 ELEPHANT 36 ELEPHANT 37 ELEPHANT 38 ELEPHANT 39 ELEPHANT 40 ELEPHANT 41 ELEPHANT 42 ELEPHANT 43 ELEPHANT 44 ELEPHANT 45 ELEPHANT 46 ELEPHANT 47 ELEPHANT 48 ELEPHANT 49 ELEPHANT 50 ELEPHANT 51 ELEPHANT 52 ELEPHANT 53 ELEPHANT 54 ELEPHANT 55 ELEPHANT 56 ELEPHANT 57 ELEPHANT 58 ELEPHANT 59 ELEPHANT 60 ELEPHANT 61 ELEPHANT 62 ELEPHANT 63 ELEPHANT 64 ELEPHANT 65 ELEPHANT 66 ELEPHANT 67 ELEPHANT 68 ELEPHANT 69 ELEPHANT 70 ELEPHANT 71 ELEPHANT 72 ELEPHANT 73 ELEPHANT 74 ELEPHANT 75 ELEPHANT 76 ELEPHANT 77 ELEPHANT 78 ELEPHANT 79 ELEPHANT 80 ELEPHANT 81 ELEPHANT 82 ELEPHANT 83 ELEPHANT 84 ELEPHANT 85 ELEPHANT 86 ELEPHANT 87 ELEPHANT 88 ELEPHANT 89 ELEPHANT 90 ELEPHANT 91 ELEPHANT 92 ELEPHANT 93 ELEPHANT 94 ELEPHANT 95 ELEPHANT 96 ELEPHANT 97 ELEPHANT 98 ELEPHANT 99 ELEPHANT 100 ELEPHANT 101 ELEPHANT 102 ELEPHANT 103 ELEPHANT 104 ELEPHANT 105 ELEPHANT 106 ELEPHANT 107 ELEPHANT 108 ELEPHANT 109 ELEPHANT 110 ELEPHANT 111 ELEPHANT 112 ELEPHANT 113 ELEPHANT 114 ELEPHANT 115 ELEPHANT 116 ELEPHANT 117 ELEPHANT 118 ELEPHANT 119 ELEPHANT 120 ELEPHANT

THE ROUSE.

THE LAST POST WAS A BUGLE CALL AT THE END OF THE DAY. THE ROUSE AT THE START OF A DAY. THE MILITARY NIGHT VIGIL OVER THE SLAIN WAS NOT ONLY TO ENSURE THEY WERE INDEED DEAD/UNCONSCIOUS OR IN A COMA, BUT ALSO TO GUARD THEM FROM MUTILATION OR BEING DRAGGED OFF BY SCAVENGERS. THE CEREMONY IS NOT SO MUCH AN ACT OF REMEMBRANCE BUT A PLEDGE TO GUARD THE HONOUR OF WAR DEAD.

‘AND DREAM OF SHEEP’
– BY KATE BUSH

Little light shining,
Little light will guide them to me.
My face is all lit up,
My face is all lit up.
If they find me racing white horses,
They’ll not take me for a buoy.

Let me be weak,
Let me sleep
And dream of sheep.

“Attention shipping information in sea areas…Bell Rock, Tiree,
Cromaty, gale east…Malin, Sellafield…”

“Come here with me now.”

Oh, I’ll wake up
To any sound of engines,
Ev’ry gull a seeking craft.
I can’t keep my eyes open–
Wish I had my radio.

I left the house at 1100, to the sound of the shipyard sirens wailing the harbour to silence. As I put my hands in my pockets and begun my descent down Jacob’s Ladder, I tried hard to think about ‘the fallen’, to put myself in their shoes and imagine how I’d feel if I’d been sent off, at this age, at this point in my life. All I felt was fear. Fear mixed with relief that I’ll never have
to face the kind of fear they would have.

I met a friend at 1103, and continued with my life, forgetting the fallen for another 364 days.

November 11th 1996

I was in red class.
It was morning registration and there was a very important announcement today. We were told that at 11am a bell would ring. We would have to stand up, be quiet and think very hard about the people who had died fighting for our country.

All morning I puzzled over this mysterious bell. Who would ring it? Why? Who are these people that we should think of? I didn’t know anyone that had died fighting for anything, never mind our whole country! What should
I think very hard about if I didn’t know who these people were?

11am and the bell rang clear through the school. Everybody stopped,
stood and looked down. I knew the time had come to do some very hard thinking so I looked at my feet, screwed up my eyes and thought extremely hard indeed, but it was just no good! I did the naughty thing of opening my eyes to peep around the class but everybody else was deep in very hard thought! How did they all know these people? None of it made any sense
to me.

I started to cry.

The bell rang again and life resumed. The teacher looked up and saw my
tear stained face. She ushered me from the room, explaining that I must
have been very affected by the war and telling me it would all be okay.
Tissues were handed to me and I was allowed to sit on the extra comfy chairs until I felt better enough to re-join in the class.

I never explained the real reason I’d cried.

Thank-you all so much.

The day of remembrance, remembering the ones who fought, the ones who were strong, the ones we loved. In my opinion this is slowly dying. The volunteers who stand there in the freezing cold with boxes of poppies, not one being sold, as people rush past them starting their Christmas shopping. Excuses come flooding; ‘don’t have the time’, ‘don’t have the money’, ‘haven’t got any spare cash’ ‘don’t have the patience’, or even just the simple ‘NO’. How would they feel if the warriors said that when they were fighting? It’s appalling. Help the ones who helped us, instead of helping yourselves.

Series 1.7 AMULETS

prayer

 

 

“Everything will seem much brighter when you look up.” – M.G.

“Break The News”
This is news to (me)
(!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!)
[@ Internal monologue]
What is broken (?)
(((((((((((( The sound barrier ))))))))))))
Bad news does travel [fast]
So [fast] in fact it turns invisible (%)
*Nothing
And no news is good news
(!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!) (!)

‘We don’t need religion
but we could use the love of God’

Let the headlights not be the only thing that shine brightest in the dark.

My dad was carrying it whilst on his motorbike; it was a close call, too close. It was the hardest day of my life until I heard the news of you. Turns out you wasn’t carrying it.

Series 1.8 RESURRECTION & REBIRTH

pomegranate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate this thing, not hate that’s a bit strong but dislike, because even though it looks really nice and interesting after being forced to draw it for 2 years in my art GCSE it loses its aesthetic appeal, however i am having cravings to draw it right now. Its the whole thing about wanting to do something and being told to do it. If you tell somebody to do something, they won’t and the same comes into projects you cant tell somebody go buy into this super awesome mega product of you imagination but you can make them want it, crave it.

Fruit of the dead and passion maker.
Pom Wonder of anti oxidant and blood stopper.
Heart healer and sex stirrer,
Fertility abundance O Sweet bud.

Virgin Mary and holy babe,
In hand and heart and in between legs.
Jewelled berry and militant grenade.
The glory of life and the glory of death.

On Waking Up – Part One
(after first date)

My eyes opened slowly. Light was fighting its way into the room around
the enormous wall of curtain, creating the kind of darkness that only exists during the day. A morning swept over me and I closed my eyes again.

But this was not my room.

A phone buzzed its alarm, a familiar sound. I’ve been awoken by a phone almost every day for years.

But this was not my phone.

An arm reached out and silenced it.

This was definitely not my arm.

Then, warmness overcame me as she turned in to kiss me and suddenly I remembered, hazily.

We had closed down the pub and wondered back to hers. There was wine and talking and music and then I was here, now. Did we? Had we? I didn’t think so. I don’t think we had wanted to. That didn’t last long.

The phone made its best efforts to rouse us as we slowly, sleepily,
drunkenly explored each other. There was a comfort in this, as though I
was somewhere I’d never been before but was inexplicably familiar with.

Waking up to this and to her, is the best thing I can think of. If that morning had been my last morning, it would have been a suitable last morning. I
think if nothing else had happened beyond that morning…

…you get the idea.

My memory is hazy at the best of times, but what always sticks with me
is how I felt at any particular moment. I might not remember details, but
often I remember emotions and sensations. Waking up that way, that
morning, with that person, what I felt was belonging, correctness,
supposed-ness and above all, an overwhelming desire to never be
anywhere else, ever.

On Waking Up – Part Two
(after breakup)

My eyes opened suddenly. I was lying on my bed staring at the ceiling,
watching the daylight barge it’s way through my open curtains. The
morning fell on me like a slab of concrete.

She was unimaginably cruel.

She’s honest. But I don’t want honest. I want her.

What… what do I…?

Thoughts move so fast sometimes that I can’t read them as they go by.
Can’t make sense of them.

My head is heavy with all of last night. Heavy with what she said, and heavy with what I drank in response.

I focussed on the ceiling as though it could somehow provide all the answers.

How am I supposed to move forward from this? What am I supposed to do now? How am I supposed to face people today?

Will I be on my own forever?

When I open myself up to someone, honestly and fully, it changes me. All
I can think past that point is her. All the things I plan, I plan for us to do
together. All the places I want to go, I want to go there with her. I am a
half that she turns into a whole.

At the very least I will take from this the promise that I made while I was
trying to change her mind. I will be the most faithful and loving person she will ever meet, but I will be that to someone else. She denied me the “her” that I wanted, so in time I will deny her the “me” that she doesn’t yet know she needs.

I exhaled deeply as a fresh wave of sadness rose in my chest and displaced
all the air in my lungs.

Hold it together. You can. You have to. You have to get out of bed now.
But there it was. That very same overwhelming desire to never be anywhere else, ever.

The juiciest
The brightest
The hardest

The busy streets for a hot Spanish market, the sun scorching, the loud noises, ‘HOLA’ “HOLA” ‘ASDA PRICE’, the bright colours, the wonderful smells, the cheap items. My first pomegranate, my last.

Series 1.9 GHOSTS

Ghost

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Entry 1:

Q: What is this? Whom does this belong to? Why?

Entry 2:

Here follows a random train of thought written as a forced response
to series 1:9, at 21.37 on a cold Sunday evening, not that it matters.

There is much need for an anonymous outlet, a space to vent.
The relief, the satisfaction.
A self indulgent moment.

We think ourselves important, we think ourselves significant.
And I take pleasure in thinking of you reading this.
Through the gulf of space we are connecting but you still don’t know me.

Here is our testament that we are here, that we exist, that we are more.

I don’t know where this is going.
I don’t know what is going to happen.
But I know that you are reading this, and I can imagine your eyes.

Is this freedom? Can we say what we want? Does it even matter?
(blah blah blah)

Today I’ve wasted a full morning sleeping and I ate my entire advent calendar, however the prospect of a new day is tantalising.

I wonder if anyone actually cares about what other people are writing, and not just taking delight in having their own thoughts read by someone else?
Are we all just frustrated writers, fantasy authors, delusional poets, desperate artists? I know I am.

I should conclude with something, but the prospect of this final entry is
difficult to cease. The possibilities, the temptation. This is turning into some pathetic
teenager’s diary. I’d better end it short and sweet and honestly,

With anticipation and kind regards,

Lucy Hannah Hollidge, Daughter of Mark and Janet, one of a set, happy
and hurting.

Series 1.10 WORKSHOP

MOTH Workshop
Good designers, write, think and work together.

A group of 12 students from all three years of the BA(Hons) Graphic Design course attended a one day workshop on Friday 7th Dec.
They were asked to bring with them an object which they had either inherited or had been passed onto them, one which they have a personal connection too. Each person was invited to talk about their object.
The workshop revolved around exploring the theme of Series 1 – DEATH, which hadn’t to this point been revealed.

In Series 1: The objects in the MOTH Cabinet of Curiosity were metaphors for aspects of DEATH
1.1 Memory & Forgetting (birthday candles)
1.2 A Good Death (poison & cigarettes)
1.3 The Soul (shells)
1.4 Regret (foetus)
1.5 The Afterlife (paper shoes & watch)
1.6 Collective Grief (the poppy)
1.7 Amulet (motorists prayer)
1.8 Resurrection & Rebirth (pomegranate)
1.9 Ghosts (glow in the dark plastic ghost)

In the afternoon MOTH set a design brief to find symbols for death, which challenge programmed conventions of understanding: the morbidity of the ‘skull’ and the exclusivity of religious iconography.
The images below capture the day as well as initial starting points for the Symbols of Death brief.

 

Moth_wkshop_Dec_01Moth_wkshop_Dec_02Moth_wkshop_Dec_07Moth_wkshop_Dec_05Moth_wkshop_Dec_03