105. ABI JOY SAMUEL: A SPACE BETWEEN VISIBILITY AND INVISIBILITY.

PREVIEW: M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) ISSUE 4 RELEASED MAY 2025.

Abi Joy Samuel, ‘Abandoned Shirt/Intergenerational Trauma’, 26 May 2024.

‘My work speaks to those who are silenced. It doesn’t just document these objects; it creates a space where they are forced into view, where they stand in contrast to their usual silence, much like the silence I often feel when trying to navigate these complex layers of identity and history’ A.J.S.

The first time we discussed your work, I think was in a tutorial and I saw the photographs which are in the next issue of M-A and I was amazed at how ancient they appeared, like statues but in fact were of a shirt tied to a lamppost?

I think I’m trying to hold time still.

When I was ten, I went to an exhibition at the Science Museum about the Titanic. They’d pulled thousands of artefacts from the wreck—preserved through the 4km fall to the seabed. I remember a jar of olives—still sealed, still green. A bottle of wine. A pair of shoes. A comb. I remember staring at it and somehow feeling the long hair of a woman running through its teeth. All of it underwater for a hundred years. I didn’t understand how that was possible, but I remember the feeling. Like time could fold in on itself.

That stayed with me—the idea that the past isn’t gone. It’s just... somewhere else. Waiting.

I remember feeling the same way when I saw images of Auschwitz for the first time—the thousands of shoes and clothes. The trauma of Jewish history is frozen in my body. I believe a lot of things are frozen in my body. I suspect I carry my mother’s trauma too.

I was a happy child. But when I started making art, sometimes what came out was very dark. I think what I’m trying to say is: intergenerational trauma can feel like something is frozen in time. That can be painful, but also—at times—sublime.

My experience is incredibly specific. I have siblings who share similar histories, but mine feels singular—something I carry alone. And because it happened before I had language, it can be hard to name or talk about.

So the work becomes full of small things that find me on the streets. There’s a kind of child-like simplicity to this ready-made approach. A shirt tied to a post. A mark on a wall. Someone else might walk past and not notice. But for me, they’re full of meaning. It’s like I’m noticing myself. The shirt becomes a ghost, its folds set by time. It reminds me of the timeless quality of 18th-century sculptures of veiled women—that illusion of softness carved into stone. Time, suspended. It becomes sacred.

I don’t stage much. I notice. I wait. I frame.

There’s always a tension between disappearance and presence. I’m drawn to things that might be gone tomorrow. That feel like they belong to someone else — or to everyone. I photograph them not just to keep them, but to ask what they mean. To me. To whoever is looking.

Maybe it’s less about freezing time and more about staying with it. Sitting inside the pause. Letting things hum—like a lullaby. Like singing myself to sleep.

Your practice became entrenched with discovering what was in plain sight and yet these artifacts often felt as if you alone could see them...

There is, for me, something distinctly Jewish about the objects I find and photograph. Being Jewish often carries a particular kind of invisibility, a quiet, persistent exclusion that only Jews can truly understand. Rachel Shabi captures this beautifully in Off-White: The Truth About Antisemitism, where she explains how “the dormancy itself is part of the cyclical nature of antisemitism—that things are fine, until, all of a sudden, they aren’t.” (The term 'dormancy' refers to the way antisemitism is often treated as something inactive or hidden, only to surface violently and unexpectedly when societal conditions shift.)

In many ways, my work responds to this dormancy—the tension between visibility and invisibility. It’s simple: I take what is invisible and make it hyper-visible. The tension in my work mirrors the Jewish experience, particularly during those rare, fleeting moments in history when Jews find some measure of success or acceptance—only to be thrust back into the spotlight of whatever issue is most pressing at the time.

I feel this invisibility and sudden hyper-visibility not only in my own life but also in the broader Jewish experience. Even within progressive circles, we are often othered, as David Baddiel writes in Jews Don’t Count: "A sacred circle is drawn around those whom the progressive modern left are prepared to go into battle for, and it seems as if the Jews aren’t in it.” On the other hand, we are also excluded by the right, treated as a minority. As one of my Jewish artist peers puts it, we are “politically homeless.” Discussing antisemitism within the context of Israel and political unrest often feels like it gets dismissed as "missing the point," but for many of us, the experience is incredibly visceral.

My work speaks to those who are silenced. It doesn’t just document these objects; it creates a space where they are forced into view, where they stand in contrast to their usual silence, much like the silence I often feel when trying to navigate these complex layers of identity and history.

I am fascinated at your command of different media, you focused alot on sculpture and yet I realised later that you have a background in drawing, what media do you contemplate most within?

Yes, I draw a lot, and it’s been a common thread throughout all of my creative endeavours. I completed my A Levels in photography, art, textiles, and psychology, then went on to do an art foundation at Central Saint Martins, followed by a degree in fashion design at the University of Westminster. After fashion school, I continued my fine art journey by attending the Royal Drawing School, where I studied anatomy and oil painting under various teachers.

Recently, sculpture—particularly working with ready-mades—has become an exciting intersection between my love of fashion, my interest in the human form as a vessel of expression, and my fine art practice. But drawing, especially on large-scale canvases, is what I focused on before attending the Royal College of Art in 2024, and I still find myself contemplating it regularly. In fact, I draw every day, and I have a storage container filled with sketchbooks in my garden. It’s a practice I deeply enjoy.

I would categorise my paintings and drawings as figurative expressionism—contemplations of my body in relation to socio-political changes, identity, and my evolving experience as a woman with a constantly shifting sense of sexuality. They exist in the tension between figuration and abstraction, using multiple layers of charcoal, pastel, and oil paint. The marks on the page—violent and vulnerable—reflect my personal relationship with self-expression through my body, often using personal film footage as my reference. I only work from moving images, never static ones, because life isn’t static, and it’s in the blurred, inconclusive images that I find my authenticity.

I am always open to my medium evolving. Perhaps it’s my way of refusing to remain static, as that would trap me in the illusion that somehow I’ve “arrived.” I’m deeply inspired by David Bowie, who was gifted with the ability to continually reinvent himself, both in his music and his public persona. He was a shape-shifter, a chameleon constantly changing and evolving. This idea of metamorphosis frequently appears in my drawings, and it speaks to the essence of the human experience: fluid and unpredictable. This is the power of reinvention—it allows me to remain open, curious, and, above all, true to myself. I know that if I were to become confined by gallery contracts or public image, it would stifle me. My art—and my identity—thrives on embracing change and evolution, staying as fluid as the experiences I want to express.

What do you feel your work as a whole represents?

Visible, unseen,

Resilience in fleeting form,

Body and power speak.

What are your signals for change?

Speak less, listen more.

ABI JOY SAMUEL

Abi Joy Samuel is a contributing artist to the 4th issue of M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) published May 2025.

104. GIUSEPPE PENONE: A SPACE BETWEEN OPEN AND CLOSE.

Thoughts in the Roots - SERPENTINE - LONDON.

Giuseppe Penone,‘A occhi chiusi (With Eyes Closed), 2009. Acrylic, glass microspheres, acacia thorns on canvas and white Carrara marble 150 × 510 × 8cm. Photographed by Junzhe Yang for M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

‘Skin, like the eye, is a boundary element, the end point capable of dividing and separating us from what surrounds us… It is the point that allows me, still and afterall, to recognise myself.’ G.P.

To think as a millimetre - as a hive - as a frequency - as to blur into focus as a bow pulled to release -

as a tiny fin to slice the air - as to swell as a shoal - to swathe a sky as a swarm - sudden to move - fleeting to last. And to turn in a flash, to spill over and overwhelm - as freckled plague, a rash that risks to engulf.

As a body takes form - to draw and to drain, to protect and to catch - to dissipate, as starlings move as one, and as a landmass appears as a herd from above. As ants scatter in unison - as crop circles interfere nature, signalling - momentous from beyond - futile to resist.

As a map of a city grows - sped to watch in retrospect - as in exhale - as to undulate time - and to imagine such armadas defending docks, sepia as a painted map, russet as Vandyke drops - ink a parchment page - scraping a terrain- a surface of learning - a dedication to note.

And then to realise that these are the thorns of countless, long decayed in petal. A harvest of natural weapons evolved to protect and yet - repurposed by nimble fingers to amass as a holy camouflage of fur.

A crown of thorns lain as vertical carpet, as a tufting of spears, too tender to touch - snagging memories as fibres caught in remembrance.

This bed of nails, this field of rust - as iron filings repelled from a magnetism to hold - once virile of shine - mechanise to prevent now oxidised to dry - brittle, tawny as to fade - as an almost invisible - dusty as powder - porous as pointillist - with closed eyes to remember this passage of time - pertinent as to punctum - drawn back within an instant.

As a sapling slips to dapple - outstretched to glow - to pierce eyes of porcelain - to be held as an arrow darts to tether a forest’s supple charge, to overgrow and overthrow a human want.

Giuseppe Penone

Giuseppe Penone, Thoughts in the Roots, SERPENTINE - Until 7 September 2025.

103. ALMA STRITT: A SPACE BETWEEN ATTEMPT AND ATTEMPTING.

PREVIEW: M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) ISSUE 4 - RELEASED SPRING 2025.

'… my work, I would say is underpinned by this playful relationship with futility and trying to preserve the already gone.​' A.S.

Alma Stritt, ‘The central Line is experiencing difficulties (I) 05.05.24.’ Image courtesy of the artist. From a series published in M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) issue 4.

The first time I remember seeing your work was a poem written in black biro pressed into gloss carmine red paper - like a miniature folded map - and then I think of scans of maize silk - the effect was that the threads were hovering in space... your processing of atmosphere is very pronounced…

I am definitely always in the mind of collecting, urgently trying to preserve an escaping moment (or atmosphere?) so that it can be returned to in some sense - knowing also this is not possible - at least not to an extent that I would find satisfying. Gathering (items) to suspend the passing of time, feels futile in its intent but still worth attempting, and most of my work I would say is underpinned by this playful relationship with futility and trying to preserve the already gone. It might also have something to do with sensory excess, and trying to come to terms with the dissatisfaction that it feels impossible to absorb a distinct atmosphere completely, I think I hope that collecting relics allows me to extend and re-examine time. I like to see my work as evidence in the aftermath of something which is still hanging in the air, residue of an event which once had an epicentre, heavily inspired by artists such as Sophie Calle and her Hotel Room series initiated in 1981. For reference - in her photographs, (later published in 2021 as ‘The Hotel’) she shared her experience as a hotel maid through serialised photographs of hotel rooms in disarray (with detailed forensic notes). She was fired from her job for her 'intrusions,' but her compilation of mundane observations remains completely extraordinary, and I return to them often. I also class some of my work as 'evidence collection' and a subsequent retracing of events. I look to resolve these projects as similar accumulative bodies of work which have a value much greater than the sum of their parts, imperfectly preserving something firmly tied to reality but also starting to move towards fiction.

Alma Stritt, scanned maize silk, 2024. Made in collaboration with Madeleine Lacroix, Mariana Giedelmann, Tom Caley, Sohum Sharma and Nikhil Raut Suri.

Your work using stickers is fascinating - I am very interested in the way your work using this medium engages with physical and emotional spaces...

I view the sticker works as images ‘escaping’ or resisting presentation formalities in physical and emotional spaces, also forcing me to share the spaces I move through with my printed images and re-examine them frequently. I think I began to, perhaps unfairly, view frames and glass panels as restrictions placed on images. How this reconciles with my wish to archive images, and preserve is an ongoing conflict in my work. From exploring Aby Warburg’s image panels (Mnemosyne Atlas), I adopted the practice of compulsively attaching images to physical surfaces into my own work for (in Warburg's words) 'interrogation' purposes in particular forcing images onto shared surfaces to initiate non-verbal image dialogue. Something seems to happen when images cohabit a physical space, and stickers are a great tool to practice this in shared public spaces. Stickers in public spaces are also exposed to temporal forces such as physical decay. When I think about stickers I think of what this means for the life of images, and how it represents the act of physical publishing, and the agency that is lost by the artist once images have been ’given life’. Some of my favourite sticker experiments are the ones in which I have been forced to return to my own images in public spaces and take in their defacement [see below]. The stickers are an attempt to resolve the unclear relationship between image and object.

Your use of bookbinding as a form of communication seems to be within evolution, a medium that you have been exploring for some time... what is it about making books that draws you back?

I view the books I have accumulated, and also make, as portable co-habitants with whom I share my physical space - their material presence, whether on a shelf, floor or as a doorstop feels important to me. When stored, they are covert, and can always be returned to - patient, and generous in this way. Maybe in some ways they are also alluringly efficient – compact (which has become important to my work, in referencing the feeling of being domestically relocated), and perhaps remaining prepared to be uprooted at short notice. It always struck me that when we moved [home] books were heavy, but the simplest to transport and find a place for in a new room. Books/catalogues are distributable, unassuming, unpretentious and ordinary. Everyone owns books and has space for books, and through binding it becomes possible to create objects from images. This is increasingly relevant to my work and my own understanding of my personal belongings. I am often wondering if I treat my images as 2-dimensional visual memory prompts or material objects. This is something I am continuing to explore.

As an image maker your use of photography is also very specific, the images within the next issue of M-A are all very idiosyncratic as they seem to all capture very precise moments in time that cannot be recaptured, in essence, they remind me of early photography in the sense that they seem to capture moments of magic, like phantoms or fairies...

All the images I take I would class as vernacular. I think again - on their own - none is particularly extraordinary, but as a group my images communicate a feeling of dissociation, perhaps that is the reason for their otherworldly feeling. As many are taken in haste, inevitably they capture fleeting moments, however imperfectly and in variable resolution. I continue to live with the unsettling feeling of being detached from my own memories around this time and trying to find my way back to them, or forward without them. Engaging in vernacular, observational photography feels grounding.

What are your signals for change?

I have been thinking about this for some time – referencing back to the reason I am drawn to portable work/books, seismic changes in my experience have often been sudden and uprooting. When I think back to the largest changes in my life, I did not, and perhaps could not, have see them coming. When I have determinedly tried to anticipate seismic change it has remained suspended in a fantasy world, which I then struggle to recognise, process and make tangible​, when it doesn’t materialise. I am beginning to understand a lot of my work is coming to terms with expressing and valuing the loss of changes I had anticipated which never had the chance to exist, and where I can place that. Since beginning my practice, I have probably become a lot more resilient. I believe I am beginning to have to make peace with observing the signs of slow change. I sense I notice this when I enter a very familiar space and everything is as it always has been, but I feel quietly and privately different.

Alma Stritt, mized media panels:

Left panel:

‘Panel 5 -Debris, Rubble, Sediment, Deconstructed‘ from the 7 part series ‘Panels’ 2024
Inkjet prints on black wallboard 200 x 100 cm
including images from:
Shao Fan - Project No.1 of the Year (2004) Chair, V&A, London.
Poetry written on top of pg.3 of Soviet Bus stops by Christopher Herwig (2015).
Heather and Ivan Morison - Journee des Barricades. 2008, Wellington, New Zealand.

Right panel:

‘Panel 6 - Static, light, emitting, receiving‘  from the 7 part series ‘Panels’ 2024
Inkjet prints on black wallboard 200 x 100 cm
including images from:
Photograph of a Catholic ceremony screening at the V&A, 2024.
NASA - Carl Sagan with the Viking Lander, California.
Doug Aitken - Untitled (Shopping Cart) 2000, New York.
Dóra Maurer - Sluices 4, 1980-81, Tate.
Rirkrit Tiravanija - 1990, MOMA.

Alma Stritt

Alma Stritt is a contributing artist to the 4th issue of M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) published Spring 2025.

102. LEIGH BOWERY: A SPACE BETWEEN FLESH AND SOUL.

Leigh Bowery! Tate Modern - LONDON.

Lucian Freud, Leigh Bowery 1991, Oil on canvas 20 1/10 × 16 1/10 in | 51 × 40.9 cm (c) The Lucian Freud Archive. All Rights Reserved 2024.

"If you label me, you negate me," Leigh Bowery. 1993

Leigh Bowery! Tate Modern - until 31 August 2025.

101. TIRZAH GARWOOD: A SPACE BETWEEN MOMENT AND MOVEMENT.

Tirzah Garwood: Beyond Ravilious, Dulwich Picture Gallery - LONDON.

Tirzah Garwood, Horses and Trains, 1944, oil on canvas.

M-A: In the toppled toys, redwood-sized poppies and intrepid cats - which sculk kingdoms of adventure - a space between reality needing fantasy. Garwood's collection testifies to remind, that despite it all, we need to utilise our dream worlds, if we stand a chance to live and not just survive.

The work of Tirzah Garwood lingers long after being seen for the first time.

The artist's playful use of mixed media creates an undulation of rhythms which collectively sustain a pensive atmosphere -  a language which becomes clearer and louder throughout Garwood’s lifetime. From tentative engravings depicting the micro worlds of domesticated free-moving dolls, scratched in girlhood to a final painting of a self, seen as a statue within a surrealist starlit landscape.

The many rows of paintings, woodcuts, models, embroideries and marbled papers which cover the walls of Dulwich Picture Gallery have an overwhelming sense of attempt. Not in the sense that the works presented do not testify to resolution. There are extraordinary examples of a defined style of various media which are condensed and significant for pushing against the context of the times within which they were made. 

A retrospective of pieces are presented more as thoughts than historical decorative works. The traditions of the prettified passive gentlewoman are actively dismantled in a scintillating series of disruptive dedications to self. Any pre-conceived suggestion that the artist should be seen as just the partner to a famous man are thoroughly broken down, resulting in a presentation which burns with foresight for listening to an internal voice which is quietly questioning and earnest in intention.

Scenes are often viewed as impossible to an adult eye whose vision is weighted by a reality grounded in fear - for Garwood, whose view point seems more that of a child than a grown up - is framed within fantasies of talismen and portals, conjuring calm in the play of discovery. In the toppled toys, redwood-sized poppies and intrepid cats which sculk kingdoms of adventure - a space between reality needing fantasy. Garwood's collection testifies to remind, that despite it all, we need to utilise our dream worlds, if we stand a chance to live and not just survive.

Engraved depictions of domesticity scaled to the size of a doll's house window, invite an audience to peer in, akin to the lace-trimmed windows of the picturesque streets of Dulwich, where this exhibition is located. Their dimly lit interiors full of mystery, amidst the impression of the blissful only to impress the stress of high-maintenance. A cast of characters sleep and stretch, swim and sit - deep in thought - Tirza's eye examines these atmospheres with the focus of an insect - waiting - studying - contemplating the nothingness of life’s motions as both monotomy and monumental.

It is within the marbled papers that Garwood seems most free - as the slackened gaze of ripples repeat a water's surface - to reflect a reality into abstraction and to be hypnotized by such seductive, natural rhythms.  Evoking the sensation of sinking fingers into such fluidity from a boat’s edge or to view a landscape as a zoetrope tillage of ploughed fields from a train window. Garwoods' marbled patterns pigment a surface's edge - a skin of another world beneath, are we looking in or staring up? 

Tirzah Garwood, marbled papers, 1934 - 41.

An impression relative to the Florentine and Turkish tradition of decorative papers -  and yet a percussion of notes appears in front of our eyes - as alternative sheet music for instruments understood by the folkloric and mythical. Chance marks undulate and dance, created by Tirzas's curious, playful summons - allowing for patterns which at first appear to be akin to the end papers of antique books and yet they seem to spring to life before our eyes. The jarring yet hypnotic colour combination of loosely swirled inks akin to the warp and weft floats in a woven cloth - nubbly with fibrous -  raw and raucous as streams of thoughts somehow coexist as a chorus of the subconscious - inter woven as ancestral tartans. For the Garwood checks are presented in a palette of feather plumbed soil shades, in the blushes of emotions in the greys of memories remind of Rorschach ink blots.

The side effect,  possibly to not being acknowledged within her lifetime as her famed husband Eric Ravilious, allowed Garwood time and space to develop quietly as a voice which does not mimic but muster progress from the often salvaged materials and symbolism of a life lived amongst children. A vocabulary of references repeat as a language develops, from the childhood playthings denoting age, to a natural landscape reframed - to re-evaluate - enabling the viewer to perform the role of fantasy narrator within the miniature stage sets presented. All this comedy masks a tangible sense of tragedy - Garwood's menagerie of depicted placid animals - all of whom just miss the eyeline of the viewer, seem silenced - a secret shared with the artist.

Works created out of the private necessity to communicate allow for an extraordinary sense of self-possession within the exhibited materials. There are occasions where works become more than their media - and it is within these that Tirzah Gardwood’s voice can be heard.

Tirzah Garwood, Erksine Returning at Dawn, 1950, oil on canvas.

Tirzah Garwood: Beyond Ravilious, Dulwich Picture Gallery - LONDON. Until 26 May, 2025.

Special Thanks: Eibhlin Kissack.

100. JOE RICHARDS: A SPACE BETWEEN…

To celebrate the 100th contemplation of M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN), a series of questions are proposed by members of the M-A community to editor and founder Joe Richards.

M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) in MagCulture London. Cover image: Joe Richards photographed by Orlando Osinowo.

AZIAH LUSALA: I’d love to hear more about what inspired you to start M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

M-A was started for two reasons, firstly as a need to create a space for emergent talent to be seen in a very specific curated context that I didn't see existing in magazine publishing. Secondly, to provide an opportunity for myself to step up into the role of an art director.

Part of my work and responsibility is in education, I meet students in tutorials where I see new work and sometimes you will see an alignment of self - of when natural talent meets a moment of opportunity and it is very rare and very special to witness live - it is when a creative person is birthed in a way. It is both exhilarating to see but also sometimes very sad because so often that work is never seen again, so I decided in one of those rare sightings to do something about it. 

I was also tired of seeing brilliant talent being patronised by art media so I decided to create a platform, originally with Manon Duhamel and now with Hejing Fang and Zhonghua Sui, which would be a place of respect and a place of extreme beauty, because I believe talent is talent - it is from a higher place and should be treated as such. M-A is named after the Japanese state of pause and contemplation, which I hope reflects that intention.

Aziah Lusala, Black Jesus, 2023, Oil on Canvas, 100cm x 100cm. London. Private Collection. Black Jesus was presented in the exhibition ‘From The One To The Many’ in September 2024, at Saatchi Gallery, London.

The publication is a chronicle of discovery. Every image chosen is because it makes my heart beat faster - every image was made by the artist because it is a reaction to a feeling that could not be expressed in any other media. And so each issue is very visceral - it changes you, it guides you, and that is what M-A offers. Within each issue, there is work made by both emergent and established artists, this combination allows for a juxtaposition of connection, which further charges each issue.

Yoko Ono, Installation view of Apple 1966 from Yoko Ono One Woman Show, 1960-1971,MoMA, NYC, 2015. Photo © Thomas Griesel.

Additionally, I know you curated a show that I was part of — and do you see yourself doing more of that in the future?

Yes

XIANGYIN TOM GU: How do you manage to encompass, in many times, complicated sources of inputs from different artists and writers, in presenting M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) and what do you envision this platform to become in the future?

I manage though my subconscious on the most part, using my intuition as much as I can to guide the choices I make. I have come to realise that once you collect pieces of work made through expressions of an individual’s search for truth - then a soul emerges from all the works together, similarly in curation. This collective energy guides the direction of the edit. In many ways I am not really managing this direction, I am following it.

‘Entangled Past’ by Xiangyin Tom Gu 2022.

CHIEDU OKONTA: Your questions are very intuitive. They are guided towards not only receiving the answer you want in the clearest and most honest form but also aiding the artist in digging deeper into understanding their work, practice, and even themselves. Is it a part of your thought process to include a means to assist the artist in articulating their practice through the questions?

I want to know the answers firstly because I am fascinated in the work of the artist. Some editors, I hear say that they ask questions for their audience, and I ask questions for myself, but yes sometimes I ask questions for you to hear yourself because there is often more revelation of reason in that. Part of my intention for M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) is to do what the best educators I work with do, they create a space to think in and to hear yourself back - and so that is what I hope the interviews do - to create a space to hear yourself back - and to be more precise with that thought. A lot of the questions I ask return to a point Carrie Mae Weems makes about paying attention to the work - because the work will tell you what you are up to, and this is what I am most interested in.

Carrie Mae Weems - Untitled (Woman and Daughter with Make Up) from Kitchen Table Series, 1990 © Carrie Mae Weems. Courtesy of the artist, Jack Shainman Gallery, New York / Galerie Barbara Thumm, Berlin. Thank you Barbican. Image published within M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) issue 3. Still life image: Harry Nathan.

DANIEL McCABE: Do you ever visit a show or exhibition and think, ‘I really have nothing to say about this’?

Most of the time, in fact I have become more attracted to work which challenges me to think harder, I feel the most exciting work will not let you in easily, it challenges you to step up and think. This is when you know, also when work is ahead of the time you are in, even if it was made a long time ago, it challenges you to consider your position.

Magalleria Bath, window display of M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) issue 2.

Ideally I enter the work knowing as little as possible - Looking back through the 99 contemplations, the turning point in technique was probably a piece I wrote about Dan Flavin - a show at David Zwirner gallery and I entered the space not really knowing about the artist other than seeing the work occasionally, but that show was all encompassing, I left the gallery a different person to the one who entered and art can do that - my task is to document the change, the discovery, it is not to review the work, but to contemplate it. I learnt this in the writing of the Flavin piece - I just surrendered to it - I listened to it - it totally changed my method and since then I repeat this way of recording.

Dan Flavin, coloured fluorescent light - David Zwirner - 24 Grafton Street, LONDON.Above image: Anna Arca. Courtesy David Zwimer.

I realise now that my aim is to connect to the soul of the maker of the piece - it is very meditative in that way -  I think this is probably why the platform moves people so much because they mirror this - and the viewer needs it, they want to feel more - and they want a space to do that.

Ekua McMorris, untitled, image courtesy of the artist.

EKUA McMORRIS: You often reference women of influence, from Toni Morrison, Oprah Winfrey, Carrie Mae Weems, can you say something about how you have been inspired by these women and how they have shaped your thinking, making?

I feel it goes back to my own mother of course, and I am probably sensing her in the wisdom and grace of others also, looking back I have always sought guidance and inspiration from woman, my teachers at school, in my friendships, and in the music of Sade, Lauren Hill, Mary J. Blige and when I started to read, yes Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou and when we were blessed to hear Carrie Mae Weems speak, these women change you with their contribution, they instruct you to react to cultivate change and I practice this. In terms of shaping my thinking, I see my voice, my place as having more value now in terms of enabling change, this must on some unconscious level be in direct response to your question. And you Ekua, you have taught me to trust more in that instinct.

Eva Vermendel, ‘Wave’, Margate, 2017. Image courtesy of the artist.

EVA VERMENDEL: If you could choose one piece of art from the Courtauld Gallery, which one would it be, why and where would you put it?

'Antibes' by Claude Monet - That painting is extraordinary - the revelatory ability he had to depict emotion within nature is... very challenging to translate in a language which is not Monet. Monet is a radical conceptual contributor in that sense - to depict the moment after a rain storm, the warm air of the ocean - and of course it is him, he is these elements and when we view them we also become them...  A work as a window - inhaling the sea air as if not seen for a long time, and we return to remember, it has a bodily pull - a physical embrace. I hang it permanently within my imagination and retreat to it as much as possible, especially in these times.

Daniel Obasi, image courtesy of the artist.

DANIEL OBASI: Journey through time and correct a mistake past, present or future.

I would correct the times when the human condition overrides the instinct to do the right thing.

Mistakes are not always mistakes but decisions masked as mistakes by those who do know better - and so I contemplate that moment of choice - which arrives as a pause of thought, if there is one, which actually I think there often is, take an extra moment to consider your response ahead of action.

Lee Miller, Giza 1937. Image courtesy of the Lee Miller archives. Published within M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) issue 2. Still life image: Harry Nathan.

ALMA STRITT: What does it mean to hold an image? 

​There is a palpable point in editing M-A when the images will form a consciousness of their own, and they hold you - the viewer - this shift is extraordinary and a highly addictive point of discovery for me within the process. They take hold of you because you see your reflection back, you relive parts of your life and you have distance to be objective and read the messages which are audible only to you and this is why I love and live through this - because it is a direct line to humanity and to the state of the culture, and artists have been blessed with that ability to tap a much higher vibration, I trust in this.

MAXSHO, No Dey Squeeze Face (Dont Worry), 2023. June 2024.

MAXSHO: When you dream, where do you go? Could you describe Joe’s sanctuary where he meets with his soul?

I levitate, I breathe in clean air and I fly, not so much in a Fellini way but in a Chagall sort of way, and sometimes I play games which make me laugh alot as I am invisible so no one can see me... it is very liberating to fly and be invisible. It is funny actually as this is often the response people make to M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) about fresh air, maybe I am manifesting that.

Callum Helcke, Photographed by Arnan Wang April 2023.

CALLUM HELCKE: If you could pick one person, who might you wish could read these contemplations, and, how do you think they would respond? Still here or passed, well-known or close to home.

It is for the stranger who didn't realise they were estranged - it is for Peter Pan who belives in the window always ajar - in many ways it is the publication I wish I had when I needed deeper inspiration and the publication I realise I need now because it mirrors who I want to be and who I am - I have been making versions of M-A for 30 years, this is how I make sense of the world, when I first showed these books they became useful to others and so M-A became what it is out of need - not really out of choice... M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) is a service in that sense, to show what is next - its objective is to inspire radical thoughts and to create a space to contemplate the future... so it is for all of us.

Cy Twombly, Window Screen, Lexington, VA, 1997. Dry-print on cardboard. 17 × 11 inches. © Fondazione Nicola Del Roscio. Image published within M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) issue 3, still life image: Harry Nathan.

Thank you to all featured artists, galleries and press departments for your support and contribution.

To read all 100 contemplations and interviews, visit M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN)

99. PAULE VÉZELAY: A SPACE BETWEEN MARJORIE AND PAULE.

Paule Vézelay: Living Lines, Royal West of England Academy - BRISTOL.

Paule Vézelay, Paysage (Landscape) 1946, Oil on canvas. Private collection, courtesy England & Co, London.

The faded curtains of Paule Vézelay are drawn closed, their function is prevention and yet occasional beams of sun damage remind that in the end, nature will always overrule human intention. The printed cloth is patterned with ‘Parade’ from 1956 - a design the artist created, inspired by French medieval banners denoting the identities of different regions. The symbolic motifs evoke heraldry - the repeated forms reimagine institutional structures - suggest systems with new rules, an endless mass of chess pieces stand in dispersed rows, heraldic crests appear rearranged - original elements extracted to form an identity for its mysterious maker - an identity in review.

Paris was depicted within Marjorie Watson-Williams’ game plan long before they renamed themselves Vézelay - the nonchalant, aristocratic title heralding immediate acceptance, and yet as an artist - Paule's contribution is not sensed within artifact as her fellow surrealists - but in aura and an ability to capture air.

A Parisian born in Bristol - manifested through chalken smudges communicating left bank atmospheres - a Tour Eiffel beam sensed within the hushed cinema of a Bristolian hippodrome - For Paule Vézelay knew that Paris exists not in the logical but in the illogical, in the atmosphere of light and in the magic of nothingness. Long before she relocated to the centre of Paris' avant-garde - Vézelay knew - to be is to become, a journey is more important than the destination.

In 'The Sunbathers', the artist captures the undulating forms of the naked and soothed in a dappled depiction of intimacy, so specific that the canvas could be read as notes for a musician to perform. A visual fluency is at times particularly pronounced, demonstrating the many attempts to translate the internal to the external.

There are signs of patronage within the proofs presented - in the scribbled notes from mentors whose own searching lights inspired followers to become inevitably influenced by their brilliance. Within the works on display, many share a visual tone of materials applied in the idiom of others, and yet who can prove whose defined such methods first, and does that race or measure matter? For Vézelay to capture the air, the L'Air du Temps becomes paramount in a search for self.

Letter to Paule Vézelay from Henri Matisse, 1936.

The returning motif of jigsaw pieces creates intriguing episodes to contemplate - segments which occasionally glide through works, sometimes leaving scorched shadows suggesting traumatic past events informing a present - still in motion. This sense of time and missing elements of information allow for further confusion - as a ground has grown over preventing an order of play from forming a whole - forever to not fit as they once did. In 'Strange landscape' these familiar pieces return again, this time to stand on end as a figure awaiting their next movement - a dancer on pointe - agile and alert, exhausted from waiting for instruction.

A further visual depiction of puzzle pieces - now rotund without irregular edges appear more as sacks filled with helium to gently move on their own accord, as balloons, buoyant and gentle - their formless wholes no longer silhouettes against an opposite to fill, their apparent function no longer to be toyed with but to float alone into nothingness.

In 'Paysage, painted in 1946, a flurry of organic ephemera appear strewn across a surface. The viewer watches a scene of disarray, as our eyes rest on each piece of a jigsaw which was never intended to fit to form a whole, we realise that this still-life is levitating above a ground which casts no shadow, a life stilled. Such scattered seeds formed by nature, pre-spring unfurlings, tender freckled shells and foraged saplings, embryonic moments of hope, weightless and whispering, gasping in the sunlight as if new to an earth still in its dormancy. As the sun rises to burn a horizon rouge - ‘red sky at dawn - a shepherd's warning. And so for Vézelay, whose flock of shadowless unfurlings symbolise a life snapped short, as a cruel storm severs a wartime generation from their chance to mature and flourish to see the day ahead.

Paule Vézelay, ‘Parade’, Furnishing Fabric, Printed cotton curtain with a double-lobed abstract shape in brown and white on a black ground. 1956-1957.

Paule Vézelay: Living Lines, Royal West of England Academy, Bristol. Until 27 April 2025.

98. RON MUECK: A SPACE BETWEEN IMPLICATION AND APPLICATION.

‘En Garde’, Thaddaeus Ropac - LONDON. Photographed by Junzhe Yang

Ron Mueck, En Garde, 2023. Mixed media. 285 × 480 × 530 cm. Thaddeaus Ropac London. Image: Junzhe Yang for M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

An impression of a moment sustained forever. An impossible depiction of a split second where a tryptic of statues, a pack of killers - form a singular spectacle of terror which is made visually louder due to a scale that dwarfs the viewer. Freezing our immediate response and confusing our instincts. 

Immediately these hormone-free beings create a chemical reaction in the humans who view them. The heart races and adrenaline surges to what we see. Is this the end? And then a split second later we know it is all an illusion. Ron Mueck has tricked us again.

As with any near escape, the moments after become more, our footsteps lighter, the air fresher. We have survived. Leaving from where we came, through that doorway from which we entered, we return to our lives somehow changed by what we have witnessed or what we think we have witnessed and yet bury the experience within the many other near misses of surviving.

Mueck explores a territory which many have trespassed before him, from Louise Bourgeois's multiple Mamon sculptures which tower cathedral-like above our heads. Even Michaelangos' David, whose giant foreshortened body stands imposing and impossible. All tell part of their stories and testify to terrify as they loom high above us, casting their shadows on the untold narratives they suggest. Of battling Goliath and of the unthinkable hatching of giant arachnid eggs... The furthering of a future of unknowns is all the more unnerving than the forms of those depicted. For the imagination is the fertile ground of such nightmares to be sustained. And as Muecks' pack of ferocious guard dogs - permanently en guard suggest - the real fear is in the implication not the application.

Is this what fear looks like? Skin not of the fathomable but of the mechanical? A surface familiar as if fallen to softly form a fur as satin which glides as a landscape viewed from afar. An application to form an essence - silent and without patination ——- as a machine created for a singular purpose - a life as a weapon. These forms fascinate - seemingly rendered as a flat silhouette and yet subtle variation invites the eye to absorb these god-like depictions - Reminiscent of an imagined Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the one-way gates of Hades - allowing the dead to enter but not to leave. Mueck’s pack of poised Dobermanns similarly appear to have no mercy as they study the single doorway of their gallery corner. Their blank eyes are reminiscent of ancient statues whose irises - now blind from wear - their carved sockets permanently painted open - never to close, forever on alert.

The artist keeps the audience unaware of their motivations - leaving few clues to follow, gallery instructions inform of traditional etiquette to not touch, and a didactic text reads 'mixed media'. Both statements contribute to the viewers' state of confusion - Are we too part of this media? Along with the room, the doorway, even the watchful assistant? - We are all watching each other. And yet the work itself, its six eyeballs - blank and rendered blind in the same material that coats its body, suggests a shadow, a scenery - to be viewed from afar. As a folly on a horizon suggesting dominance of territory. And so 'En Guard' manipulates within the experience of viewing. A proposition to react by making a choice - a reduction of options to fight or flee, and both seem futile when your opponents overwhelm to such impossible proportions. And yet the open doorway provides a glimmer of hope.

Ron Mueck, En Garde, 2023. Mixed media. 285 × 480 × 530 cm. Thaddeaus Ropac London. Image: Junzhe Yang for M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

Within the installations' heightened momentary state, there is also a gentility - even a vulnerability. Within the gracious poise of the animals depicted, within the curvature of anatomies rendered perfect in realisation as if formed by a divine force. No sense of human hand is implied through production, and yet the satin luster of these bodies invites caress. Within the human response to this frozen atmosphere, where viewers tip-toe into this gallery stage as to not disturb the giants ahead. To tentatively circle the work is to enter another space - as to trespass into the work itself, as to view the stage from behind the curtain, and see the created world as scenery and the faces of the audience as fools. Are we now to become the fourth player within this spectacle, to mirror what we believe to be true? To stand with these poised killers? Are we also to stare into that empty doorway expectant of the impending?

The palpable sense of momentum to experience an event - materialised not as we witness but as we imagine? - Are we in fact viewing a proposition? Where props stand in place of realities? Fashioned to frighten, created to control... Why have we chosen to be entertained by such terrors?

Ron Mueck, En Garde, 2023. Mixed media. 285 × 480 × 530 cm. Thaddeaus Ropac London. Image: Junzhe Yang for M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

Ron Mueck, En Garde Thaddeaus Ropac London - Until 2 April 2025.

Special thanks Junzhe Yang.

97. SAM JOSEPH: A SPACE BETWEEN VALUE AND LIGHT.

Sam Joseph, Hyde Park, February 2024.

‘For me, the act of bringing light into discarded spaces became a metaphor for this healing process, both reclaiming spaces and reclaiming parts of myself.’ S.J.

Please can you introduce your practice?

My practice as a multidisciplinary artist and designer with a visual impairment​, centres on exploring physical spaces and their capacity to convey stories, emotions, and societal narratives through fine art and design methodologies. Through multidisciplinary approaches, spanning film, printmaking, photography and spatial design, I personify spaces by embedding them with histories and experiences, particularly focusing on themes of gender-based violence, value systems and systemic inequality. By working across media and curatorial practices, I aim to challenge the perception of overlooked, devalued spaces, transforming them into platforms for empowerment and critical dialogue through design, photography, print and film. Imagery created​ by experimenting​, including scale​, uses a specific location as a backdrop and initial starting point to any project, which forms the foundation of my ongoing projects.

Your commitment to developing ideas is fascinating​... how do you​ process your instincts within your practice?

Instincts are integral to my creative process, serving as both an emotional and intellectual compass when engaging with spaces and thematic concerns. I often begin with an immediate, visceral reaction to elements such as light, materiality, or the overall ambiance of a space, particularly those considered marginalised or neglected. This intuitive response cataly​ses further exploration, which is subsequently informed by systematic research, technical experimentation, and collaborative efforts.

My approach is inherently multidisciplinary, involving a deconstruction of ideas through various methods, including the integration of personal narratives, focused research on subjects such as gender-based violence, the built environment, design methodologies, and emerging technologies. By examining concepts from a diverse range of perspectives, I aim to rigorously analyse and refine my ideas, ensuring that they resonate within both artistic and broader societal contexts. This process allows for a comprehensive and nuanced development of ideas that emerge from, and are informed by, initial instinctual responses.

The sense of time within your ​work is very specific, echoing history and always with a feeling of momentum. Please can you expand upon how you engage with time within your work​?

Yes​, time is an important factor in my work, explored through its layers, past, present, and future. I engage with time by responding to spaces that hold historical echoes while also embodying a sense of transformation or anticipation. These spaces often evoke a visceral, cinematic quality that I capture through photography, marking the starting point of my creative process. Photography becomes a way for me to capture that moment where the past converges with the present, inviting reflection on what was, what is, and what could be.

This engagement with time is often translated into my narratives or projects that explore societal issues. For example, in my speculative design for a transitional home for women escaping domestic abuse, I considered the temporal transition between trauma and healing, designing a space that reflects both the weight of the past and the possibility of renewal. Similarly, my upcoming short film (IN)VISIBLE uses a partially developed architectural space to explore societal instability, where the unfinished structure reflects the fragility of the present and the potential for future change.

Technically, I address time through iterative processes that challenge permanence. My photolithographic book soon to be exhibited at Southwark Park Galleries this year, for instance, features a curated neglected space with objects of no value that fade with each reproduction, emphasising the ephemerality of memory and materiality. Inspired by Hito Steyerl’s, poor image, this work juxtaposes degradation and precision to reflect the passage of time.
Ultimately, time within my work becomes a tool to provoke reflection on collective responsibility, connecting history and the present to inspire future action.

Within your work, there are many areas of cross-over, of a palpable change in state as materials morph​... ​

The concept of morphing and melding in my work represents a transformation, one that is as much about materials and processes as it is about the societal contexts I aim to challenge. This change in state, reflects a shift from visible to invisible, from marginalisation to empowerment. For instance, in Why Did(n't) You Leave?  I reimagined an existing site of an industrial factory, a symbol of labour and cold efficiency, as a sanctuary for survivors of domestic abuse. Here, I combined personal narratives with technical experimentation and collaborative processes to transform the space into a platform for healing and empowerment.
This idea of transformation extends to my project (In)Visible, where I consciously explored the theme of gender-based violence and value systems through multiple mediums, including film, photography, printmaking, and spatial design.  I worked to challenge conventional distinctions between materiality and meaning. By blurring these boundaries, I sought to draw attention to both the invisibility of systemic values, injustices and the resilience of those affected.
For me, this state of transformation also represents a personal challenge: to push the limits of my practice by experimenting with new skills, media​, and concepts. (In)Visible became an opportunity to explore not only innovative methodologies but also the potential of art to question our built environment, entrenched societal norms to inspire change. Ultimately, this melding of material and societal critique allows me to create work that engages with broader issues of equity and justice, challenging both myself and my audience to envision new possibilities and narratives.

The first time we met we spoke about light and the metaphorical need to illuminate​ as seen in your work​... how do you use light​ in your practice?

Light, as both a physical and metaphorical element, plays an important role in my practice as both artist and designer. Inspired by Tonino Griffero’s reflections on light as a transformative force and Gernot Boehme’s exploration of light’s role in creating atmospheres, I see light as an active participant in shaping spaces and narratives. Light is intrinsic to how I connect with spaces, often serving as the initial point of emotional resonance through my photographic and print practice. I am drawn to how natural light interacts with undervalued or discarded environments, transforming them into cinematic frames that hold beauty and narrative depth.

This is also evident in my use of architectural daylighting, an aspect of my art and design practice where natural light inspires well-being and emphasises the stories embedded within spaces. Beyond its physical presence, light serves as a metaphor for awareness and revelation, illuminating critical issues such as gender-based violence and empowering marginalised voices. Through light, I aim to create spaces that are seen and felt, inspiring emotional connection and societal reflection.

In our original discussion, when you first asked me why I wish to bring light within dark spaces, the question made me stop in my tracks. For nearly two weeks, I sat with it, reflecting deeply. Initially, I had believed this was purely an emotive and instinctual response, but when you asked why, I couldn’t answer at the time. What I discovered through this self-analysis was that my desire to capture, illuminate, or bring light into spaces was deeply personal. It was rooted in my processing of trauma of sexual violence at school and then domestic abuse through my marriage.

In my research, Judith Herman’s seminal work Trauma and Recovery, the process of reclaiming agency and creating meaning is vital for survivors. She highlights that trauma often fractures one’s sense of time and self, making the act of rebuilding a cohesive narrative essential to healing. For me, the act of bringing light into discarded spaces became a metaphor for this healing process, both reclaiming spaces and reclaiming parts of myself. These spaces I turned to were an escape, a detachment from reality. The self-seen aestheticism in neglected, discarded places became my solace. I found beauty in these overlooked environments, resonating with their resilience.

Bessel van der Kolk, in The Body Keeps the Score, also resonates with me emphasising how trauma is stored not just in the mind but in the body. This notion of physical and emotional imprint resonates with how I engage with space and light, using them to create environments that allow for a sense of safety, transformation, and renewal. For me, these neglected spaces mirrored my own experiences of feeling undervalued and invisible, and my fight to present them as worthy, to bring light and value to them, paralleled my own struggle for self-worth and potential.

Sam Joseph

96. NOAH DAVIS: A SPACE BETWEEN REALITY AND MAGIC.

Noah Davis, The Barbican - LONDON.

Noah Davis, 40 Acres and a Unicorn, 2007 (c) The Estate of Noah Davis Courtesy The Estate of Noah Davis and David Zwirner.

'I'd rather fail at painting than be successful in anything else.' N.D.

A unicorn stands in blackness - illuminated as if from within, their lunar skin a lantern - lighting a way for its rider. A seated figure whose limbs amorphous - semi-wrapped within a cask of bandage. The figure seems familiar from a rose period Picasso? Or rather the original source for such artists who stole inspiration from sacred African artifacts. The figure - softly holds the reins of nothingness - as the mythical being's horn - sharply directs our attention to the sky above. The magical creature stands stately on what appears to be a section of a convex orb. Noah Davis was known to associate himself with Osiris, the Egyptian god of the afterlife. The god of the moon and lord of silence.

A posthumous presentation of paintings continues the traditions of storytelling - Davis's contribution washes over you as a storm which has been brewing in a distance, a storm which has been forming long before the artist's now famed status - an artist who has run a relay with a responsibility to respond and define.

Symbolism is particularly pronounced within the work of Davis, the influence of ancient Egypt noted for the repeated connection to Osiris, associated with the annual flooding of the Nile River. Water is everywhere within the works seen, within the splash-less turquoise pools - flatly rendered as green screens - allow for our own imagined projections - our own lived reflections and realities. Within the lagoons and lakes that backdrop painted collectives, within the humid hazes rendered to bleed as damp and unset, of tears which never dry, images which return us to the first times seen as the last. Again and again - the artist presents worlds within worlds, at times over-painted as a rhythm within a chorus, as a note hanging in space - to stretch as the overheard trumpet of John Coltrane, which lingers to meld into an atmosphere of prayer.

A body levitates between worlds - never to break the surface with a splash - for as Muybridge proved with horses - so too does Davis - that to jump is really to take flight - and as he intended to prove - there is magic within his reality.

'It's really all you have is this one image, we are not filmmakers, we are not making television, we are not on the radio… we are doing this one image, and how can we convey a whole story, a whole landscape of feelings and everything just with this one still image​.' N.D.

Images glide as the photographs collected from buckets of abandoned identities found in Los Angeles flea markets.

'I was collecting as many photographs as I possibly could... trying to pick the ones that felt most like snap photography... (a slice of life. It's not necessarily high photography, but tells a story... My purpose for when I first started painting was to take these anonymous moments and make them permanent...
The reason I started painting was that I almost felt like those photographs, I felt that nobody knew who I was.' N.D.

These atmospheric depictions show scenes that possibly mirror the artist's own nuclear family dynamic, scenes of life and of the normalities of the everyday, where to be seen in states of undress are not rendered erotic but innocent and responsive to temperature and temperament.

Eyes meet camera lenses without pose or modern-day coy deceit, instead, placid faces look back, their sepia blurs printed softly - their slackened gaze seem collectively unaware of the cameras recording nature. Reminding of the historic fear of how a camera may rob a person of their soul - and yet with Davis’s emotive re-rendering, created images allow for the reverse - for the soul to be seen - even restored.

'I knew that I wanted to make something that was extremely normal, all this stuff about regular life, seemed artistic, and I wanted to bring it to life, I wanted black people to be normal, that was my whole thing, we are normal right?…
But I wanted to be more magical, I didn’t want to be so stuck in reality.' N.D.

Apparently, at the end of a life, the many memories lived are meant to flash before the eyes, walking through the galleries of Noah Davis - a parallel is felt - to be bathed in the lucid light of summers, the sofa siesta with sisters, to walk with shadows in streets - as states change - to become a portal - a hole torn within the scenery of changing acts - exposing the galaxies within.

To fall as to never meet the end - to sleep within a tender palette applied within a conversation of consciousnesses - watchful and rare. A self frequenting a land of illusions, rendered as mirages on the landscape of confession.

It is with idiosyncratic grace and privacy that Davis distills his magic - depictions of a life made for the eyes of the loved by the soul of the missed.

Noah Davis, Pueblo del Rio: Arabesque, 2014. Oil on Canvas, 121.9 × 182.9 cm. (c) The Estate of Noah Davis Courtesy The Estate of Noah Davis and David Zwirner. Image: M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN).

Noah Davis Barbican - until 11 May 2025.

Special thanks: Hannah Carr and Zoe Graham. David Zwirner Gallery. Dr Ekua McMorris, Dr Susannah Haslem, Alkesh Parmar, Nathan Francois, Dr Aleya James.

95. AZIAH LUSALA: A SPACE BETWEEN FAITH AND REALITY.

Aziah Lusala, Black Jesus, 2023, Oil on Canvas, 100cm x 100cm. London. Private Collection.

‘Ultimately, my work reminds me — and anyone who views it — that no matter how difficult or limiting life may seem, there’s always the potential to transform, to grow, and to create something that transcends the struggle. It’s a testament to perseverance, faith, and the power of self-belief.’ A.L.

I remember meeting you through your work - the first time was in a crit I think, where you presented a series of material tests using black acrylic plastics - I remember sensing that there was a depth to what you were doing and yet at first the impression was of a reflected surface... the contradiction was fascinating.

Entering university, I understood that what I was saying and creating wouldn’t immediately resonate with everyone. 

I knew my perspectives might feel unfamiliar or even unapproachable, but I wanted to find a way to introduce myself and my practice in a way that could connect with others while staying true to its essence.

I still vividly remember something you said to me during that crit — it has stayed with me ever since. You told me, “You need to become the expert in your own practice.” At first, I didn’t know how to process that. 

My initial reaction was, “If I’m the expert, why did I even come here?” But over time, I came to understand it differently. Being the expert didn’t mean I had all the answers — it meant I had a responsibility to bring others into the world of my practice. 

I needed to become the teacher, guiding people to engage with the depth and complexity of my work and how it intertwines with my life.

The Black Jesus painting halts the viewer - the sorrow in the eyes is extraordinary - it is incredibly deep in terms of emotion and yet has been created with a method that feels as if the paint has been pushed and pulled down the surface - when it was shown in The Saatchi gallery earlier this year I kept returning to it - like a magnet...

The story behind Black Jesus is deeply personal and rooted in my upbringing. My father is a pastor, so faith was always a central part of my life. I spent much of my childhood in the church, but I also grew up in the streets, where community and loyalty to one another were everything. 

We gave our all to our community—it was almost like an act of worship. But the activities we indulged in, the things we did to survive or feel connected, wouldn’t be seen as acceptable to others.

Black Jesus captures that tension. His sorrowful eyes reflect the weight of those contradictions—the struggle between sin and redemption, between faith and reality. 

The method of painting — the way the paint feels like it’s been dragged, pushed, and pulled — is intentional. It mirrors the push and pull of those experiences, the turbulence and the beauty that coexist in that environment.

You are about to leave art school, how do you feel now and what have been your signals within that period of time that you will take forward?

As I prepare to leave the Royal College of Art, I feel pride, gratitude, and a sense of unfinished work. My time here has been transformative, pushing me to grow in ways I never imagined. While I’ve accomplished so much, my life remains complex, and getting to this point hasn’t been easy. Right now, my focus is on crossing this milestone while preparing for the next steps.

One of my next steps is traveling to Congo to reconnect with my roots. 

My grandfather was a king in Basankusu, Congo, and as one of the last males in our lineage with a claim to that throne, I feel a deep responsibility to explore my heritage. This journey is about grounding myself in my identity and carrying that connection into my work and future.

When I return, I plan to complete my master’s and build on the foundation I’ve established at the RCA. The most important lessons I’ll take with me are self-belief and attention to detail — trusting my instincts and making intentional decisions about materials and research to add depth and meaning to my work.

Leaving the RCA isn’t an end but the start of something greater. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved — not just for myself, but for my daughter, my community, and as an example of what’s possible. I’m ready to carry these lessons and my legacy forward into the next chapter.

Time is an important element to your practice as an artist…

Time is central to both my life and my practice. The eight years I spent away from civilisation profoundly shaped my understanding of time — not as a limitation, but as a foundation for growth. 

During that period, I rediscovered my passion for art, and this duality of constraint and transformation continues to inform my work.

In 2014, while incarcerated, I created ‘They Got the Key but I’m Still Free.’

At 19, I didn’t fully grasp its significance, but over time, its meaning has deepened.

It now feels like a prophecy, connecting my past struggles to my present growth and future possibilities.

Time gives my work context, allowing it to reflect a broader journey. 

It acts as a thread linking past, present, and future, showing how every moment adds to a larger narrative of identity and transformation.

If you look at the work as a whole, what do you feel it tells you?

Each of my works is a chapter, and together they form a book — a story of my journey from incarceration to creation against all odds. 

Each piece holds a fragment of my experiences, from moments of confinement and struggle to breakthroughs of clarity and freedom. If I look at my body of work as a whole, it tells a story of resilience, redemption, and self-discovery.

It’s a dialogue between the past and present: my early works carry the raw emotions of someone trying to make sense of their reality, while my recent pieces reflect a deeper understanding of myself and my place in the world.

Together, these works show how time and reflection can sculpt pain into meaning and a personal story into something inspirational. 

But more than that, my work is a key — a way to inspire people who grew up in situations like mine. It’s about showing the path I’m trying to navigate to leave that life behind and how far I’ve come in doing so.

Ultimately, my work reminds me — and anyone who views it — that no matter how difficult or limiting life may seem, there’s always the potential to transform, to grow, and to create something that transcends the struggle. It’s a testament to perseverance, faith, and the power of self-belief.

‘Black Jesus’ was presented in the exhibition ‘From The One To The Many’ in September 2024, at Saatchi Gallery, London.

CAN I BE HONEST by Aziah Lusala.

94. ADAM KNIGHT: A SPACE BETWEEN SPATIAL AND TEMPORAL.

Jencksianagram, The Cosmic House - LONDON.

Adam Knight, Cosmic Viewer (Winter), Various Dimensions, Laminate card and convex lenses.

Please introduce Jencksianagram?

Jencksianagram is an exhibition at The Cosmic House in London. The House is a Grade 1 listed building designed by Maggie Keswick and Charles Jencks modified from a late-Georgian house. The Cosmic House remains one of the most notable examples of post-modern architecture in the UK. It is currently used as an archive, museum and exhibition space open to the public. Jencksianagram comprises a number of works: stereographic slides, a set of viewers, a small publication and sculpture. The title combines Jencksiana – which is Charles’ invented symbol used throughout The Cosmic House– with stereogram: two similar images mounted side-by-side. Since late 2023, I’ve been a regular visitor and researcher to the Architectural Library. The Library contains Charles’ vast architectural slide collection which he used and reused to illustrate his lectures and publications. I spent many months methodically viewing every one of the thousands of slides in the Slidescrapers. In doing so I identified near-duplicates in the archive and used them to assemble stereograms – a pair of almost identical two-dimensional images that when displayed side-by-side in a stereoscopic viewer, is optically perceived as a three-dimensional image.

Adam Knight, Cosmic Viewers (Summer and Winter) and Cosmic Slide, Photo: Thierry Bal.

The accompanying book which supports the exhibition, 'Hold all Holes', is beautiful, in production and also in text. Please can you expand upon the notion of 'a slackened gaze' within the context of the exhibition.

Thank you. I’m always hesitant to include texts as work within exhibitions. I feel there can be an uneasy relationship between writing as poetic inquiry and my tendency to outline a method or rationale for the work. However the silence of the archive initiated a desire to speak aloud, whereupon I fastidiously recorded voice notes as I left the archive each week. These fragmented meditations helped structure ‘Hold All Holes’. The publication’s title is from a correspondence between the architect Terry Farrell and his clients Maggie and Charles early on in The Cosmic House’s construction. The phrase ‘Hold all Holes’ was capitalised and underlined, recommending a pause to construction work. For me this was an important spatial and temporal methodology. It helped me to think about ellipsis within the archive. Charles identifies the intrinsic quality of postmodern architecture as having double meaning. ‘To hold’ being both a command to wait and an act of support. Charles was fascinated by the power of metaphors in understanding architecture; he speaks eloquently about this in relation to Le Corbusier’s chapel in Ronchamp. Charles admired the ability of postmodern architecture to codify and play with different readings. In English, there is a similar metaphorical richness around vision and visuality; ‘tunnel vision’, ‘soft focus’, ‘blind-spot’ and so on. So going back to your citing of the term ‘Slackened Gaze’, I wanted to set up a very particular way of viewing the exhibition. The demand of stereoscopic viewing is to resist direct looking and to occupy a lucid state of gazing, a practice analogous to hearing rather than listening. Even though the Cosmic Viewers are an apparatus enabling specific viewing to take place, the experience is still reliant on the visitor optically completing the work. So this too becomes a kind of allegory for engaging with the work of art: to be aware of the conditions and structures enabling the experience.

Adam Knight, Cosmic Viewer - (Autumn) and Cosmic Slide.

Within this site specific exhibition, the sense of atmosphere is very pronounced. How have you expressed this within the curation of Jencksianagram?

I read a recent review of Tai Shani’s exhibition

‘The World to Me Was A Secret: Caesious, Zinnober, Celadon, and Virescent’ – also on show at The House – saying something to the effect that sites don’t get more specific than The Cosmic House. Having worked with sites and situations for the past fifteen years, I feel the practice benefits from having a relationship with a strong context that often the built world provides.

I deeply enjoy the process of bringing to bear my sensibilities and dispositions alongside existing frameworks and structures. There’s a lot of figuring out, being responsive and attentive to where certain interests may take you. I wrote my MA thesis on the importance of distancing the work from the place of production to the site of presentation. Although I no longer have such a dogmatic position, in a way I’ve understood my work through this dichotomy. This is more pronounced where archival objects remain inside the controlled environment of the archive. My visits would often coincide with guided tours of The Cosmic House. As visitors entered the Architectural Library I would be present at the desk researching. In this setting I had a strong sense that I was ‘performing research’, that is to say participating in the life of The House. I became more and more conscious of the Library as a multi-layered space. I’d have passing conversations with other researchers and ongoing discussions with Archivist and Collections Manager Anna McNally. All these activities got me closer to how I imagined the Library was used when Charles was alive - a place of debate, conversation and wonderment. The original intention for the Cosmic Viewers was to install them on the light-tables in the Architectural Library. The tables operate as windows looking down into the Summer Room. It's a clever piece of design where aspects of the room mediate between environments (similarly the undulating roof designed by Maggie originally followed the curvature of the hanging branches above). The decision to present the work in the room adjacent to the Library (Maggies Study) helps to retain certain atmospherics but without being reliant on the specifics of the Library. In the exhibition, the lightboxes play an important role in illuminating the stereograms. A key gesture was to use a warmer light in the boxes which felt more in keeping with the surroundings of the house, rather than the museological cool blue that I was working with in the Library.

Adam Knight, Cosmic Viewers (Spring and Autumn) and Cosmic Slide, Photo: Thierry Bal.

You mention the notion of boxes holding artifacts, which were not originally intended for that use as being a 'surrogate object'... I found this to be fascinating...

Charles' voice and approach is so strong and present throughout the house, the archive and related materials. In 1972 Charles Jencks and Nathan Silver wrote a manifesto on Adhocism. In it they advocate an approach towards the improvisational by using things to hand to solve design problems. The Architectural Library begins as an ambitious conceptual organisation for Charles’ collection, with each book case designed around a particular architectural style: baroque, classicism and so on. As the library expanded according to his needs and interests, these systems started to break down, or rather became corrupted - additional shelves and compartments were installed to accommodate the growing collection.

The ‘Slidescrapers’ are two 5-foot high towers that are dedicated to his image collection. Each metal drawer is tightly packed with varying configurations and contortions of slide boxes. I could see that some slides were housed in after dinner mint packaging. The boxes’ scale and dimensions neatly stack 35mm mounted slides. In one of our early meetings, Anna emphasised that the word archive has a double-meaning: archive as the both collection and the architecture it resides in. The Library, Slidescrapers and slide boxes exemplify this. What I found fascinating was that in places, different kinds of tape were used to reinforce and repair the boxes. The same tape was also used to crop visual details in the slides that Charles included in his teaching materials. Tape becomes a common motif of repair, maintenance and attention. The context of the exhibition arrives at the moment where institutional structures emerge around the archive, and the tensions between Charles’ idiosyncrasies and archival demands play out.

Adam Knight, Cosmic Viewer (Spring) and Cosmic Slide.

Within your research within this specific archive - have you discovered any unanswered questions within Charles Jencks life's work?

The Architectural Library constitutes a unique body of knowledge that challenges orthodox approaches to archiving and digitisation. I enjoy aspects of research that reveal things that would have otherwise been ignored or overlooked. There is an interplay between the formalities of the collection and playful elements of Charles’ identity. Early on in my research, I came across a torn article from a magazine. On one side was a review of an exhibition on East Asian ceramics at the Victoria & Albert Museum, and on the back an advertisement for Medite - manufacturer of Medium Density Fibreboard (used throughout The Cosmic House). Both pages would have interested Charles equally, but what do you focus on in this instance? Furthermore I’ve come to know Charles via anecdotes or through conversations with those who work at The Cosmic House. For instance, the challenge of deciphering his handwriting or how a recurring set of initials required decoding to understand their purpose. In response to the work, I was asked by Lily Jencks (daughter of Charles, The Keeper of Visions and Chairwoman) to what extent Charles was annotating his slides.

I recognise in that question I hold certain insights into the collection that others may not have, even those who were very close to him. I’ve been the only researcher to look through every slide in the Slidecrapers. The slide pairs in the exhibition would have been taken sequentially, allowing us to share his experiences of time between the two photographs. In this way, the work opens up a dialogue with Charles. My time as a researcher and subsequent producer of Jencksianagram resulted in my admission into the digital archive as a ‘named figure’ (alongside previous artists). In a minor way the project becomes part of the history of the House. The reciprocity of archive to artwork is very interesting to me, and hopefully is in keeping with the spirit of how Charles envisioned the way his work and The Cosmic House could be interpreted.

Adam Knight

The Cosmic House Jencks Foundation, 19 Lansdowne Walk, London, W11 3AH.

93. JIL SANDER: A SPACE BETWEEN COMPASS AND COURSE.

Jil Sander by Jil Sander - Prestel.

Jil Sander photographed by Francesco Scavullo, 1980.

Covered with a Warholian screenprint - off set to reveal the multiple layers of self. As screens or shadows suggest the many mirrors to Jil Sander's gaze - Part elusive Garbo, part pragmatic engineer.

- A gaze that stares out to an unseen horizon line, as to be lit by the luna haze of a Hiroshi Sugimoto seascape. Calm yet witness of a space between storms, to chart a course where a map remains closed, and the compass is self: Jil Sander by Jil Sander.

To trace a finger across these pages is to sense a pulse, a vein beneath the skin as a scored fold gives choice to adapt this chronicle of time, this surface of still - A book of feeling over instruction - where images are chosen by the beat of a heart - the pink matter over the need to be understood by the grey.

As in the architectural spaces depicted in print, so too does this object convey an intention of space. On opening the cover or door to a volume on a life lived through the appreciation of the sparsely furnished. The light-filled atriums of Sander’s stores - allowed for contemplations of identity to take flight and perch before purchase. So too do the minimally furnished pages in Irma Booms’ monograph on the German designer - blurs as plasma paused - more flat screen than full bleed. As borderless pages open - allowing the viewer to select combinations of colour, akin to the quiet act of physically contemplating Sander’s expansive collections - as client collaboration - in the 'We' over the 'I'.

Archival film footage - paused to remember amorphous - to focus - as edges soft as pastel impressions smudge gentle memories. Cropped in as evidence - to study the erogenous of a design through glimpses caught - of elbow, nape of neck, undulation of throat.

Softly printed portraits reminiscent of Gerhard Richter paintings form an emotive focus felt - clearer than the digital, richer for the saturation of hue - allowing the eye to glaze upon a past lived - An ode to silence - presented as art - where to fall in love stills the world from its crashing chaos - signals from the noise - within this printed atmosphere - all makes sense and equilibrium is achieved.

A kindness of colours pigment a ream of pages - which occasionally jolt for a warning shot of lapis, cobalt, ruby or gold. The body bare of faceted stones and yet is touched with an artist's palette, tender and private. As with Josef Albers, whose colour block paintings are sensed within the occasional wide borders of white, generous as a foulards edge, to a block of egg yolk yellow or vermillion.

Clothes cut as paper planes stitched in felted sheaths - hover on angular limbs - as Naum Gabo cuts expanses of metal - Sander selects poplin, leather or wool to fathom flatness to form.

Solarised images occasionally blink from pages as to signify the exactitude of a surface understood as blueprint - as garment - as plans become construction.

The sensual surprise of touch of an occasional page of printed plastic breaks the mass of porous papers - as the cellophanes of Peter Lindbergh's film strips - a processing in between moments caught - wet from a dark room before the solidity of permanence. As with her clothes, Sander knows that celluloid lasts longer than a season - and so these pages are further testament of a directorial knowledge of cinemas’ ageless lasting. 

And so Sander protects her uniformed following with a knowing pragmatism that beckons to eras long passed - in the precision of cut and construction, reassuring the wearer with an instilled knowledge. There is a maternal manner in the way ideas are proposed - both on the body and off - in the no-nonsense approach to her work as a designer and in impeccable translation into book form - of gesture over instruction. An offering to those who speak through garments engineered to appear simple for the predilection of the complex. Cuffs hover knuckles - coats swathe shoulders, knees break through double-faced plackets with the rhythm of walking to beguile the viewer and empower the wearer.

The science of seduction, cooly invisible, even impenetrable to the most yet yielding and lucid to the few - whose loyalty is in realising the self.

'The designer is not one to shy away from such classic erotic cues as transparency and the color red. The cut, by contrast, is anything but provocative. Succinct in its approach, it gives the female body the freedom to go unconcealed without making itself vulnerable to expectations.' J.S.

Jil Sander by Jil Sander published by Prestel

Special Thanks Kate Luxton - Prestel.

92. ON KAWARA: A SPACE BETWEEN SENDING AND RECEIVING.

On Kawara: Date Paintings, David Zwirner - LONDON.

On Kawara, JUNE 8, 1966, 1966 from "Today," 1966-2013  
"Hurricane Alma has mounted to 100-mile-an-hour peak winds and is moving toward Cuba." Acrylic on canvas 6 x 34 inches (66 x 86.4 cm). Signed and dated verso Accompanied with artist-made box. Image courtesy of David Zwirner.

‘In a certain sense the phrase "I am still alive" can never be sent as it cannot be received by the addressee instantaneously...It is only valid at the very instant that it is being written, and in the very next second it no longer is a certainty. If the addressee receives the telegram a few hours or days later and reads it, he merely knows that the sender was alive at the very instant the telegram was sent. But when he is reading the telegram, he is totally uncertain if the content of the text is still relevant or if it is still valid The difference, the small displacement between sending and receiving, is that particular unseizable glimpse of the presence of the artist. Likewise, it is a sentence of self-reassurance..."I am still alive." The activity of telling oneself and the world "I am still alive."

O.K. 1970.

On Kawara: Date Paintings. David Zwirner 24 Grafton Street, London. Until January 25, 2025.

Special Thanks: Sara Chan.

91. ZHEKUN WANG: A SPACE BETWEEN MIND AND MATTER.

‘When I play music… sometimes I like to drag a pause… breathe a bit more… I think in some pauses, there’s a lot to reflect upon. Music is very good for that. It creates the perfect space for you to imagine, to contemplate, to feel, to anticipate, and sometimes even to fear.’ Z.W.

Zhekun Wang, ‘Water Plants’, July 2019, Margate. Image courtesy of the artist.

The first conversation we had was about impressionism and the notion of translating emotion through different media. I remember learning from you about how Chopin was using notes in a connected way to how the impressionists were using paint... and that idea was radical to me…

I’m glad you recall this previously discussed connection between music and emotion in the context of impression. During the Romantic period in music, many musicians, including Chopin, composed with deep emotion poured into their pieces. These complex emotions were expressed through various elements such as musical arrangements, technicalities, and sometimes even lyrics. However, in Chopin’s compositions specifically, I sense an impressionistic quality that reminds me of early 1900s Impressionist paintings. This intrigues me because these two distinct art forms seem to emotionally paint, to some degree, the same kind of image.

Chopin’s compositions are known for their poetic nature and the way passages are arranged. For instance, in one of his ballads, you might find yourself sulking over a forlorn lullaby one moment, only to be transported to a jumpy Minute Waltz the next — and the transition feels seamless. What’s fascinating is the lack of a defined boundary between these passages. They all interflow organically, like an arm growing naturally from a shoulder.

This idea of interflow connects to the way Impressionist painters use colour strokes. There are no defined lines, only blocks of colour layered to form an image. These paintings capture the atmosphere rather than specific silhouettes. That’s the same emotional quality I experience when listening to Chopin’s pieces.

For your MA - you studied fashion design and yet you did not make clothes despite a background in pattern cutting, you work in gaming design... what do you feel are the linking skills you have learned to realise your instincts?

I think both practices are designed around the idea of the body. One physical and one digital. In gaming, I am specifically attracted to designing environment art. Making garments provides a bodily experience with clothes, while in gaming, it is the environment that contributes to the player’s bodily experience. It’s the level design and set dressing that make the player feel transformed within the game. I really enjoy that.

That is also the link between the two skills I have learned. Additionally, when making clothes, as you mentioned, pattern cutting is a craft, a process of shaping an object with paper and fabric in 3D space. This skill of 3D modeling, creating forms and shapes, directly translates to the making of game assets.

I think of those specific shades of red and blue when I think of your work, how you distilled such concentrated depth of feeling within them... can you contemplate what they mean to you now?

I link Klein blue to what Derek Jarman’s said about colour. It is a colour of hope. And I think it’s a really positive message. The red was inspired by Almodovar’s film Volver, and a few others that feature this scarlet red quite a lot. It’s passionate, strong, masculine, sexy, and humorous sometimes. 

Zhekun Wang, ‘Stratus’, December 2021, London. Image courtesy of the artist.

The mood of science fiction holds a certain poise within your work - the sense of space - and the feeling of suspension - and the connection to how you play the piano - how the notes are suspended....

I think leaving some space between things is a good practice in life in general hehe. At least, that’s how I feel for now. I like science fiction because it always carries that feeling of possibility and space in between. Also, there’s a sense of isolation — or maybe solitude.

When I play music, sometimes I like to drag a pause a bit longer, breathe a bit more. I think in some pauses, there’s a lot to reflect upon. Music is very good for that. It creates the perfect space for you to imagine, to contemplate, to feel, to anticipate, and sometimes even to fear.

Chopin, Debussy, Ravel, Borodin, Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff—almost all classical composers include, in their pieces, moments to catch a breath. Oh, maybe not Beethoven, because he’s quite intense. I love him for a different reason.

I think suspending a few notes is always more interesting than playing them all in a single breath.

There is much fear surrounding AI and how it will affect the creative industries - what is your view on this? 

From personal experience, AI has been helpful so far. However, I work in creative tech rather than programming or research so to some extent it isn’t that much of a direct connection. It is the secondary product. I don’t think people need to be scared by AI in this industry. It’s just a tool for making things easier. It creates “new” things because it just works faster for the same results. I think the core part of it cannot be replaced by AI, especially in art and creative work. For example, I recently watched ‘Arcane’ Season 2 - all the environments inside are hand-painted. AI is not responsible for this. The composition, the colours, the music, the dialogues between characters… It is just one example that great artwork still needs a lot of human-ness. And with the booming of AI, I think it really makes the creative industry even more important than ever before. 

Zhekun Wang, September 2023, Taklamakan Desert, image courtesy of the artist.

Zhekun Wang

90. FRANCIS BACON: A SPACE BETWEEN SMOKE AND MIRROR.

Francis Bacon, Human Presence. National Portrait Gallery - LONDON.

Francis Bacon, Head of A Boy, 1960. Oil on Canvas. 61 × 44.5 cm. Private Collection.

An emerald swathe of wool on skin - a body swung - as orb of the molten solidify to shatter.

A subject waits - as time ticks on to a discourse out of sight in a background palette of grays. 

To recoil within such conversations - as to be poised as a hostage within a frame - held through a tension sustained through longing, estranged, irrational - irresistible - as boundaries crossed and desires held.

To wreak havoc through the torment of worth - confined confidence of self - veiled and volatile within a distraction of predatory colour. A murmuring of bruises - beguile as violence is sustained - as open scars - hostile to heal.

Slaughtered pinks - demand and deter - as meat slapped to marble - awaiting a broken blade to sever, wipe and cherish.

As to trespass a soul’s soil and obsessively wrench and gouge - feast until fed - drink until drunk. As to climb into such cavities - internal architecture bled - raw to ruin - the bodily despicable. Follies of flesh viewed to pull and twist - to snap as a pincer gaze. A moment held - as a fish gasps for air - hooked lip held, body beats to flash such impossible greens as iridescent scales - to shimmer as eyes fix on such brilliance.

Within a no-mans-land where women are unseen - confiscated confessions lay alert within a dormancy of wanting. As to fight such urges as to bop and weave - to risk all for a chance to be confronted - alas these battles are never won - as to remain imprisoned within distorted depictions - as the smoke clears the mirrors remain.

Letter from Francis Bacon to Lucian Freud, written in Malta, dated 15 April 1964. National Portrait Gallery.

Francis Bacon, Human Presence. National Portrait Gallery. Until 19 January 2025.

Special thanks: Perry Stewart.

89. RACHEL WHITEREAD: A SPACE BETWEEN MAKE AND NEED.

FREIZE LONDON 2024.

Rachel Whiteread, Untitled (Entrace Lilac) 2024.

'…I also work on these white elephants… - like House or Untitled Monument - things that are incredibly ambitious, take an awful long time to do, involve a lot of controversy, an awful lot of people, and don't make any money particularly, but it's just because I need to make them. ' R.W.

GALLERIA LORCAN O’NEILL ROMA

88. FRANCISCO DE GOYA Y LUCIENTES: A SPACE BETWEEN FLIGHT AND FALL.

Uncanny Visions: Paula Rego and Francisco de Goya, Holburne Museum - BATH.

Francisco de Goya Y Lucientes (1746-1828) A way of flying, plate 13 from The Follies (1815-24). c.1854. Etching, aquatint and possibly drypoint on paper. Trustees of the British Museum.

To etch an image grazed into a surface of burnished scratches.

to colour by hand - as to brush sugar washes in hues of a knowing childhood - threaten nightmares - sung as lullabys...

Bulls loom lightly - to glide as helium-filled or gravity-free within a constellation of freckled forgottens. Their feathered tails gentle - their eyes watchful.

Rego's giant cat and silhouetted fiddle pluck a night sky as a dog barks in silence and a saucer scuttles into a foliage of fools.

As a giant grimaces - as features sliced from a chalken cliff - beam brightly, moonlit glimmeringly against the inky darkness of the surrounding night. Impress a page, as a Torreadors' cape held forth in provocation, its drenched surface - gleaming within its sodden swathes. Such contrasts depicted through a mastery of monochrome choices - tenderly assertive within asymmetric compositions crafted to jarr.

Monsters lunk within the faces of the familiar, seen again as if in disguise, a herd of humans morph into one gloop - as a frogspawn swells - hatched from a spell. Lurking within the ghostly fog of the background of a drama - as if a distraction from a destined threat. Gossiped within a swirl of whispers. Goya's loyalty to such hazes - to the grey areas of the in-between - of the lingering uncertainty and taught atmospheres of change - remind of the impending - as within the exhausted confusion of a dreamscape where minutes stretch as the threads of ink awaiting commitment to page.

A merry folly of folk - spongeily squelch and sway within a ring - as a slither of offal squeaks - to glisten under starlight and to imagine colours of roots - pulled from the earth - oozing with the sodden - screaming from the severance. 

To pool - a slapping of splashes - to slither a stream - run a river to flow into an ocean of sweated fevers and sticky fears.

And then to breathe in the cool air of a higher realm - within that degrade of scattered stars - as to look down on that midnight ceremony where hacked plaster heads morph a madness.

As Rego's rosed rendition - a rotation of parts - giggles into the round as a drunken sway - holding hands with strangers - who blur the scene in view - with the choreographed abandon of Bausch - danced in the tightly laced shoes of Sundays.

A commune of the extracted - tethered in their body bagged cassocks, scissored heads as ravaged plumes - necks framed with the ruffs - drawn to choke as strings of a sack - as the countless forms stacked as sculptures in storage. This procession of chattering - forms a whole, as a foam of an inhuman seascape awaiting a return - to engulf and dissolve.

Uncanny Visions: Paula Rego and Francisco de Goya, Holburne Museum - BATH. Until 5 January 2025.

87. SULEYMAN WELLINGS-LONGMORE: A SPACE BETWEEN PROTEST AND RESISTANCE.

Suleyman Wellings-Longmore, ‘Behind Enemy Lines’.

‘The most important signaling moments in my life have followed immediately after some form of disappointment. I’m grateful that in the wake of unsuccessful job applications, heartache and uncertainty, opportunities have presented themselves that have in some way propelled me forward.’ S.W.L.

Please introduce your work 'Behind Enemy Lines’?

This work interrogates how power intervenes in language to silence and fix meaning, whilst simultaneously highlighting the way the disenfranchised weaponize language to challenge the status quo. James Baldwin said, “to be born into the English language is to realize that the assumptions by which the language operates are your enemy”, in detailing the inherent racial bias in our linguistic frameworks. Inspired by the notion of word play – who has the power and privilege to play with words, to write these linguistic rules? – 'Behind Enemy Lines’ reimagines these rules, drawing from the aesthetics of the board game Scrabble, the research of cultural theorist Stuart Hall and the poetry of Benjamin Zephaniah. Inviting the viewer to reflect on how new perspectives can challenge fixed meanings, Baldwin’s quote can be read from one side of the work when viewed from the right angle, whilst Zephaniah’s pixelated face can be seen from the other side. Concealed within the work is a speaker system through which I perform a live mix of a soundscape with audio by Baldwin, Zephaniah, Hall, anchored in dub music – a genre of protest and resistance.

I was immediately very intrigued that you are a human rights lawyer and also a practicing artist...

I balance my legal practice – now centred on migration, protest and more recently, artist rights – alongside my creative practice. Reconciling my social values with my career as a corporate lawyer motivated me to begin creating several years ago. I started to champion my heritage through my art in resistance to feeling othered in my professional and personal environment. I was based in Paris at the time, a city which felt simultaneously inspiring and lonely. On a volunteering trip to Lebanon, assisting asylum seekers fleeing ISIS in Syria, I made my first painting, and I continued on my return to France, painting canvases on my bedroom wall and clay sculpting at a gallery nearby. The lockdown allowed more time to expand my portfolio. Keen to work on cases that empowered others and better aligned with my principles, I pivoted full time into human rights law via a masters at Harvard Law School. It was in America that my artistic practice, which until then combined figuration of Black forms with optical illusions to explore magnificent and mundane moments of my experience, started to be directly informed by the human rights material I was studying. These topics included international migration, critical race theory and criminal injustice. Whilst my artwork now draws from a wider set of influences, my creative and legal practices are united in that, through both I strive to create a positive impact beyond myself. There are also sometimes interesting overlaps between the two - I am part of a campaign called ‘Art Not Evidence’ which seeks to increase the bar for admissibility of creative expression, especially drill/rap lyrics as evidence, a process which disproportionately affects marginalised communities. Protecting the rights of artists is at the nexus of the two practices I hold dear.

You were is the US at a turning point in modern history, how did being there affect you and your practice?

Everything felt pretty historic. I had originally been accepted to study in 2020 but deferred for a year after Covid-19 forced Harvard to take all courses online. Trump was still in power at this point. But when I arrived in 2021, Biden was in, the world was slowly reopening, and things seems a little optimistic. However, soon into my time on campus we saw photos of U.S. border patrol assaulting Haitian migrants at the border, the leak of the U.S Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v Wade, the appointment of Ketanji Jackson and continued fallout of January’s insurrection, to name a few pivotal moments. I think being a student – learning, challenging, collaborating – encourages an introspection that can leave you feeling the world can and ought to be changed for the better and with its history, influence and network, studying at Harvard Law School definitely developed the belief that perhaps I could be an agent of this change. The discussions, movements, and communities I was a part of in the U.S. encouraged me to be bold in how I applied law and created art to bring about this impact.

The next issue of M-A (A SPACE BETWEEN) focuses on signals, what have been the key signaling moments within your own life?

The most important signaling moments in my life have followed immediately after some form of disappointment. I’m grateful that in the wake of unsuccessful job applications, heartache and uncertainty, opportunities have presented themselves that have in some way propelled me forward. In a way, each signal is linked the one before. I was selling advertising space on the back of bus tickets after I graduated from the University of Leeds, trying – and failing – to get a graduate job. I wasn’t very fulfilled. After a particularly comprehensive spate of rejections, I took a leap of faith (and what little I had saved) and travelled across Brazil before and during the 2014 World Cup. The experience of being there, travelling by myself for the first time, and meeting people from around the world, proved seminal. I began working on a novel, my first art project, and returned to secure a job to be trained as a lawyer. A few years later, I was in Lebanon trying to bolster my human rights experience in anticipation of a career switch in the face of job insecurity, when I stumbled upon an art store/café in Beirut. The owner and I got on well, and I eventually bought a canvas and started painting, not thinking where it would go. A few years later, I was at Harvard and just opened my first institutional exhibition before receiving yet more rejections (I’m a good lawyer, I promise) after a very gruelling recruitment process – this time to become a human rights barrister. I was also nursing a tender heart after a relationship breakdown. In reassessing my future amidst these changes, I decided it was now or never to apply to art school and commit to further expanding my creative practice. I did and here I am. I think the more you listen to, and act on, the signals around you, the better your confidence and sense of timing gets. These examples perhaps don’t represent concrete signals telling me to do something explicitly, but they have acted as crossroad moments from which my life has taken a different path. In each case, I have centred my own happiness in the face of external pressures, which is perhaps the recurring signal I strive to listen out for.

I was really interested in what you said about how your instinct kept pulling you back to art...

Following my instinct is integral to my art practice, in both carving out the space to make artwork and the actual creative process itself. It was being attune to what I knew felt right – without always being able to articulate the exact reasoning - that first compelled me to begin making art. I knew I wanted to write the novel I had in my mind, to paint the image I held in my thoughts, to sculpt the form I saw when I closed my eyes. I’m a firm believer that you don’t always need to understand the reason for creation or appreciation. When you are scrolling across radio stations and hear a song you like, you don’t necessarily need to be cognisant of the context, history and relevance of the song – you just know you like it. Yes, deep down you may be processing these thoughts, but I think it’s enough to simply want to listen to that tune because it sounds great, to enjoy it as it is and follow your gut reaction. Making and enjoying art is the same for me. Whilst I am now a graduate of the Royal College of Art’s Painting programme, I am grateful not to have been formally art educated until recently. This has enabled my art to be more driven by intuition. Sensing what colours, textures and compositions work together, for example, (the process) has sometimes been trial-and-error, but has developed a robust sense of trust I now have in my artistic vision and how I execute the plans I have. Starting out writing, then painting, expanding into sculpture, moving into sculptural paintings, before wandering down the rabbit-hole of sound performance, design and textile and now contemplating film and scriptwriting, my creative practice has expanded in an organic way, that I sometimes don’t even understand, but find super exciting, propelled by instinct.

Suleyman Wellings-Longmore, Saatchi Gallery, 18th September 2024. Image credit: London Art Collective.

‘Behind Enemy Lines’ by Suleyman Wellings-Longmore was presented as a part of the exhibition ‘From The One To The Many’, Saatchi Gallery, London, September 2024.

86. XUANJUN KE: A SPACE BETWEEN SENSE AND NONSENSE.

‘…to create nonsense in the face of an absurd world allows me to be.’

X.K.

Xuanjun Ke

The water-colour world of Xuanjun Ke feels both familiar and obscure, like the states between consciousness and a place between childhood and beyond. A certain nostalgia for a time passed and a time still to arrive. The artist in emergence - discovering a world of their own - immersive - fragmented. As draw lines as threads connecting pages within a sketchbook or the rigging of a theater... A treasury mood in lucidity and calm, awaiting their next act.

Your drawings seem to communicate emotion with urgency. What do you feel when you create, and why do you choose to draw to express yourself?

I mostly work first from sketches. When I transfer them to a bigger surface I try and keep the energy… the rawest form of the idea. 

I like working with ink, watercolour and acrylic because they’re quick to dry and produce unexpected results, as well as their ability to be layered and create depth.

I loved to see your mural works, the shared sense of working as a collective feels very important to you, please can you contemplate this within your practice as a whole?

The involvement of a sense of community in my works are very much a reflection of my life. I treasure my collaborators and fellow artists and want to involve them in my work, whether that’s recording bits of conversations we had or have their accidental and/or planned creative inputs in my works. The artwork then carries meaning for me and is of personal importance. When the audience view my work, they can have their own interpretations. I usually disassociate myself from putting meanings onto my work.

Xuanjun Ke

Sustaining elements of childhood feels very pronounced in alot of work I am seeing at the moment, do you feel this about your own practice and if so why do you feel this is the case?

There are a lot of artists that I was exposed to in childhood who inspired me, sometimes whether I’m conscious of it or not. I was heavily influenced by artists like Tove Jansson, Jimmy Liao (Taiwanese children’s book author & illustrator), Polish animations of classical music (Studio Filmów Animowanych, Poznań), the animated children’s series “The Little Mole” (Czech Cartoon, 1957-2002) and other Eastern European Cartoons from Soviet times that came into China around the time I was a child, my parents also took me to lots of ballet theatre productions as a child, possibly adding the influences of theatrical and dramatic flares to my works. The media I was consuming all have a strong characteristic of storytelling, traditional media and beautiful illustrations that inspired me to recreate my own experiences in life through the media of storytelling and illustrated adventures. I’m also very drawn to nostalgic times and old things, they have a beauty that the modern world is not actively reproducing, such as music from the 1920s-90s jazz, blues, rock n roll, metal, 80s electronic synth, etc, paintings, traditional mediums, physical installations and works of Dada and the surrealists. I prioritize physical making methods and connections, they are what grounds me in reality, the things we can touch and feel give a more visceral and holistic experience to my daily life. The childhood element you described probably stems from a longing for nostalgic things and the hope to create new memories that are impressionable, fresh and unique.

I recognised the sense of your work being like fragments that feel connected somehow to a larger source, an ongoing story, your drawings seen out of context feel as fallen pages from a single series of illustrations, a single narrative, do you feel this and if so what do you feel the story as a whole is telling you?

My creative process stems from my sketches/sketchbooks, which come from my daily experiences and trains of thoughts, they [the sketches] present themselves in the way that thoughts do, jumbled and fragmented, as memories do when we try and recall them, the fragmented pieces of smell, touch, vision, people, sound, taste and conversations string themselves loosely in our minds to form a picture that we define as memories. They are a defined form yet can take any shape you like, mixed with imagination and environmental influences to become something. The story as a whole are just my reflections upon my own experiences, my personal truths.

When you mix media in your work, like a collage of intangible elements, a fascinating exchange takes place, an atmosphere. Can you express what you feel within that created space?

I feel I can just be, without having to be someone, be something or have the potential to create meanings, collage creates a space for me to feel adrift in the chaos… when I am in the chaotic world where most things don’t necessarily make sense, to create nonsense in the face of an absurd world allows me to be.

Xuanjun Ke, ‘Sketch No.1’, 24hr Artist Residency with Arcade Campfa at Spit & Sawdust Skatepark, Cardiff. Charcoal on newsprint paper, Sep. 2023, 42 × 59.4 cm.

A series of works by Xuanjun Ke were presented as a part of the exhibition ‘From The One To The Many’, Saatchi Gallery, London, September 2024.