The Public Secret is a project our artist-led collective the Retro Bar at the End of the Universe held, starting Friday 31st August, in a warehouse on the south west side of Leeds. For this we all contributed a dispatches – which you can find here. This is my long read which I have omitted from the collective’s blog, because of its length and personal detail.
As an artist collective, something binds us. Speaking frankly, I don’t think we even share the exact same ideals, life goals, or approaches to creative practice, or even a shared understanding of what creative practice means. We really are a motley crew. But this motley crew have converged through finding one another’s company comfortable enough to have honest reflections on what seems to be the grand unspeakable.
Basically, what has brought us together is the public secret: everybody knows this thing we are in (call it capitalism, liberal democracy, modernity, whatever you like) isn’t working, and is beyond tweaking; it’s unable to meet the required needs of an unbelievably self-aware connected planet; mental well-being is collapsing in the old industrial nations of modernity, as ecological and social stability collapses in the old colonised nations of modernity.
We all know it; all see it, yet rarely speak it to anyone but our closest friends. Few of us truly like what we see in the world beyond our comfort blankets, but somehow it remains in the realm of self-doubt; the TV’s, radios, even the signage in the café is saying business as usual, “so who am I to speak?”.
I feel this sense of the great unspoken is what bound the Retro Bar at the End of the Universe. Our collective doesn’t read from the same page; our vocalised points of priority in this urgent need for change all differ, as do our inherently preferred ideological bases in the categories of old modernity (yeah, most of us still cling to one when we feel cornered).
One day…some day…
However, I have recently had to come to terms with the fact that such self-assured prose (that, uncoincidentally, I’ve never felt confident enough to publish beyond my own blog) faces falling flat, on my part, for the reason of what it omits.
If you scour my decade-old blog you will find plenty of content that on the surface appears to be self-pitying. What you won’t find is the comments from anonymous sources. I deleted them. They hurt me.
The reason for this is that I wrote these blogs not for sympathy, but for the purposes of understanding, recognition; parachuted-in help, I guess. If anything, a desire to be released from my ego, not an ego-boost.
The reason that so many of my blogs have confusingly meandered between a sporadic critique of contemporary life to very honest reflections on my own life is that I have always been seeking help from anywhere but within. A need for a paternalistic recognition of both my external concerns and how they connect with my inner distress(even if heroic intervention came in the form of the infamous relationship between O’Brien and Winston Smith in Orwell’s 1984, which is basically an abusive but yet reassuring father-figure).
For this reason what I am now about to write, in an aim to try to understand if my ‘post-capitalist desire‘ (to use a name that Mark Fisher gave one of his essays) is a product of perpetually placing happiness outside of myself, comes with the disclaimer that I am writing from a position of trying to take affirmative control of my life. For the sake of myself and whoever, ego-based interventions into my own affairs are no longer required, thanks (if they ever were…).
What is the purpose that drives me? I have intent, sometimes it burns away leaving pure drive, but I have intent.
Is the desire for a post-capitalist world my intent? Or is the post-capitalism just over the brow of the horizon what I use as substitute for the sense of inner disarray that I have felt since as long as I have known?
I am no longer in the business of asking honest questions right here on my blog in blind hope that somebody with some cure will come and make me whole. I have spent far too long as a backseat passenger in my own life. A back seat passenger who has thrown things out of the window, even jumped out of the moving vehicle (bruised and broken, only to heal and get back in), yet always remained passive.
Nobody wants to leave their life regretting the life they had; regretting that they were constantly chasing or waiting for something, with no arrival; or that what they did do is so regretful, largely due to be being motivated by sad, negative preoccupations.
Well, with above disclaimer in place, I’ll be totally honest: if I was to die tomorrow, the moments beforehand would be spent regretting my entire life.
Trying to break down the compulsions, routines that I live by is proving very difficult. Nonetheless it is a task I am not letting any individual compulsion-driven act forget; I’m not wanting to meet that ultimate regret at the end of it all.
I often feel convinced that when Kurt Cobain sang that there was ‘something in the way’ he was speaking from a similar, if not far more desperate, place.
The biggest, and most convincing argument I, and many others who are emotionally loyal to the post-capitalist desire face is the one that aims to defang any argument made by anybody who is unable to find peace and inner enrichment in the here and now.
Despite the way I have posited this commonplace argument making it glaringly obvious that not all of us can find peace in the here and now, there still persists an undeniable truth to it. And I know that as a white, educated male, who has a perpetual existential itch, that I am very susceptible to it; I often clumsily walk into a corner where the undeniable half-truth reveals itself: “why don’t you just learn to enjoy your life!”
And it’s true. Why don’t I just learn to enjoy life?
So, I need to begin my way out of this maze of brutal dualisms and unhelpfully vague holisms by beginning from scratch (disclaimer still in place…).
From being a young child, what fired me, motivated my successive obsessions was always an abstract; an image of some future moment, where (to quote a psychotherapist I saw at much later date) the universe aligned. I was constantly day-dreaming about some future landscape that had no distinctive features apart from the fact that the disorientating cluster of signifiers in the present tense had gravitated to a central point of meaning. The fact that my encounter with the social was initially poor, fostering a low self-esteem I haven’t until now properly challenged, encouraging self-pity and withdrawal, certainly did nothing to hamper the persistence of the libidinal investment in this abstract future whole.
I came to see the negatives that played themselves out in those years (from school bullying, people without enough money, right up to stories from far away about tropical deforestation) as unnecessary states of affairs that were to be ‘righted’ as we travelled further from the ‘olden days’ of my parents and grandparents to some point when it would all be merely history.
World War to End of History…?
These dreamy expectations of a just and coherent universality certainly cluster together around the final decade of the 20th century. I have pondered ever-since on this as being more than coincidental; I didn’t need to know of Francis Fukuyama’s premature triumphalism about ‘the end of history’ (as in, an end to the chaos and brutal upheavals of competing ideologies played out in the previous 250 years), to pick up on a specifically 1990’s optimism, constituted by the fall of the repressive Soviet system, the teenage kicks of ‘neoliberalism’, and the pre-millennial computer-generated utopianism, glued together by the momentary flattening of counterculture (think of squeezing down femimism into The Spice Girls) into a mainstream consumer palette.
But this is irrelevant now; we are, culturally speaking, still vomiting up the 1990’s, in our social media exorcisms (from where nobody, like in an William Hogarth etching, is spared – perhaps rightfully), but this doesn’t heal the void, certainly not in my own life. And it’s high time I acted.
I’m now a 34 year old, who has spent most of his ‘going out’ evenings of the 2010’s drinking alone – although it is the sense of having failed which has had a larger influence on my actions than alcohol, as swathes of friendships have stretched into non-existence, leaving me like a caretaker of places we all once haunted, 11 years into a low-paid job that most barely spend a year doing before moving on.
Where I work, where I live, and how long I have worked and lived in these circumstances would be of no-consequence if I associated with them positively and (much more importantly) confidently; if my relationship to home and work was a somewhat more positive affirmation of my life. But it couldn’t be further from that.
Fuck me. I’ve been writing this shit that seems very much like the aforementioned for as long as the piece of string named ‘getting old’ is long.
I have always placed so much emphasis on the passing of time; I gave each passing year a certain identity distinct from the others. When I was young, growing old was anticipated for all the life-affirming rites of passage it would deliver. The future would always align and straighten the disorder of today.
However, the future intervention that would align the world stopped being a rite of passage and instead something I clung to for hope of rightening a new inner turmoil. Since my mid-to-late teens I have been driven my compulsions and routine, bent on either maintaining or losing control. Always from the sense of needing a higher hand to intervene, I went from late teen eating and control disorders, to aiming my sights on ‘big nights out’ in my early 20’s where getting pissed up and momentarily losing my controlling habits would free me – maybe a woman would come into my life, and a validated obedience to patriarchal norms would liberate me from the things that caused anxiety.
During this time, the moment of universal righting moved towards more Dystopian seas, I became rapidly politicised and super adept at turning pub conversation towards pointing out to others the iceberg we were heading for (metaphorically speaking of course) – unaware that they too had seen them, probably before I. It was another means of seeking external validation, seeking an external answer to the inner gulf. What ensued was a situation where I was still waiting, whilst everybody around me went on and did other things, until I found myself hitting 30, being drunk in pubs by myself. The drink was still used to liberate me, but by now was from a daily sense of failure as life passed me by, and once inebriated it was no longer a means to liberate me from the negative controlling habits of my youth, but merely a means to access more regrettable avenues for negative pleasure-seeking. Again always as the back seat passenger.
Yet, I admit I am sat here, alone in bar, drinking, writing this down.
But I’m here now attempting to actively break this circle, rather than wait for it to break.
But how does this relate to political ideals? Surely I have just expressed that the issue is internal to me and not external to the world?
Well, I have harboured a certain paranoia since my political ‘awaking’ fell further back onto negative pleasure seeking: that many who I felt I shared post-capitalist desire with began to see me as an hypocrite. They see me as unwilling to act on what I see as right and wrong; in one respect they are right. On the other hand action is born from self-worth and pride, those who can act on their own behalf feel a joy from doing so; they love being alive and fight for it whenever they see it being taken away.
The reason those with political ideals, who become so reliant on them as a crutch, are easy targets to those who have found an inner sanctuary but are more or less happy with the status quo, is that they are clearly people who aren’t happy with their ‘lot’ and communicate out of unresolved traumas and grievances. This is true. I don’t not distinguish myself from this group, as disparate as they are.
However, these traumas and grievances are real.
I will be honest, what has often scared me from undertaking a course of intense self-confidence building is that I am scared that I would eradicate my entire identity in the process. I cannot differentiate my who I am with my entire concept of the abstract utopian ideal.
But the truth is I have never really known myself anyway. Me, I, John Ledger, has never stood tall in the here and now, but always in some abstract future point. My sense of fashion (intrinsically bound up with self-worth) has been at sea since I was a teenager, I don’t really know what I am meant to be, and to get back to the question of politics, I do not know how to act in this world.
What I have to convince myself is that making a life for myself, finding out what gives me a joy to be alive, isn’t in opposition to a post-capitalist desire. I have visually illustrated the experience of being trapped in a late-stage capitalist world for the best part of 15 years. It would be foolish of me to see this as time-wasted, but that time has gone, and there so much more to do, not out of duty but out of joy.
Being happy and being part of the emerging movements to transform the world are far from mutual opposites. My self-made task, is to find this out for myself.
Over the course of the year, I’ve had to ask myself a lot of questions, for numerous reasons. Part of the outcome is that I largely class the work I do as part of the collective I am part of (https://retrobarattheendofuniverse.wordpress.com).
Here is the first event I am putting on since this deep point of reevaluation…
#GE18 (The General Election of Governing Emotions) is an event occurring at two locations in Leeds on the Longest day of the year!
130 Vicar Lane from 5-7pm and…
Art Hostel, (83 Kirkgate) from 6:30-9pm.
Born out of intense debates around the global political crises, the mental health epidemic, and the online factionalisation of opinion, #GE18 asks to us to engage in a ‘what if’ general election where we get to vote for emotions rather than through them.
How would we ideally like to feel and behave in life? How would we really like the world to feel and behave like? Well come along to The General Election of Governing Emotion on June 21st and let us know…as well as seeing #GE18 art prints, cassette sleeves for a collaborative project called ‘Songs For My Punchdrunk Idealism’, and engaging in non-combative conversation!
I’ve gone back to study this year. After years of wrangling over whether to go back or not, I finally decided that I had nothing to lose by doing so. Additionally, it has enabled me to have a bit more thinking space, away from working 5 days a week. Because no matter what job you do, I find repetitious work endeavours to corrode the will to be creatively and intellectually engaged with life. Although now in my 30’s, regrettably there are many things I haven’t experienced or engaged with, and in many ways I feel deprived of so much, but partly because of this, I still have much freedom from excessive responsibilities that many don’t, and this has enabled me to break free of 9-5, if only for 2 years.
I’ve still been working on my drawings, but spending much time considering and working on how the other main outlets for my work relate back to my drawings. I’m not a natural illustrator, I spend way too much musing things over than putting pen to paper, so it always feels a little disingenuous to go along with the ‘drawer’ tagline. It gives people the wrong impression about how I work.
It’s quite hard to explain this whilst also explaining how important my drawings are to the ideas and concepts that drive me to make and do. But the drawings are intermittent moments where the cognitive mapping of this chaotic world suddenly seems to come into focus, and make sense, even if this doesn’t seem to be the case for others who view the final outcomes.
Nonetheless, the current works are trying to take on the concepts of ‘dark optimism’ (which I borrowed some time back for my own uses, from ‘The Transition Towns Handbook’, by Rob Hopkins), and (my own) ‘punch-drunk idealism’, largely by pitting the capabilities we have before us, against the evidential mass mental breakdown that our current hysterical accumulation of modernity is causing. There has become within myself and my work an almost religious conviction that this moment, where we are at a saturation point regarding our ability to care and hope, will cause a tipping point where we will be forced to collectively transcend the ‘soul fracking’ of late-stage capitalism. I say religious to be cautious that I may just be fooling myself, but I guess if I didn’t at least have some belief that the future will be live-able the I’d be a nervous wreck.
One of the most important works, for me, was a written work, accompanied by maps, that sadly became an unrealised project. ‘How did I get so old? (Pre GE2017 musings)’ was a response to the then-upcoming snap election called by Teresa May. Although Jeremy Corbyn himself would never pretend he was the ‘golden ticket’ to a post-austerity, potentially post-capitalist society, his unexpected popularity with symbolic of a desire to break out downer-fuelled neoliberalist Britain. And this work was an attempt at reckoning with the potential of choosing to vote to challenge these depressed, foreclosed horizons, alongside trying to come to terms with my own depressed experiences of adulthood, and a willing to change this, also.
I’ve always found the balancing act of these two seemingly separate issues very difficult to communicate, because the language to effectively communicate a notion of a societal depression is inherently flawed, whilst when I veer more towards my own experiences as a better form of explanation, it appears merely pathological, or, at worst, that I’m wallowing in it.
The election, however, did surprise us somewhat, and was probably the last period of collective optimism, before the absurdity of Brexit, and the sex scandals that seemed to hover around it like accumulating flies around its rotting carcass of [the illusion of] neoliberal society, began to overwhelm such capacities for optimism. I guess there’s always next year..
WILL THE LAST PERSON TO LEAVE THE 20TH CENTURY PLEASE TURN OUT THE LIGHTS?
The biggest project was also to be the most spectral.
In 2017 The Retro Bar at The End of the Universe [the collective I am part of) was given the chance to curate a disused pub. The pub, which epitomises the weird and eerie landscape of post-industrial West Yorkshire, was situated on the relentless Otley Road, within the Saltaire/Shipley region. Yet, the building itself contained ghostly remnants of a political and cultural era which the RBATEOU argues is currently coming to an end.
Due to a location made ‘strange’ by our descent into a commuter existence, the event ‘Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th century Please Turn Out The lights?’ received NO VISITORS. This was an exhibition at the end of the universe, making the collective wonder “are we the last person?”. Perhaps it was meant to be?
We curated both floors of this large building, to create something that actually began to creep us out as a collective, as if we’d uncovered a truth about the era we arguably just leaving that wasn’t comfortable.
Rebekah Whitlam’s ‘Milly Molly Mandy Gets Loaded and Other Stories’, at the dead end of a corridor in the upstairs section, felt like the exorcism of this period. And I would recommend watching the video piece she made afterwards, with the help of sound artist Adam Weikert.
The Eternal Blip (A Mary Celeste Decade)
I have some projects that I am wanting to conceal until the new year, but they will, without doubt, be documented upon here in good time. But perhaps the last point of interest to finish on would be my rookie attempts trying to map an idea of society’s emotional patterns in response to certain political upheavals during the past decade.
Working on ideas put down in 4 years back in ‘The Mary Celeste Project (The Scene of The Crash)’, The Eternal Blip (A Mary Celeste Decade) basically tracks the past ten years, since the year when the financial crash happened to now, asking if others feel the same way as I do: that with retrospect it feels like a lost decade (?).
Now, I haven’t been forced to rely on food handouts, had to choose between heating and eating, or found myself on the streets (an awful new normality in the past ten years). But in hindsight I feel like it has stunted me, almost caged me in a previous point of my life. I feel like when I shut my eyes and reopen them, I can’t remember the decade, as it has been sucked from under me.
The parallels between a long depression, and the memory loss it can cause are very closely tied, and I can only hope that it isn’t a lone experience, because I want the other aspects of the work to make sense to people, as they are where the optimism lies.
Within this submerged soundscape there are points of emergence that correlate with times within the past decade when I felt ruptures in default reality fabric occurred. For good or for worse, new horizons felt palpable, as was a sense to act. Ultimately the default reality fabric reasserted itself, and, arguably the depression/memory loss resumed.
From the 2011 English riots to Trump, from Corbyn to Brexit, constructive or destructive, the fact is that these ruptures offer(ed) alterior possibilities from the business-as-usual outcome. I don’t know, I just know how I feel /felt in these moments seemed to contain some kernel of something other, that allowed me to imagine myself in relation to the world in a different manner.
Next year is going to be a real challenge on so many levels. But I feel far less of the objectless and hopeless confusion I had in many of the previous years. I’m hoping I, and those I work closely with, are onto some great ideas for 2018…
Rebekah Whitlam’s work ‘Milly-molly-mandy Gets Loaded and Other Stories’. In our recent exhibition Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th Century Please Turn out The Lights? #retrobarattheendoftheuniverse
I don’t remember being given Milly-Molly-Mandy. Just that she was one of three favourite childhood toys (the second being a bear I got for my birthday named Birthday Bear, the other an anomalously stuffed Troll Doll called Huggable). She was named after my favorite character, Milly-Molly-Mandy, the namesake of my favorite childhood book. Milly-Molly-Mandy was a Blyton-esque explorer of the mundane. Her eating a jacket potato becoming an exceptional favourite, which I obsessed over and underwhelmingly dubbed “Milly-Molly-Mandy potatoes”.
<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/225750903″>Milly-Molly-Mandy gets Loaded and Other Stories</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/user68633656″>Rebekah Whitlam</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
I’ve been told that we had “absolutely nothing” when I was born in 1984, my mum admitting she cried when the orange cordial split because we couldn’t afford another one. But my earliest memories are cemented by an unwavering, have-it-all, go-getting spirit of the 90s. I could be whoever, or whatever I wanted to be. “If I…
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<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/225750903″>Milly-Molly-Mandy gets Loaded and Other Stories</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/user68633656″>Rebekah Whitlam</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
Video work by Rebekah Whitlam based on her installation for Will the last person to leave the 20th century please turn off the lights? an exhibition staged by our collective The Retro Bar at the End of the Universe
Thanks to Adam Weikert for the soundtrack (and TLC).
A mixed media installation exploring a nations 21st century come down from 20th century neoliberal hedonism. A new generation of adults become petrified in 90s juvenility. Numbers in anxiety, depression, ADHD, and liver disease have doubled over the past 30 years. We’re broke, confused, and desperately scrambling for the exit.
<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/223045399″>Dont Look Back in Grandeur (2017)</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/user60125733″>John Ledger</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
Don’t Look Back in Grandeur (title by DS Jarvis) was a videowork quickly thought up for the introductory section to the ‘exhibition space’ in ‘Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th Century Please Turn out The Lights?‘ – an event staged by the collective ‘the Retro Bar at the End of the Universe, in a disused pub within the eerie and unidentified West Yorkshire metropolis.
This introductory space became a quick response to the sense of structural ‘unraveling’ occurring around us in the months of May and June. Across from the videowork is an installation of blog-article ‘The End of The Long 90’s’, posted by Rick of Flipchartfairytales in the week we had a potentially game-changing General Election, and the farcical and despicable tragedy at Grenfell Tower in London.
Obviously in May we had the horrific terror attack in Manchester, and while nobody can (or should want to) argue against showing compassion and trying to create togetherness in the aftermath of such a traumatising act, I couldn’t help thinking that the song that became a unifying singalong, the 1996 Oasis track ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ was beginning to embody the entire state of the nation in 2017.
Because Oasis, and Britpop (the pop music moment they embodied more than any other band), was a decadent and nostalgic movement in music that looked back to more visually recognizable times in British History, it seemed not only doubly odd that it came back strong after 21 years, but doubly fitting for a country that was slowly seeming to unravel after a long period of deep identity crisis, propped up by apparitions of former glories.
“May as well get another round in” for a boozed-up population that lost their culture not to waves of immigrants coming in, but to being coerced into buying into an ideology that cut communities into pieces, and began selling back pieces of the past to us in increasingly absurd forms, with left us with no identity based in the present, save for our own lonely narratives of how we’ll find happiness…eventually.
The video consists of all the prime ministers that have presided over this period, enjoying a boozed up ‘trip down memory lane’.
Writings From HMS Brexit was made for our exhibition ‘Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th Century Please Turn out The Lights?’
Although this pub conversation only consisted of 4 (absent) speakers, this dissection is approached from very different angles.
Thanks to all involved.
VIEW UPON REQUEST [see below for contact details]
Monday July 3
Tuesday July 4
Wednesday July 5
OPENING EVENING AND INFORMAL SYMPOSIUM
Thursday July 6 | 6pm – 11pm
Our collective The Retro Bar at the End of the Universe is currently staging an event and exhibition titled Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th Century Please Turn out The Lights?
Through the Leeds-based arts group Skippko we have gained access to an eerie old building on the road from Bradford to Otley, last used as a pub. This disused pub, and the remnants of all the pasts, in and outside the doors, met with a disconcerting present of endless volumes of traffic for the now-more affluent side of the Urban West Riding, has to be the most perfect of settings for the first proper exhibition our collective has held.
The pub, and the area embody the all the possible hinterlands that epitomise the weird and eerie West Yorkshire landscape; the visual collision of urban, surburban, post-industrial, picturesque-rural; the hauntingly old, the forgotten, and the upwardly new, the aspirational and materialistic. The only potential downside is that the location is so apt, that it is off the beaten track and difficult to attract people to (I’m hoping ‘ attracting people right now!).
Upstairs, the event’s exhibition begins as we’re met with installation of the recent, but surely prescient, blogpost The End of Long 90s by Flipchartfairytales. The blogpost is accompanied by an appropriate video piece, and forgotten photo frames, showing our perpetually absented collective member.
We move on to a room exhibiting many of my most recent drawings, including Hope of The Nihilized, and Dead Ethics Hysteria, only to become aware of disconcerting sounds from a darkened room opposite; a remix of collective member Benjamin Parker’s composition ‘I Thought I Was Awake’. We reach a dead end, with collective member Rebekka Whitlam’s installation ‘Milly-Mollyy-Mandy Gets Loaded and Other Stories’, which ‘looks at a nation’s 21st century come down from 20th century hedonism’ in the bleakest of ways.
Downstairs in the bar. Events and non-events occur. The one-time resident of nearby Shipley Mere Pseud haunts the room with displays that have run out of time, and now exist like crime scenes for a cancelled future. His Retrospectral Dispatches, a title taken from the words of late theorist Mark Fisher, exhibits residual traces of his formative years, coming of age in the strangest of times when the future began to retreat and arrive us who came after in a place unsure of its time or place.
At the corner of the pub we have an event ,yself, poet Jonathan Butcher, and the writer JD Taylor (author of Island Story: Journeys around unfamiliar Britain) have made spoken word pieces for the event Writings From HMS Brexit to be held this weekend – the blogger Mere Pseud may or may not still be able to make this event.
In this disused pub, looking back over a dislocating time; an erosion of time and place; a vacuum filled by unfulfilled ghosts from the past. Always in homage to the late cultural theorist Mark Fisher, this series of prose speeches is strange due to the absence of the speakers. Only their half-finished endeavors will be visible; half finished pints and coats flung over the seats – as they proceed to dissect a body that has become to be known as ‘Brexit Britain’
If you can’t get thee by car, here is a map telling you how the hell to get there from the train station!
As part of ‘Will The Last Person To Leave The 20th Century Please Turn off The Lights?’, The Retro Bar at the End of the Universe presents ‘Writings From HMS Brexit’: a ‘live’ performance.
Myself, poet Jonathan Butcher, and the writer JD Taylor (author of Island Story: Journeys around unfamiliar Britain) have made spoken word pieces for the event to be held this weekend – the voice of Merepseud, hauntological diarist, and former resident of nearby Shipley, may well be heard also.
The location is a disused pub, looking back over a dislocating time; an erosion of time and place; a vacuum filled by unfulfilled ghosts from the past. Always in homage to the late cultural theorist Mark Fisher, this series of prose speeches is strange due to the absence of the speakers. Only their half-finished endeavors will be visible; half finished pints and coats flung over the seats – as they proceed to dissect a body that has become to be known as ‘Brexit Britain’.
The events are on Friday 6-11pm.
Below is a map that shows easy access, via footpath, from the station to our event!!