Lost and Found in E11

- Nooks, Crannies & Niches - 'In point of fact, imagination in miniature is natural imagination which appears at all ages in the daydreams of born dreamers. Indeed, the element of amusement must be removed, if we are to find its true psychological roots'. from, The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard.

10th to 16th May 2014

17th May 2014

There's a crisis looming here in Lost and Found in E11 as various local arts events, in which we are supposed to be participating, approach. Where is Field Study's Man in E17? I need his artistic propensities and capabilities. He may be on a pestilential bender, inhabiting the consciousnesses of all manner of pestiferous fungi, bacteria and mini beasts. Blossom Wilt? Blame the field student! This is only conjecture. He may be elsewhere, inhabiting the mind of something, or way, much less malign and destructive. What is malign about Blossom Wilt anyway? Where does that thought come from? 'What is not creative about the destruction I am cultivating here in your mind?' - (my mind?) - , he asked in an imagined encounter; when I had finally caught up with him.That imagined encounter took place in nowhere in particular, for precisely, specifically, where he is, I can't imagine. He is nowhere but one step ahead. The furtive imagination.  Perhaps he is a cat stu

3rd - 9th May 2014

26th April to 2nd May 2014

September 2013 What if the allotment is succumbing to the malign influence of the field student's pestiferous thoughts? There might only be memories of the succulent pleasures of the site. I consoled myself with a particularly fond memory of an encounter with sensually buttoned plums. It was inevitable that to indulge in sentimentality and preciousness about the fruits of the site and their annual or biennial reswelling was to incur the pestilence of the field student where it hurts. My thoughts drifted from September 2013 to 1st March 2014, two months ago today as this is being written.  1st March 2014 The first of March found my spirits lifted by the spectacle of a wild plum in full blossom. It sang to me as if it had the collective voice of 100 humming bumblebees. While this tree was not going to host the sort of treat featured at the top of the page, it had, the year before last, produced some exceptionally sweet and juicy fruits. I was plum pie eyed at the pro