My Mother’s Name
When I was younger there was a song my mother used to play often. It was always there, in the background, wrapped around images of my childhood like a gauze. Translated by memory, the song doesn’t have a tune, nor many lyrics, but I can recall the moments in which it was present: my mother [&helli
An interview with a travelling street musician
Having left his native Canada three years ago, Matthew Lennox lives nomadically: couch surfing, busking, and travelling around Europe, India, Australia, the Americas, and even parts of the Middle East. Watching him play, surrounded by crowds of people smiling and holding up their cameras, you begin
A structure of stones, a structure of stories
In the shadow of Camlough Mountain, there stands a hill. It rises out of the deep-set vale—a crease amid the furrows of rolling fields and verdant meadows sprawled out like a patchwork quilt. Proudly yet gently it brushes the sky and looms over the village below. Atop this hill, which goes by the
The Book of Everything
I had a vision of a book that was about Everything. A grand, enigmatic introduction promised to reveal profound and mysterious connections between almost all things, and to conclude with a staggering revelation. But this introduction ended with an apology: a lot of explanation would have to be done
Francis Bacon, Primrose Hill. Bill Brandt (1963)
To a pedantic and dogmatic doctrinaire of photography, almost everything about Bill Brandt’s fêted snapshot is wrong. Categorically, indubitably wrong. Consider, for a moment, the warped composition of the picture. The central, yet uncomfortably off-kilter lamppost awkwardly brushes the very
Post-Post Truth
When the Oxford Dictionary announced ‘post truth’ as its word for 2016, media around the world were quick to link the term to the improbable political events of the year. Trump’s startling triumph in the American Presidential elections, the success of the Brexit movement in Britain and the ris