Tuesday, 15 July 2014


Bubblegum's funeral:
To head off the dry-out.
Eight every hour.
Overdose well.
Blisters spawning insects.
Eating wounds.
Further infections.
Other insects.
Deeper wounds.
Calligraphic scars on calligraphic scars.

Bubblegum's last mistake was unearthing a carpet in a junk shop. S/He was looking for books, but s/he found a carpet instead. S/He wanted a manual to live by, or to cure certain transgressive elements, or to at least distract the skin from certain transgressive elements, but s/he got a carpet instead. S/He dragged the carpet onto the 266 bus, ignoring complaints, along damp alleyways, rolled out under feet with a cup of tea, and then s/he began to itch, or s/he started to itch, or s/he just itched, and then s/he scratched that itch <Feel it? Now? Somewhere?>.

(((((((((Or maybe s/he was sooooo tired s/he just passed out, lounge chair lazy, and it started with a sneeze in the morning. Bloody tissue. Black milk cereal. Legs lowered to cut off circulation <Remember the way we used to dance when Bubblegum wasn't around?>. Time lapse dreams running backwards. Empty limbs/genitals removed. Psychiatric assessment. The underlying keyhole smaller than the cover. Located in the lining of the walls we travel through))))))))).

Bubblegum turns pale and looks away from the microscope before returning to enlarge the contrast until it becomes fiction. The slice almost gone. Marbled limestone housing the image of our own fossils. S/He traces the sediment layers like s/he is a passenger in a body found floating in an algal colony on a tropical sea. The questions s/he asks the body seem redundant and the answers are decay. On the next slide, visible in the wall right from the beginning but cut off at an angle <Common death scene?>, an escalator leading down to a train station platform disappears into a plague of bright light.

Thursday, 14 November 2013

3AM - wonder, paranoia and the restless night (curated by Angela Kingston)

Marc Hulson 'Untitled' 2013 graphite on paper 18x15cm (from the series 'Cast' 1998-2013/ongoing)                                               

Marc Hulson - 13 drawings from the series 'Cast', installation view at The Bluecoat, Liverpool                                            

Marc Hulson - 13 drawings from the series 'Cast', installation view (details)                                                           

'3AM' - installation views at The Bluecoat, Liverpool, with work by Marc Hulson, Danny Treacy (left), Nathan Mabry (front)

'3AM - wonder, paranoia and the restless night' at The Bluecoat, Liverpool

Do I have interest in the publication history of this novel?

Paul Curran & Marc Hulson 'Do I have interest in the publication history of this novel?' (detail)                                         

Marc Hulson & Paul Curran 'Do I have interest in the publication history of this novel?' installation view at Five Years 2013

Paul Curran & Marc Hulson - Cover for fictitious 1966 edition of 'The Left Hand'                          

Marc Hulson - study for cover of 'Left Hand' 2013                                                                            

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Behind the Eyes

 Marc Hulson, installation view of five paintings - from the group exhibition  'Behind the Eyes: Making Pictures' at Gallery North, Newcastle Jan - March 2013

Wednesday, 28 July 2010


Marc Hulson 'L'invitation' oil on linen 180x160cm

'Theatre facsimile' oil on canvas 180x160cm

'Heare' oil on linen 35x30cm

'Five fifty five' oil on linen 17.3x15.4cm

installation view

'L'invitation' (detail)

'Les oeufs fatidiques' graphite on paper 17.3x15.4cm

'Scrypt' graphite on paper 18.3x15.4cm

'Sleep pattern' oil on paper

installation view

installation view

GOOD TIDINGS exhibition opening 23/07/10 photos by Wolf

1. the sky from Five Years balcony 2. l-r: Marc Hulson, composer Mark R Taylor, writer & broadcaster Hannah Godfrey, artists Gordon Dawson, Charles Labelle & Tariq Alvi 3. from left: artists Michael Curran, Francis Summers & Esther Planas (centre) 4. Tariq Alvi 5. Esther Planas 6. musicians Charlie Finke (right) & Justine Armatage (second from left) aka The Cesarians 7. l-r: Marc Hulson, Justine Armatage, Esther Planas, Robert Ellis 8. Michael Curran 9. Michael Curran & Alex Schady (artist & core Five Years member) 10. Marc Hulson 11. the sky from Five Years balcony

Wednesday, 12 August 2009


Marc Hulson 'Host' 2009 oil on linen 225x200cm

--Completing solitude in fragmented betrayals of the essence: more than one can fit within the frame provided.

The presence, heavy and deep-set, occulting passages (of time, speed, perspective-distortion, angles of desire, the focal variations that misuse of the skin has embedded in his/her breath)

Silence is the backdrop for something to be said, not crushing, not overwhelming, it will be crushed and overwhelmed, or maybe it will be the metal of a ring, ready to be cast. WORD is gem. You pick the colour.

Then the beasts appear and their slow and hushed advance in the night (Nightmares are triggered off by the electroencephalogrammaton we all foolishly believe we will override - us full of shit and full of ourselves) keep you from registering them in time – they call forth a denomination of the frequency, beyond doubt but before certainty, right where it’s pretty damn obvious the bad shit is coming, but it doesn’t have a name yet, probably cannot have one, ever, or it wouldn’t be THAT bad - triggered them off, then, within a system whose configuration truly cannot cope with them, was not meant to, or rather, was meant NOT to.

“i want you”, she says, eyes glazed in the others’ lurking fluids, the remnants of something toothed and fully-fledged, but with broken bones.

You cannot answer but it will pass as a radiant and grateful acknowledgment. Sitting there in the becoming of SILENCE, that son of a Cunt now vetoing every single one of your prayers.

You can look anywhere, anywhere you look is somewhere bled dry.

Sound was once perceived as the emanation of divine particles that a closed circuitry had trapped inside cell walls, deep deep inside the marrow of our soul’s skeleton. Then they figured it out. Science and its golden tongue, its long, sharp-nailed fingers, its delicate way of fucking us over. )

There between the long gaps of our common history lie the little chunks of TRUTH that your teeth fell upon one after the other until you broke one, chipped the thin enamel, cut the soft membrane of your gums, thought you’d choke on them, broken glass, the tiniest, sharpest stones, the kind they could grind you with. Well, actually...

You count the numbers backwards – back to the thing it started from – back to You and the Other – mirrors – back to unity – back to infinity.

There are so many of you under this skin. How in the holy name of Fuck are you supposed to manage someone else letting themselves in smoothly, tenderly, full of promises of blue suns, bright nights, but forcefully as bulls on the charge ?

They only attack because you did it first. That’s how martyrs handle the concept of responsibility)

Frigid like a mural of arctic contemplation, white forever because there are places there’s no point in setting foot on, and everybody knows this.

It’s all come down to this.
No one to say it’s a pity, it’s a waste, the damage done, all that.
Who gives a shit. It’s all come down to this.
The very place you used to inhabit you now haunt.
Felt, vaguely, but never answered.
They cannot tell your frame from the curtains’ shadow.
And you can’t tell their words from the wind’s holler.
Transformation is not a process, it’s an event.
Hammered repeatedly into the bones of your plurality.
Going nowhere, so fast it hurts, so slow you can’t see it until you’re there.

The air is a grid. Vacant until you fill the little boxes in. But with what? All has been said, the words placed like in some bad cosmic version of scrabble where it’s always the others’ words that count more and win.

Emma Wolf Deraze 2009)

Installation view at Area 53 Vienna June 2009

Friday, 8 May 2009

one room is never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant

everything is hidden behind it. the noise, the motion. a ghost
that you cannot name. this is not about what we see, but the
unknown, that lurks. maybe you are the lurking. the lurker.
some fractions of noise coming through the walls. not those
walls, the walls of the image. identity has shifted your focus
towards further within, and you see right through the skull.
another version of the present. how many there are is beside
the point. we must find how many we are. one colour is
designated, sacred, ancient, weighing the lies. the truth is
whoever said the eyes were the windows of the soul never
pried any door open. you can walk in there. get trapped, settle
inside, forever. or come in and out of it.
this is not about what is there. so much is concealed, we have
no time for the there. there is gone already, as soon as you
touch it. the shadow is denser than the light. particles know.
you got it all figured out without knowing. what you thought
was a question is a statement. there is a skeleton under the
stairs. its spine was broken. by the weight of all those who
climbed up. towards fuck only knows what. they didn’t.
know. they still don’t. only you do, and you don’t know it.
one room is never without precedents. you must fracture
them. make your way across the fields that bear only remains.
under the ground is the seed. the latent monster. one room is
never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant. one room is
never new but you can start it all over every time you speak.
every time you say.
you won’t find the zero. but you can create it.
the more void you try and represent, the denser your matter.
how can a blank eye overflow? a blank eye is zero.
overflowing is the task of the infinite. zero’s contrary. but no
eye is truly blank. even a dead eye is not blank. do you
believe the last thing one sees before they die is recorded in
the vitreous humor?

(Emma Wolf Deraze 2008)