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Lonnie Hutchinson, For Special Occasions, 2020Sold -
John Edgar, Cube, 2018Sold -
John Edgar, Cube, 2018Sold -
John Edgar, Cube, 2018Sold
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John Pule, No Ordinary Day, 2020 -
Fiona Van Oyen, Shifting states of place, Avonside, Christchurch, 2020Sold -
Karl Maughan, Taumutu, 2020Sold -
Simon Edwards, Taking Flight, 2020Sold
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Simon Edwards, Flooded Village, 2020Sold -
Elizabeth Thomson, Out on the plain - North by Northwest, 2020 -
Emma Camden, Cross, 2020Sold -
Neil Dawson, Kōtare Wing Feather, 2020Sold
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Hannah Kidd, Inheritance, 2020 -
Hannah Kidd, Cook Island Conch, 2020 -
Martin Poppelwell, ma malloy ( enlightened by these considerations i looked for and finally found a more effective means of putting the idea of money into her head. this consisted in replacing the four knocks of my index knuckle by one or more ( according to my needs ) thumps of the fist, on her skull. that she understood. in any case i didn't come for money. i took her money but i didn't come for that...pp16), 2020 -
Martin Poppelwell, dear bicycle, i shall not call you bike, you were green, like so many of your generation. i don't know why. it is a pleasure to meet it again. to describe it at length would be a pleasure. it had a little red horn instead of a bell fashionable in your days. to blow this horn was a real pleasure, almost a vice. i will go further and declare that if i were obliged to record, in a roll of honour, those activities which in the course of my interminable existence have given me only a mild pain in the balls, the blowing of a rubber horn - toot! - would figure among the first. pp13, 2020
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Martin Poppelwell, besides for me the question of wether to call her ma, mag or countess caca, she having for countless years been deaf as a post. i think she was quite incontinent, both of faeces and water, but a kind of prudishness made us avoid the subject when we met, and i could never be certain of it. in any case it can't have amounted to much, a few niggardly wetted goat droppings, every two or three days. the room smelt of ammonia, oh not merely ammonia, but of ammonia, ammonia. she knew it was me, by my smell, her shrunken, hairy old face lit up, she was happy to smell me. she jabbered away with a rattle of dentures and most of the time didn't realize what she was saying...pp15, 2020 -
Martin Poppelwell, in any case i didn't come to listen to her. i got into communication with her by knocking on her skull. one knock meant yes, two no, three i don't know, four money, five goodbye. i was hard put to ram this into her ruined and frantic understanding, but i did it, in the end. that she should confuse yes, no and i don't know and goodbye, was all the same to me, i confused them myself...pp16, 2020 -
Martin Poppelwell, there i dismounted according to the regulations...pp18, 2020 -
Martin Poppelwell, i should add, before i get down to the facts, you'd swear they were facts, of that distant summer afternoon , with this deaf, blind impotent, mad old woman, who called me dan and whom i called mag, and with her alone, i - no i can't say it. that is to say, i could say it, but i won't say it, yes, i could say it easily, because it wouldnt be true. what did i see of her? a head always, the hands sometimes, the arms rarely. a head always. veiled with hair, wrinkles, filth, slobber. a head that darkened the air. not that seeing matters, but it's something to go on with....pp17, 2020
