copy > paste > copy
We start the game by wondering what it is.
A number of items are presented here as a taster for the long indolent road ahead of us.
We should divine the first moves by PREPARING THE GROUND and MAKING THE RULES. That’s what people always tell us to do. In this Modern World.
Though this will inevitably take time.
What does time teach us? Placing remembrances of time over the detritus of other times doesn’t bring much it seems, except more confusion. Who knows? Beware those with answers.
We must take our luck where we can. Hence a dreamlike visitation of Wrocław’s Krasnoludek in East Lancashire. Victorian streets that cling on in the gloaming, spaces where schools and factories were, pubs that made way for motorways. We need a better narrative. Myths are needed to make us feel noticed, or carefree, again.
In the Spring of 2000, the Photocopier left England to live in a caravan in the Netherlands. He took a lot of pictures before leaving and on arriving.
Back then, photographs were taken on a camera. Some turned out well, some didn’t. Some are of a Lancashire long gone, some of a Holland just discovered but now disappeared for ever.
What remains in these photocopies of photographs is the stasis, the time that never existed, the time that floated around not asking to be captured. That’s the time that stays with us when we see it again.
In the Spring of 2000, the Photocopier left England to live in a caravan in the Netherlands. He took a lot of pictures before leaving and on arriving.
Back then, photographs were taken on a camera. Some turned out well, some didn’t. Some are of a Lancashire long gone, some of a Holland just discovered but now disappeared for ever.
What remains in these photocopies of photographs is the stasis, the time that never existed, the time that floated around not asking to be captured. That’s the time that stays with us when we see it again.
Let’s introduce one new thing by talking about another. Let’s not. Let’s do nothing, but stare at memories of the East Lancashire Moors. For what else is there to do? We can wander round places we have never ever been to, that’s what. Let’s enter the Memory Vortex.
Let’s introduce one new thing by talking about another. Let’s not. Let’s do nothing, but stare at memories of the East Lancashire Moors. For what else is there to do? We can wander round places we have never ever been to, that’s what. Let’s enter the Memory Vortex.
There is good and there is evil. In between, somewhere, is the duck.
These words, spoken by Accrington artist and visionary Tim Whittaker, come back to haunt us in these ribald, brittle, stretched months of 2020 and 2021, where ghosts of the threshing floor rise to meet us.
These photocopies hark back to another, happier time and maybe presage a third.
We just need to locate the duck.
You have to act. Burn them, commune with their indolent, witless, stolid spirit. Or photocopy them endlessly to erase their presence.
Maybe you can draw on humanity’s creative commons to give you another answer. It’s what the internet is for.
I’m staying in my lane. To be precise, Hollins Lane. But that stops in Baxenden. Where then?
There is good and there is evil. In between, somewhere, is the duck.
These words, spoken by Accrington artist and visionary Tim Whittaker, come back to haunt us in these ribald, brittle, stretched months of 2020 and 2021, where ghosts of the threshing floor rise to meet us.
These photocopies hark back to another, happier time and maybe presage a third.
We just need to locate the duck.
You have to act. Burn them, commune with their indolent, witless, stolid spirit. Or photocopy them endlessly to erase their presence.
Maybe you can draw on humanity’s creative commons to give you another answer. It’s what the internet is for.
I’m staying in my lane. To be precise, Hollins Lane. But that stops in Baxenden. Where then?
There is good and there is evil. In between, somewhere, is the duck.
These words, spoken by Accrington artist and visionary Tim Whittaker, come back to haunt us in these ribald, brittle, stretched months of 2020 and 2021, where ghosts of the threshing floor rise to meet us.
These photocopies hark back to another, happier time and maybe presage a third.
We just need to locate the duck.
You have to act. Burn them, commune with their indolent, witless, stolid spirit. Or photocopy them endlessly to erase their presence.
Maybe you can draw on humanity’s creative commons to give you another answer. It’s what the internet is for.
I’m staying in my lane. To be precise, Hollins Lane. But that stops in Baxenden. Where then?
