Art visual np2

A trick vessel is a type of mechanical puzzle. It is an impossible object; a magical trick that seems to do something it should not; that should not, logically, be possible. I was fascinated by this idea and how it is a metaphor for so many processes: for art, for the imagination, for love, for memory; for history; for politics and for power. I hope the book deals with these things and that readers will find many secrets.   READ more here .

JUST BECAUSE.

Alice Yard Space, Woodbrook. Photo courtesy Georgia Popplewell. This Friday, the participants of the Cropper's Writer's Workshop will read at Alice Yard, Woodbrook. Among the participants in this year's workshop are Alake Pilgrim, PLEASURE blogger Andre Bagoo, Colin Robinson and many more. FIND out more here . READ more about the Cropper Foundation here .

The latest issue of the Trinidad and Tobago arts zine Draconian Switch is out! It features stuff from Robert Young, 3 Canal, Richard Rawlins, Rodell Warner, Nigel Rojas, Jemima Charles and a review of Dwight Campbell's I Febreezed My Dog  by your trusty PLEASURE blogger Andre Bagoo. READ it here .

Detail from  Upon these houses I have slept , Liquid paper, ink and acrylic on paper. "WHAT the hell is that?" my sister asks. "It looks like a map." Perhaps. She was talking about a painting I just started on a whim today. I was thinking about a conversation I had recently about the nature of art and what makes art 'Art', and decided to just stop thinking, start drinking and then paint something to test the idea that anybody, at any moment, can create something which expresses one of the, arguably, fundamental functions of art: to foster self-expression; reveal, reflect and create emotion. Who knows what this expresses, but I'm pleased to think I did something creative today after a long spell of nothing but work, work, work. As a side note, dear PLEASURE readers, I should announce that I shall be, over the coming weeks, embarking on something of a tour of the US and hope to keep a diary of my time there, here, in this space. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, per...

You are not my mother so you hold my hand tighter than you should. The wind blows my Indian feather, And throws red dust into my face. This is supposed to be fun, but when We reach the Savannah stage I am terrified...      -- READ full poem in the Boston Review .