INorganic: Full Circle
Written by ONCA volunteer Faye Bentley
Ankle deep in waste, hole-punched paper, in place of sand, between my toes…
INorgainc: Full Circle by Beccy McCray, showing at the ONCA Gallery Brighton, until 9th February, explores the issues of waste and its impact on our fragile environment. Using interactive and immersive art, the exhibition aims, and succeeds, in raising an awareness of conservational concerns.
The tactile act of submerging myself in unrecyclable paper, combined pure child-like joy with the jarring reality of consumerism and the scale of its waste. The physicality of the experience also impacted on me by recycling old messages in new ways, thereby giving them relevance to today’s generation.
If you’re fed up with being slapped in the face with facts and figures, but want to reacquaint yourself and your ‘green matter’ in a positive way, Full Circle, meets and even exceeds your expectations. Issues of waste are addressed and made accessible to all ages.
The message goes home with you, together with the paper punches left in your shoes…
Trash Tales : By Joanna Coleman
As part of our creative writing workshop Trash Tales on 15th December
The description of a plastic heap
Bottles everywhere, and grease. Sky above and on the road. Lying out splayed like dead beings, like cats, perhaps, on the road. Tyres along it, and bottle tops reflecting on the sky. A ginger fox with a broken tail is lying on a great dark slice of road, and a car beside it is fallen off. A pink plastic bottle cap is lying on a great dark space of road, squashed on a great white embrace of road, and the sky above it is falling into it and onto it, and also all around it. The sky above has hands pressed to the plastic, and the plastic has sticky hands pressed to the road, and the road is yielding like black grass, not yielding like a dark ribbon, the pink bottle cap is sitting on the road drunkenly, drunkenly sitting on the open sky of road.
First Person Plastic
I am a pink plastic bottle cap lying on a great dark space of road. My curves are my own endless story, I spiral in visceral fortitude beneath the southern and sullen sky. Only I know my beauty, only I know that, although I have been repeated, I repeat secrets no one has yet been able to answer. Only I know that a pink bottle cap is not, ever, what it has been before, nor will be after. If the wind walks me into the sea then I will make songs there, and these songs will be songs too strange for water, and too strange for living things. These songs will be bleak in sea and strangling into turns of gut and bone. But I mean no harm, only you do not see my secrets, a small pink bottle cap curled upon the road. Where I was made, science was extravagant, lucid and secret and printing reams of power, but you have not remembered to remember what came after. I am the key for which no lock has yet been made, and I am the thing that appears to speak everywhere, endless and cheap, tiny and pink, too loud to be heard, too secret to be honest, too violent to be taken notice of, and too passive to be overlooked. I am a pink plastic bottle cap lying on a great dark space of road.
How did I get here: Sandwich Packet
I had been an encasement for an appetite, I had been used to brandish lunch, I had been – an hour – seen like needing, and then it was done. After that the treasure trove of darkness where all things were one with unwanting and loose losing themselves. Dark hearts in plastic cans and ribs. What is the quality of silence when the lid has fallen on a bin, what is the quality of breathless breathing? Strange lights in the packed dark, and strange languages of slimy and cellophane tongues. It was a cavern of talk and a meeting of slammed hope, an audience of crammed possibility, and I was there and dead. Yet when the wind came, I fell from it, out, into the world again concerned with space, and I beat across the road like a cartwheel, skipping over and over while I saw something great and blue.
This was not like trash. This was not a place for unbecoming things. This was a system all flavoursome in its fullness and the speaking and the words all green and blues. This was not my place, and in placing, this was not my dance and I yet walked on footsteps ripped and shattered and tangled in torn fragments I was not asked to join the dance and yet I danced on in the green secret heart, talking a talk that no one could understand, wishing a word that no one could take by the hand. I saw others of me, but we floated, held by a holding that begrudged us our very simple being, and parts of me were danced right into gut and blood and bone where I could not make out my noise, and where I changed where change was not wanted. Against the rocks and stones in slamming passion I return and wait to be what next? Art? Or Rubbish? Where will I go when these white walls of sight are over?