The South Bank’s alluring labyrinth of railway arches sank us underground into a painting matrix, as 8 artists battled for live resonance with the voting audience, at The Vaults near Waterloo, on 18 Nov.

A glowing chasm of laser highways hung overhead in the deejay-ribbed hall, and blended gallery with nightclub; giving creativity depth, as creatives jammed around a stage to shine their model-fired view on the slowly revolving audience’s 30 minute clock.

Columbian artist, Vane MG, gave a midnight sun’s stained glass a touch of Aztec geometry; echoing the venue’s electric night sky and, thence, the evening’s live performance element. Fiona McGregor’s freedom from the labelled object wove tranquil human form from coiling component curves, highlighting the universal, energetic flux which transcends the superficial, macroscale borders of bodies. She was a worthy runner-up. Italian Manuela Capraro magnetised weight and emotion from unblended rainbow tones, their curving graphic purity adding a harmonised Renaissance peace to the human joy of colour.

The winner sculpted day from night, with deep contrast. Simon Bejer’s work let light pour not just forms, but their host space, too, with easy freedom that sang the depth it drank.

With #ArtBattle’s trademark playful inclusiveness, paint had lit the South Bank Saturday; and dreams had strummed chrome alive, as an Aquarian audience celebrated individuals that share, without being moulded.




Another continuum of tone, fusing mountain winds with the dreamer’s still, flowed from Zeyn Mro and Monoco’s progressive mix.

The plectrum’s sparks tickled another trip from Zeyn’s guitar strings, in a jam that slid from quavering spray to the unseen surround sound of barking dogs.

Immersion enwrapt us, in a set that rang without explanation, and sang without words – and left our minds flying.




The teasing truth of this band’s starkly understated lyrics, and of its liberated, alluring tone, will see its dream-deep music survive as long as humanity.

Dead-pan comedy raps feeble excuses for clichéd misdemeanours, hanging humour on real life’s bedroom farce, as hormones wander eternally. The distilled depth of Freudian animation, and gloriously carnal stage choreography, sees E-rotic’s gyrating eurobeat plunge mind and heart into sex, with the gasping spontaneity of integrity.

Through their timeless work, art and pornography have been glued with a courteous, feminist romance, which “comes” with a laughing, dancing consciousness; and which once – from the land of Bach’s soul-tickling, engineered lullabies – freed the 1990s.


Blair channels his brazenly squalid energy on blocking vox pop – in the democracy that he weakened severely over a decade’s warped, incompetent and pointless rule.
Then, Cool Brittania liked the mass-appealing vogue of his rough-hewn mean.
But now, Aquarius’s waters irrigate real individuals, leaving conformism’s notional average stranded – and, with it, Blair’s lies.




!!! SOARING SEAS !!! Ana-Maria Cardoso Cockerill hosts “Between the Lines” at EspacioGallery.com London E2 7DG

Between the Lines teases space with claustrophobia, and explores genitive femininity’s transcension of the ages, writes Jonathan Graham.

Gusts of mood herald Ana-Maria Cardoso Cockerill’s latest Espacio show, surfing female essence and experience, from pained oppression to euphoria. Five decades after the diva wail found pop music’s sexual soul, a block still stifles Venus’ cosmically intelligent joy.

Pulled into toybox water, we find the blissful uplift of Salma Zulfiquar’s yellow fish: soaring from cool depth to sunlit nirvana, as trailing threads hang down, and we float on rippling turns which make heaven palpable.

Rainbow brilliance studs this collection with captivating gateways, pulling us in and beyond; to the shifting glade of Bogdan Trybel’s refraction, fading to summery space beyond a raining window; to Helen Lack’s brush strokes, swinging as dramatic orthogonals around orchestras of cranes, like the ship rigging of orange memory. White and yellow dapples the spring surge, from the dark height of equinoctial gales.

Cinthya Picazo prints a diamond-paned veil on a 1950’s face. The antiquity imprisons the stained glass ghost in funereal midnight: dead witness to blind lashes’ pathos and the jarring of soulless beauty.

Creating “aesthetic balance between colour and shape”, Cristina Cantilena’s folds are a chromatic trip with a fabric twist: sliding Tetris squares are folded to lithe life. Textiles know us intimately, and sculpt our forms, daily, with embracing strength. Our uniform jailers and bondage playmates, they frame us for the world. Here, colour-squashed and fold-born, a figure is on the point of appearing; knees bent, and arms reaching down to shy groin. Yellow blurs its birth to animated dawn.

Gaelle GarBani chills us from sun to fatigue. Her pool seeps, dislocatedly, from a lifeless mouth, its plastic finish a hospital scan of pitiful fatality. Liz Derbyshire’s brushstrokes tighten sighs, and a recoiled upper lip savours pessimism. A Van Gogh-pixilated grimace swirls to a cheek-dimple, anchoring downward gaze. Corn-warm hair curtains are ignored by the facial cold which they encase: a familiar vortex.

With sculpted knuckles, Les Lismore’s charge tears at a ribcage-womb, in a self-loathing short circuit – or perhaps aroused frenzy. Surrounding shadows slide from backdrop to body, in a graphic continuum, from margins to peak. The left hip’s provocative asymmetry balances the rightward, shuttered gaze.

Kevin Derbyshire’s pouring mist of tight pixels lowers us to meditation; which continues in Fabiana Righi’s trance of physical, intellectual and stylistic nudity. Her self-portrait holds a distinctive pose with ease; conscious of its validity, despite its not being a preset, code-active norm. Versatile through untrammelled innocence, leaving body-hair intact as thought, she is terrestrial witness to blue heights; receiving the sky’s colour-complement to her thirsty skin-tone.

From here grow sculptures.

Sonya Stanbury’s happiness shines arms’ flux to head and torso, showing “serenity and ease within the body”. Robin Beuscher’s poker-faced, chauvinist mannequin highlights women’s second class citizenship; especially entrenched in patriarchy-strangled religion. His leaden tome wilts before female hips’ innocent magnetism. Compulsive despite subconscious reluctance, misogyny is doomed.

Terry Yoshinaga’s sun-baked lines carve a lifetime’s emotional recordings onto an old woman’s gleaming skin. Transient experience is printed from her evolving eternity. Huw Briggs’ girl band alphabet dances creative energy: irrepressible despite those who would exploit it in the male dominated music business. Viola Rühse’s face-averse focus on a cramped queue of legs sees a fetishising prison uniform. Sexually acknowledged, yet emotionally disregarded, the legs’ comic emptiness lays bare the tragedy of fearful, self-brutalising objectification.

Madi Acharya curves a bone ring against the gloom. Plastic melts down twig-like relief, until the nadir, undraped, springs up in a clean handstand, its reverse tension the purring upstroke of a flowery Nordic Ø. Tory Butler’s exhausted skeleton, her folded hips a feminine knot, drapes pelvic delicacy from drooping neck, as reaching arm pleads with circus rings. A bow-tied skull handkerchief reverses the head in seamless, “morbid” humour.

Manuela Capraro’s bow ties nose to mute mouth, exploring coloured form as her story. Convex eyes shine injury, their polished formality balancing a radial journey’s graphic quiet, as shape chokes feeling: the cubist flat squashes pre-Raphaelite reflection, from sadness to silence.

Warmth ushers Theresa Monagle’s newcomer to a flat crowd, amongst seated figures’ cramped perspective. Faux-depth flirts with palette knife-layers’ ambiguity, conjuring table ghosts from oil forearms.

Night cold prays a dove’s shadow from a woman’s enchanted head, bound to reality by bare light, and sheet-crumpling weight. Justyna Koziczak’s shades fume, from a pagan tracing of consciousness through nature’s playful dusk: furthered by Lizy Bending’s tunnel of foliage, and the pearl twilight of Maria Osuna’s herbivore skull and decaying flowers; spent, in a broken food chain. Jonathan Graham’s angry vaults of night drink the heady anger of accelerating curves.

An ent’s gnarled nose is the willow of Tolkein’s Tom Bombadil. Yolanda Medina sings fertility from the tree trunk’s heavy, coloured curve. Ida Ndoni’s rare exploration of textured black and white offers brilliant flowers’ crystalline hope, from marble-dark ground. Gabor Paszti wires a compass-crest of antennae along a blonde-platted head, chasing transplanted hair into stone wonders. Triffid crystals centre dandelion-clocks, like the silent hearts of this Atlantis still.

Between the Lines pulsates: receiving, connecting and giving, in a world that fears all three.

Ribbed by overcoming the friction of ignorance, it straddles the joyful truth of divine geometry. Ana-Maria Cardoso Cockerill has created a kaleidoscope of the feminine: recalling self, others and their fusion, in language that paints worship with fetishised metaphor, as with direct romance.

Rhythms constitute femininity’s dream-generous history: from shape-woven rainbows to sleeping mists; from meditation, through vintage dungeons to soaring flights. Harmonic future is retrieved with romantic wonder from faintest memory’s dusty light: fearfully ignored, yet siren vision for the voyage.


Copyright TruthExcites.com, 2017


Grey Major’s sad tale just gets worse and worse.
The trouble is, it is difficult to feel sorry for the human wet morning since, beside the gritty concrete monotone, sits a dangerous spite.
He was indeed closer – in terms of destruction – to Robert Louis Stevenson’s colourful villain, Long John Silver, when his obstinate stupidity pulled Britain into the 90s tradesman’s entrance of an EU vortex.
And that was after being part of an anti-Thatcher coup, which diluted her legacy of self-fulfilling, Atlanticist optimism, with the slightly chauvinistic gruel of conformist, Euro-patrician cronyism.
The globalist belief in Big Government sits at the heart of Major’s prickly, establishment status craving ego – and his small thinking.
That much was clear from his bitter rant today. Luckily, it came from a chippy grandee, whose soup-like political vision no longer has the legislative traction to drown a successful economy in a doomed, bureaucratic bog.



!!! #SUMofUS #SnowflakeDespots CAN’T ABORT INDIGO TORCH !!!

As freedom-phobic #SUMofUS fights Breitbart’s enlightenment of the world – with a despotic harassment of its advertisers, propelled by an ugly, dangerous, self-interested Messiah complex – one advertiser typifies Breitbart’s intelligent, tribeless consciousness: whose vibration lies at the heart of the libertarian winds, now so devastatingly undermining the New World Order’s grimy, group-glued opacity with harmony-heralded truth.

Indigo-herbs.co.uk feed the ascending spirit with waves of organic energy, to enlighten the journey from the gym to Nirvana. As their name’s aural reference to higher planes suggests, like Breitbart, they liberate everyone’s instinctive recognition of truth.