https://jenniferredmond.com The Unbound Fri, 07 Feb 2025 11:27:07 +0000 https://jenniferredmond.com en https://jenniferredmond.com/ABOUT-THE-UNBOUND Sat, 08 May 2021 09:33:13 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/ABOUT-THE-UNBOUND The Unboundemail:jenniferredmond@me.com&nbsp; The Unbound is a showcase for personal and collaborative work initiated and collated by JenniferRedmond. https://jenniferredmond.com/BIOGRAPHY-JENNIFER-REDMOND Thu, 11 Jul 2024 20:46:56 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/BIOGRAPHY-JENNIFER-REDMOND BIOGRAPHY Jennifer Redmond is a multidisciplinary, artist, writer living in Cork.She has published poetry in The Madrigal, The World Transformed Anthology,and critical theory in The Visual Artists Newssheet. Her writing,moving image work and art practice connect in experimental and hybrid forms.&nbsp; She is an associate of Parity Studios UCD having been the Neville Johnson scholar 2016. Her research there was carried out in collaboration with Dr Tony Veale(Computer Science)and the Department Of Veterinary Science and it explored the evolution of human consciousness and human-machine entanglement through the interactive operations of an online social media bot and using the ideation and philosophical figuration of the Parasite. She holds a B.Ed(Hons)TCD and her master's in Art and Process was from MTU in 2014. Her writing practice includes fiction and non-fiction. She specialises in performative lectures and audio-essay; performing in UCC,(2017)UCL London(2017),UCD(2017),Uillinn Arts Centre (2017)The Guesthouse Cork(2022)RTE Radio 1 (Keywords)Dublin Digital Radio(2023)and at The 2nd Symposium on Digital Art in Ireland UCC June 2024. In any medium, her work leans towards transgressive experimental and hybrid ideologies, queer ethics and quantum aesthetics. Redmond’s practice ranges across the disciplines of writing, critical theory, audio essay, radio, sound installation, drawing and moving image. She examines the practice of myth creation and the socialisation of humanity troubled as it is now by the onset of technological advancement and the scramble for depleting resources in an environment of expiring Capitalism. The depletion of resources in her eyes are simply the wanton desecration of the earth for human gain because we cannot learn to be other than libidinous beings. She questions normative models of making art in such an economy–of not being perceived as ‘useful’ or productive and about notions of ‘wealth’, and often conjures speculative scenaria to think positively about a possible future . She is interested in particular in collaborations with individuals from any discipline believing that the creations of the individual are limited and limiting, that notions of boundaries and categories are human constructs and of little use to current and future generations of life on this planet https://jenniferredmond.com/BOTTICELLI-VENUS Sun, 14 Jul 2024 19:11:19 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/BOTTICELLI-VENUS &nbsp; BOTTICELLI VENUS She finds herself in bed–mouth open–mid snore, and as she blinks awake she is thinking about what she will wear. Leaping out of bed she reaches for her jeans only to find herself already dressed and heading to the kitchen. As she turns on the tap for a glass of water she notices her coffee steaming on the sideboard–takes a sip, but the cup is empty. Feeling cheated she starts to make another one and before she has a chance to grind the beans she is draining this cup and wondering if a third is a good idea. She decides against it because a glance at the clock shows she’s running late and if she doesn’t leave right now she will miss the morning transit. So she grabs her jacket and leaves without brushing teeth or combing hair. Outside in the streets the sun is already beating down and the morning smells stale. Dust motes on the outside pepper through the air and settle on dome surface. She tries to interpret the chatter from the surrounding bubbles–the constant low mummering sometimes–calm sometimes agitated, but she can’t get at the essence of it and time is pressing on–she thinks? Even though it is March–it is terribly hot. To her left a conversation is about to happen, it’s a faltering and indistinct murmuring and the speakers are shadowy. Genuine conversation is an unusual event so she strains to listen. From what she hears she thinks that this one won’t take. Around her voices rise in anticipation and swiftly fall away. Nothing to get excited about, another failed attempt, and listen! the subtle hiss of time escaping–how stupid to get waylaid by such a mundane occurrence. She quickens her pace. On her way to the transit stop the whispers grow coarse and clamorous–not unusual but usually loud for this time of the day. It makes her anxious–her left eye is twitching uncontrollably. To distract herself she gazes at the domed ceiling. Through the dust layer, shafts of sunlight glance off the spherical roof domes. It’s a beautiful sight, quite the gilded cage. A thought bubble materialises above her head–if she’s late her regular transit will have gone and she will have to plead for a place on the next one, which might mean performing some kind of disgusting menial or sexual act and the idea of this terrifies her. But as her introspection crystalises and as she tries with flailing hands to scatter her thought trail, she finds herself the end of her journey–no one has accosted her. She is doubting her sanity but there is no time to think about it because she is out in the street running towards her practice depot and again here and here and all around, the voices intoning in shrill whining inflexion and she would like to stop to investigate, but as she’s late she doesn’t. She’s conjuring an excuse to give at the depot and walking through the automatic doors discovers herself midway through the mornings work and it’s time for a break. She has no memory of the mornings work, but as its break time she decides to have another coffee and as she’s pouring it the dispenser asks her what she wants for lunch–this is strange, but she does want a sandwich with leaves and nut butters and carrying it back to her desk she is startled by a spectral presence. In the droplet next to hers a body is pressing against the membrane wall, which is thin and stretchy and probably porous although she has never really tested it–there has never been a reason to. The air feels very still and her breathing has become shallow–but her heart is hammering in her ears. Urgent squeaking and rubbing noises emanate from this writhing, morphing corporeal mass at the intersection of the adjoining wall; it’s male?–a rash supposition perhaps–one never can be sure, but as time elapses, if indeed time does, she begins to form a clear picture of his face which presses so ardently and insistent through the tensile wall. His lips press and mouth garbled words, not quite a sentence not yet, but she feels as though one is ce3rtainly imminent. All around them humming from the adjoining cavities rises and reaches a fevered pitch. The globules stacked in a tight frail armature, quiver tense, like an agitated nest of bees. Her head swivels from the annunciators to the one initiating conversation. It’s finally happening and she doesn’t know what to do. She remembers her sandwich, and here it is right in front of her–she takes a bite and chews. Some spittle settles at the corner of her lips as she turns the bread over and over in her mouth with her tongue– the liquid sounds of chewing drown out the voices. Should she take another bite or indulge this stranger? Conversation is so risky and the body reveals you even when you take no action. She turns her back on the him to swallow her mouthful, and when she turns around again they are at a bar drinking scum cocktails and slime chasers. His is not an ugly face but not exactly handsome either–sensitive, hirsute–the eyes protrude earnestly, probably a good lover, which indeed he is–or at least that is her assessment in his bed where she wakes, and its dark–did she finish her sandwich? she can’t remember. Did he break through the bubble membrane or did she? Can’t remember–she feels good and relaxed though. By the time she slips from his bed and closes his door she has forgotten the entire encounter and clawing her way back through the gloop of his building–which, although very damp, has a bit of a sea view and was close to some grass, (which set off her allergies) there might have been something about another date–which she tries to remember as she staggers along the pathway sneezing. About then, she notices that the wind is picking up, the voices are intoning theatrically edging up in pitch, and the foam mass is shuddering as it does when the wind blows–the wind always blows, she is sure about that. Hers is a smaller and safer droplet space at the centre of the foam. There it comes to her that they had agreed to go swimming and as she thinks of it, she finds herself in a red bikini clinging onto his hairy chest. The waves rise and fall, the water scares her and she can’t remember if she’s been home or the last time she ate or slept, but they are floating close to the top foam layer being cast and pitched around in the swell and she’s squealing–about to be engulfed by the mountainous deluge from a breaker–can’t possibly survive ….shut eyes tight! but when she opens them again it is in his bubble, in his bed and they are rising and falling with sound of the wind which has picked up–and is exciting–their white faces luminescent in the gloom. They are terrified, a kind of wide eyed fear–is it fear? It’s always fear–their mouths gape–silent screaming-might be the end…? Dawn again and she’s waking up in her own bed with no idea of how she got here, if ever she left and if the rest was a dream. She is certain only that she has agreed to meet him again for a third or is it fifth time and light is streaming through the roof dome, she turns over in the bed and finds him beside her asking where she has put his shorts. She wants out–it’s too much, he’s been trying to win her over by being extra kind, by feeding her and offering gifts and tender caresses. She finds it disconcerting that he has a cast in one of his eyes that means the pupil slides off to the left and she can’t be sure of who or what he is looking at. She just doesn’t trust him and she breaks it off as gently as she can. There are tears and slamming doors and the voices rise and rise until the whole community is shouting hysterically and clothes are being thrown out of her bubble. Their high pitched voices are swallowed in the maelstrom. At last alone and in peace, she drifts into a deep sleep. She wakes to the sound of bells ringing and she is whirling and posing in a beautiful white gown! A Botticelli Venus, beaming beatifically–eyelids lowered making solemn promises to have and to hold until death do them part. She can’t think why that might be significant but as she raises her eyes she finds herself scudding to shore on a wave speeding towards the revolving doors of the hospital with pain coursing through her nethers. A deep breath later and she is swept out on the backwash of departing tide through the same doors but carrying a new-born and he’s shepherding them to a cab. He is bringing them home but she doesn’t recognise the place–it is not her sanctuary. People in the streets are running for cover and dark shapes swoop from the sky with menace. She has a feeling that she has been here before although he assures her that she’s hallucinating–postpartum blues–but who is he? who is this baby, how did they become the nucleus of her world? Sirens wail, and they are ducking low as they scramble for cover. If this is the future, it’s a joke. An anxious clamour reverberates all through the foam as a gust sweeps in from the West, followed by another and another. Outside leaden droplets fall from the sky and scatter over the foam mass like automatic gunfire. The new born wails, settling into a lusty cry which by afternoon becomes a roar dissolving into pitiful snivelling by evening time. All through the night he mimics the sirens outside. Watching him she is astonished at how quickly children grow up. Persistent popping and the smack of heavy rain drive all three of them to crouch under the shuddering bed, trying to gauge the severity of their situation by the sounds of cataclysm outside. A sudden violent tremor shakes the foamy mass, and like butterflies on a window pane they cascade crashing into the transparent walls, still clinging together–feeling more potent as a family than as individuals, all petrified of being washed away in the flood or blown apart by the wind. And yet, they have become accustomed to their predicament–there is a certain black pleasure in expecting the worst. In fact, it’s very exciting and they are peeling off their clothes again…but when she opens her eyes she’s clinging to the roof of the dome as far away from him as she can be, Her nails are digging into the membrane stretching it, pushing into it, striving for a break, but no breach comes and thus trapped she becomes enveloped in the cling of the walls. She is bound like an imago with one free eye, rolling erratically in alert surveillance, monitoring him as he gathers crowds around himself–his new connections–all these random others–colonising and spreading subversion. He’s the beleaguered spouse the wronged one, the winner, how did she ever trust him? Now he is pleading with her–explaining, imploring. But she can’t and won’t move, the world feels all wrong and although she is part of it she does not belong in it. Alone and entombed in the membrane walls she watches as they age, multiply and as iterations of them come and go, each cycle of them more expeditious than the last, each generation blindly making the same mistakes as the last and always the murmuring growing at last, evermore feint. She watches, until the last day when there is nothing, no sound other than the fluttering of the scorched and ossified lashes of her free eye, blinking and straining to see the light flicker through the chinks between worlds and the endless whispering of the wind. Unbound.info · BOTTACELLI VENUS https://jenniferredmond.com/NOTICE-IS-HEREBY-GIVEN Fri, 07 Feb 2025 11:27:07 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/NOTICE-IS-HEREBY-GIVEN NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN Some places pass unnoticed– lodge in the mind’s eye, mark the soul become touchstones, glint from beyond the haunt. I am inclined to dance around them until I crack their code or am transported by the dance, drawn back again, again, thrilled, terrified breaking rules, sifting, diving the wreck coming up for air, perfect image held aloft, triumphant booty validating imperfection. You were never meant to shine in this world Never to consort with corroding star wheels, grinders, ratchets, sprockets, cogs, cables. Yet here you stand 2002; a rookie photoshoot in a derelict factory, struggling for middle values bracketing two stops up, two down and pursuing a harmonious tonal range. Failing. low afternoon Spring sunshine, chiaroscuro on the listing doors, cast iron machinery lined up on guard, indefatigably rusting. Phantoms in the rafters, time out of joint. A religious icon clinging to the wall—an effigy of St. Joseph a blood-red candle holder—talisman, snuffed out, cracked splintered insurance against misadventure. Bless exchange economies, bless providence and thrift Bless the clang and pound on the ground of metal on metal The clatter of dissonance and supplication. Sedulous Jesus peering in brown-eyed earnest from the mottled frame. He is peaches and cream soft-cheeked bathed in golden gloriole, right hand pressing his bleeding heart into a thorn vice. left, blessing those who labour here, blessing as much labour as can be wrought in three shifts of two hands and all these ceaseless machines? I stay to inspect the proud corroding hulks, frozen at their posts. They were built for posterity, still ready to serve as when the last hand powered down on the final night. The future found them lacking, and this worthless, useful place. Yet there is thriving here, in undistinguished disharmony. In 1975, my grandmother says,” You’re fat, but won’t ever be as fat as her” I am twelve, My sister is sixteen–she leaves the room in tears Grandmother shrugs as if it’s our fault we were never hungry doesn’t want us to grow up soft My school uniform is Virgin Mary blue. a shirt with thin blue stripes, and I wear a blue gaberdine coat, a blue beret, and long blue socks. The school doors are blue, the classrooms (north facing) are blue and very cold. Blue–colour of tranquillity, I look washed out and drawn,&nbsp; silent as if my heart will break blue. In the church, the candles for the holy souls are scarlet Picking at a scab until dark drops ooze from under the lid–the crust has a satisfying texture and is itchy! Why can’t I stop picking? The contact sheet reveals about five shots from the reel of twenty-four exposures that might be worth developing I exposed too much and the image is blown or too little and darkness has overtaken the composition 1978 late November swimming practice, I am fifteen and running down a long dark avenue– footsteps behind me, engulfed by a tall shadow– You would think there would be more people around at that hour A man’s hand on my mouth to stop my noise mother is nonchalant “You’ll get over it– happens us all” and goes back to watching television. I never do. Mother says you only have to glance in the mirror to know how you really look it’s good that you have a crooked nose otherwise you might get notions the skin under the scab is a delicate tender pink stretched tight and galling. Father works in a suit and tie and implausibly looks as though he likes it he likes cigarettes and later he likes cigars. 1979 he buys a Red Alfasud Sprint before his first heart attack and in spite of the oil crisis, all seven of us pile in. Once after mass he said he felt like answering back but mostly he sat quietly losing his hair Mother stopped buying Kerry Creams . First wages–fairground gig–bought corduroy jeans My best friend and I are sixteen Creeps poke at her breasts in the streets, mine are tiny. I wear my jumpers pulled down over my bottom 2005 second visit to the factory ruins with a new digital camera. An early afternoon in September and the light is low and warm. The ghosts of the place are rushing about going through the motions Kicking up dust motes in the late Autumn sun 1985, I stopped going to mass and nothing bad happened but lately it’s getting warmer. Article 41 of the 1937 constitution; recognises that by her life within the home, woman gives to the State a support without which the common good cannot be achieved. The State shall, therefore, endeavour to ensure that mothers shall not be obliged by economic necessity to engage in labour to the neglect of their duties in the home. On the factory floor the only gender difference is in the pay packet The clocking machine lies in splinters in the dust A host of tiny creatures have made it their world effacing clock time in this non-place where ivy entwines around the windowpanes mother got part-time work in 1988 and bought herself some nice clothes A drunken ladder leads upwards to a wooden platform, an office, a panopticon, or eagle’s nest where the labour below was monitored and production targets set. Someone was a clerk, books were kept–handwritten, labourers were watched, paid, hired and fired. Someone was a foreman and someone a boss. when we moved out she didn’t say it but she was relieved. our living gathered momentum first job, first pay check, first mortgage, first car all according to plan and… aren’t you doing so well? parents must be proud There is a wall of small panes of glass, some cracked some missing, none transparent, all set in a metal chequerboard frame. Light floods in from this arrangement in a subtle play of shadow and translucence. Dancing leaves, branches, and intertwining briars make this decadent beauty breath-taking. In a moment I am reaching for the camera, personal peril cast aside–I am playing with the light and the many compositions that the scene suggests. I am capturing; · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; a rusty paint can brim-full of stagnant water, · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; truck tyres pitched up into a lazy heap in a corner, · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; the found sculpture of those monumental machines, trailing lathes, and rusted chains. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; nature reclaims its spaces shambolically. Sycamore seedlings, briars, ivy, willow saplings, ferns, and bluebells are growing in the floor and shelves, levering the walls and ground apart making spaces for other species, to colonise The smell of old metal and sour diesel–acrid and unhealthy breath I fill my lungs. I can taste the dust of rust between my teeth. A car drives past on the road adjacent–I step deep into the shadows. I shouldn’t be here. The walls could collapse at any time. The roof trusses are spindly and unreliable. The corrugated is almost certainly asbestos in varying stages of decay, fibres of which are floating through the air. Every breath toxic I don’t trust the floor, everything is covered with black dirt. I feel as though I am treading on sedimented layers of decaying integument, tangled in briars and moss, disguised to look solid but more likely, home to cities of rodents. Time stands still–clock time and I am striving to catch the irreducible remainder the ravishing quality of a culture that has lost its momentum. Some proof that by aesthetic essay we are not the last of our kind. Stuck here at the end of history, I realise why I have come, why I return to this non-place, its residual objects built for an impossible posterity, with its ghosts and its burgeoning new life. I need to acknowledge the loss of loss that elides us in the technological. I need to connect with a thin space through which something other returns. 1978 late November swimming practice, I am fifteen and running down a long dark avenue– footsteps behind me, engulfed by a tall shadow– You would think there would be more people around at that hour A man’s hand on my mouth to stop my noise mother is nonchalant “You’ll get over it– happens us all” and goes back to watching television. I never do. Mother says you only have to glance in the mirror to know how you really look it’s good that you have a crooked nose otherwise you might get notions the skin under the scab is a delicate tender pink stretched tight and galling. Father works in a suit and tie and implausibly looks as though he likes it he likes cigarettes and later he likes cigars. 1979 he buys a Red Alfasud Sprint before his first heart attack and in spite of the oil crisis, all seven of us pile in. Once after mass he said he felt like answering back but mostly he sat quietly losing his hair Mother stopped buying Kerry Creams . First wages–fairground gig–bought corduroy jeans My best friend and I are sixteen Creeps poke at her breasts in the streets, mine are tiny. I wear my jumpers pulled down over my bottom 2005 second visit to the factory ruins with a new digital camera. An early afternoon in September and the light is low and warm. The ghosts of the place are rushing about going through the motions Kicking up dust motes in the late Autumn sun 1985, I stopped going to mass and nothing bad happened but lately it’s getting warmer. Article 41 of the 1937 constitution; recognises that by her life within the home, woman gives to the State a support without which the common good cannot be achieved. The State shall, therefore, endeavour to ensure that mothers shall not be obliged by economic necessity to engage in labour to the neglect of their duties in the home. On the factory floor the only gender difference is in the pay packet The clocking machine lies in splinters in the dust A host of tiny creatures have made it their world effacing clock time in this non-place where ivy entwines around the windowpanes mother got part-time work in 1988 and bought herself some nice clothes A drunken ladder leads upwards to a wooden platform, an office, a panopticon, or eagle’s nest where the labour below was monitored and production targets set. Someone was a clerk, keeping–handwritten books, labourers were watched, paid, hired and fired. Someone was a foreman and someone a boss. when we moved out she didn’t say it but she was relieved. our living gathered momentum first job, first pay check, first mortgage, first car all according to plan and… aren’t you doing so well? parents must be proud There is a wall of small panes of glass, some cracked some missing, none transparent, all set in a metal chequerboard frame. Light floods in from this arrangement in a subtle play of shadow and translucence. Dancing leaves, branches, and intertwining briars make this decadent beauty breath-taking. In a moment I am reaching for the camera, personal peril cast aside–I am playing with the light and the many compositions that the scene suggests. I am capturing; · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; a rusty paint can brim-full of stagnant water, · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; truck tyres pitched up into a lazy heap in a corner, · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; the found sculpture of those monumental machines, trailing lathes, and rusted chains. · &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; nature reclaims its spaces shambolically. Sycamore seedlings, briars, ivy, willow saplings, ferns, and bluebells are growing in the floor and shelves, levering the walls and ground apart making spaces for other species, to colonise The smell of old metal and sour diesel–acrid and unhealthy breath I fill my lungs. I can taste the dust of rust between my teeth. A car drives past on the road adjacent–I step deep into the shadows. I shouldn’t be here. The walls could collapse at any time. The roof trusses are spindly and unreliable. The corrugated is almost certainly asbestos in varying stages of decay, fibres of which are floating through the air. Every breath toxic I don’t trust the floor, everything is covered with black dirt. I feel as though I am treading on sedimented layers of decaying integument, tangled in briars and moss, disguised to look solid but more likely, home to cities of rodents. Time stands still–clock time and I am striving to catch the irreducible remainder the ravishing quality of a culture that has lost its momentum. Some proof that by aesthetic essay we are not the last of our kind. Stuck here at the end of history, I realise why I have come, why I return to this non-place, its residual objects built for an impossible posterity, with its ghosts and its burgeoning new life. I need to acknowledge the loss of loss that elides us in the technological. I need to connect with a thin space through which something other returns. jennifer Redmond ©2025 https://jenniferredmond.com/SCARECROW Thu, 08 Feb 2024 13:52:49 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/SCARECROW Scarecrow is a poetry film.&nbsp; A testimonial to the lived experience of many women and to how they might view the sum of their lives on this planet. It is also a commentary on Capitalism and the human use of land for financial gain; The scarecrow is a metaphor for the feminine, the elder wise woman who acts as an augur for a precarious future, for the disintegration of human civilization. &nbsp; ScarecrowBum passing in the street cat calls…‘Hey Hey Hey, pretty lady–dance with me?’ I’m thinking– that hasn’t happened in a while why it’s the last straw! Vexed Thinking– he must be blind/lonely/desperate… must not be invisible today better pull in that sagging gut –chuffed ‘Give you gold for your dust’ he says I’m thinking –he’s mad still every girl wants to be a princess/queen– mindless! Not so much though, not lately– I’m thinking… So no, I won’t dance with you, it’s much too late in the Autumn– all that grain to watch and crows… crowds of crows to scare murders of crows everywhere. When you think about it, there is so much grain, and yet not enough… never enough of the golden stuff I’m thinking– Can’t believe I’ve spent incalculable hours in gratuitous toil nose to the grindstone and never learnt to separate wheat from the chaff to daily pound–make my own bread I’m thinking– truth is, we should be eating less bread and understanding that work outlasts lifetimes–even the unpaid kind I forget if…If? These are my hands working or the projections of some other demon, desire or drive perpetually in need of the gifts of our mother. I’m thinking… Is our touchstone changing&nbsp;colour? https://jenniferredmond.com/LETTER-TO-YOU Fri, 12 Jul 2024 13:46:25 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/LETTER-TO-YOU &nbsp; <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4e174b5f6d05ab9d2e97010fdb740f8ab61bf7c15c88d3c4f3c687648f29cf76/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_2.jpg" data-mid="214549037" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/4e174b5f6d05ab9d2e97010fdb740f8ab61bf7c15c88d3c4f3c687648f29cf76/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_2.jpg" /> <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7ca6bd6799f258e047303f2e64432c6af19e2c6480e189d067ecb295eeee6bfb/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_3.jpg" data-mid="214549038" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7ca6bd6799f258e047303f2e64432c6af19e2c6480e189d067ecb295eeee6bfb/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_3.jpg" /> <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e6669d8f79c220c1176219f3c9eac94fa4e1892513cc94176e4995fca6c2684e/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_5.jpg" data-mid="214549040" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e6669d8f79c220c1176219f3c9eac94fa4e1892513cc94176e4995fca6c2684e/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_5.jpg" /> <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b813147583464f10aa060a317a8944add1a3b517780df0fb8da5e77ae15ffc4d/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_6.jpg" data-mid="214549041" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b813147583464f10aa060a317a8944add1a3b517780df0fb8da5e77ae15ffc4d/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_6.jpg" /> <img width="1743" height="2266" width_o="1743" height_o="2266" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/52af99cfc8e60c5e088fd8a291e95266a0a98db92e21f7cd226ae42202790a95/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_7.jpg" data-mid="214549042" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/52af99cfc8e60c5e088fd8a291e95266a0a98db92e21f7cd226ae42202790a95/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_7.jpg" /> <img width="1734" height="2244" width_o="1734" height_o="2244" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0c387d0d2d8e2cfbcfa6c74d8d70578b7f4f89b902cc7e3a456519316bddbb3f/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_8.jpg" data-mid="214549043" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0c387d0d2d8e2cfbcfa6c74d8d70578b7f4f89b902cc7e3a456519316bddbb3f/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_8.jpg" /> <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4e174b5f6d05ab9d2e97010fdb740f8ab61bf7c15c88d3c4f3c687648f29cf76/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_2.jpg" data-mid="214549037" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/4e174b5f6d05ab9d2e97010fdb740f8ab61bf7c15c88d3c4f3c687648f29cf76/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_2.jpg" /> https://jenniferredmond.com/ASEMIC-WRITING Mon, 22 Jul 2024 23:07:06 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/ASEMIC-WRITING ASEMIC WRITING Asemic writing is a form of writing that is open- semantic, wordless and withoyt conventionally understood meaning. It’s non-specificity means that the reader inferrs their own meaning and authorial intent is incidental to the process. The practice of asemic writing fuses text and image but then dispenses with the rigors of formal script by encouraging arbitary and subjective interpretations. In fact the very intention of making no sense in the usual ways, is central to the practice.The text may be understood&nbsp; symbolism inferred and meanings collaboratively explored, in which case the ‘reader’ is the co-creator of the work thus usurping the tryanny of the artist Asemic or pansemic writing originated in the late 1990’s as part of the visual poetry movement where practicioners explo/author.re sub-verbal and sub-letteral forms of writing. It is practiced as an intentional art/poetry practice that allows the poet to move byond words and the artist to switch off the brain and to indulge only gesture. It can often be practiced while listening to music. Throughout 2022 and as an artist in residence at the Guesthouse Cork, I facilitated regular practice sessions and led a walk in workshop/Asemic session below are some examples of&nbsp; my experiments in Pansemic/Asemic writing. <img width="3023" height="3867" width_o="3023" height_o="3867" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bd516e653dafff7f5584ca2c5d806ea5a81506ca568d01762e0feae92cbb410c/ASEMIC11.jpeg" data-mid="215095522" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/bd516e653dafff7f5584ca2c5d806ea5a81506ca568d01762e0feae92cbb410c/ASEMIC11.jpeg" /> <img width="2593" height="3696" width_o="2593" height_o="3696" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2cdafdc3940bd6a06a07811c27122e49d98bd11aaab4f93c7b0398a37be2f438/ASEMIC1.jpeg" data-mid="215095507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2cdafdc3940bd6a06a07811c27122e49d98bd11aaab4f93c7b0398a37be2f438/ASEMIC1.jpeg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" data-mid="215095516" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" /> <img width="3056" height="3056" width_o="3056" height_o="3056" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/eccb4bbf31bdd85a04c239b1dcd9ecd4001ade7a839710dd3b26c44930f065d3/ASEMIC10.jpg" data-mid="215095518" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/eccb4bbf31bdd85a04c239b1dcd9ecd4001ade7a839710dd3b26c44930f065d3/ASEMIC10.jpg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3c0140a4e2c8b635451aed382e5c45989782743f49a5f6d788a8698162694302/ASEMIC13.jpeg" data-mid="215095512" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3c0140a4e2c8b635451aed382e5c45989782743f49a5f6d788a8698162694302/ASEMIC13.jpeg" /> <img width="5400" height="5398" width_o="5400" height_o="5398" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/47ab85737b443ae128559845ab5e7e76267fd88fd0fd070a4394b15fbc5a3ca7/ASEMIC2.jpg" data-mid="215095535" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/47ab85737b443ae128559845ab5e7e76267fd88fd0fd070a4394b15fbc5a3ca7/ASEMIC2.jpg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" data-mid="215095516" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3c0140a4e2c8b635451aed382e5c45989782743f49a5f6d788a8698162694302/ASEMIC13.jpeg" data-mid="215095512" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3c0140a4e2c8b635451aed382e5c45989782743f49a5f6d788a8698162694302/ASEMIC13.jpeg" /> <img width="2385" height="2609" width_o="2385" height_o="2609" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3aa701e8a40a7e57aa95d78e1573dc4ae49c821db7545368278c8caef289b623/ASEMIC9.jpeg" data-mid="215095543" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3aa701e8a40a7e57aa95d78e1573dc4ae49c821db7545368278c8caef289b623/ASEMIC9.jpeg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/af465f26d8c35525471eb90f75ad07912ead43c66babdc9b256ae07de46d29c5/ASEMIC6.jpeg" data-mid="215095536" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/af465f26d8c35525471eb90f75ad07912ead43c66babdc9b256ae07de46d29c5/ASEMIC6.jpeg" /> <img width="1131" height="1600" width_o="1131" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/76325ed05be3f6b0780cbc4246a8ab2d0822c15817c56483382bb3524d132df1/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY2.jpeg" data-mid="215148982" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/76325ed05be3f6b0780cbc4246a8ab2d0822c15817c56483382bb3524d132df1/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY2.jpeg" /> <img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5ccfe52a906f143b3a2748ddb583c8b0c5e2e9ea33293a2fcec2fbe9acc55034/THE-GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY.jpg" data-mid="215148940" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5ccfe52a906f143b3a2748ddb583c8b0c5e2e9ea33293a2fcec2fbe9acc55034/THE-GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY.jpg" /> <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" data-mid="215095516" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/67c1bb8b2b5bf9ffda374357de540fb4ad6ad42159b39280a77805100bd5825e/ASEMIC5.jpeg" /> <img width="1131" height="1600" width_o="1131" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b4989c08e984e1a1545c85c9b3b067b44402ff70a9d2946579dd33bf060db660/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY4.jpeg" data-mid="215148980" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b4989c08e984e1a1545c85c9b3b067b44402ff70a9d2946579dd33bf060db660/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY4.jpeg" /> <img width="1131" height="1600" width_o="1131" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f8fbf2c06fc4532ef6a80d10450dbe23655891f47184012cdadbbde1b1ce1850/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY-3.jpeg" data-mid="215148966" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f8fbf2c06fc4532ef6a80d10450dbe23655891f47184012cdadbbde1b1ce1850/GUESTHOUSE-PUBLICITY-3.jpeg" /> <img width="1700" height="2200" width_o="1700" height_o="2200" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/fdfd4e2f28746af615fdc0954ec44a4858bc2fd5a2c251360236e63ef8353e13/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_9.jpg" data-mid="215095768" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/fdfd4e2f28746af615fdc0954ec44a4858bc2fd5a2c251360236e63ef8353e13/LETTER-TO-YOU-_Page_9.jpg" /> https://jenniferredmond.com/IN-FOAM Mon, 15 Jul 2024 15:17:23 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/IN-FOAM IN FOAM (Work in progress)Thinking about foam as a curious/queer material as a metaphor for future societies, as a challenge to the social contract and as a challenge to the norms of political theory. This film and fiction is based on Peter Sloterdijk's spatialised analysis of human activity and political constitution, it considers how we are separate and artificially brought together by legal and moral fiction. It looks forward to an era of qubits instead of bits in what we might call to be, civilizatory units and of existential uncertainty for humans and other species. https://vimeo.com/957190705/16fffe0754?ts=0&amp;share=copy https://jenniferredmond.com/MESSAGE-TO-YOU-WIP Mon, 15 Jul 2024 15:38:07 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/MESSAGE-TO-YOU-WIP MESSAGE TO YOU At the end there are rocks in the parched landscape, the remaining few scramble for some kind of life, for some cheer in their dystopic existence, of course from their perspective they are gaming their normality.To escape the surveillance the lovers have resorted to the ancient art form of letter writing.Their method of conveyance is equally analog–they have sustained a carrier pigeon in the hope that they might communicate without detection.The plan is to terraform off planet, but first they must endeavour to meet.This is the story of a future time, or perhaps it is of now? One thing only is certain and that is that humanity in its most advanced evolved form is still a social being and will go to outrageous lengths to preserve the concept/feeling of love. Written and directed by: Jennifer Redmond Music: Claudia Barton Sound Jennifer Redmond.Unbound.info · A LETTER FOR YOU RADIO 1 https://jenniferredmond.com/AUDIO-ESSAY-S-RADIO Thu, 11 Jul 2024 20:26:43 +0000 The Unbound https://jenniferredmond.com/AUDIO-ESSAY-S-RADIO LUMBAR ENERGUMEN LETTER TO YOU LETTER TO YOU by JENNIFER REDMOND &amp; CLAUDIA BARTONBOTTICELLI VENUS BOTTICELLI VENUS by theunbound.infoTHE UNDERSTORY THE UNDERSTORY by JENNIFER REDMOND