Alice Harry (b. 1992) is an artist and writer from Liverpool, living in London, dreaming of the South of France.
Alice Harry
Alice Harry works across performance, installation and audio with a focus on text and writing to explore both the possibilities and restrictions embedded within manifestations of language. In championing the potential of the disjointed, choral, colloquial and multi-plural approach to reading and speaking, she/they lean in and out of various voices as a deliberately queer act of resistance.
Her/Their written works are often pieced together from scraps of overheard conversations and advertising jargon which creates a humorous, absurd 'vernacular philosophy'. This causes the writing to feel simultaneously familiar and strange, precarious and yet held - somewhere teetering on the verge of collapse. The physical presence of the work mirrors this tension in its perverse approach to material. An abandoned stage set or classroom appears, one that is recognisable but removed from its original function and lingers with a nostalgia for what has been or a potential for what might now occur - the 'not here yet'. The work is embedded with capitalist desires, gendered rituals and an obsession with commercial 'things'. All of which appear within the work as totems of self-survival, ways to understand an implicated self, an attempt to arrive, an attempt to get close to - an attempt to become by unbecoming.
[CHORUS]:
Brass gold, brass gold.
Lick the banister in the tube station with your rough tongue.
Tell it to dance.
It’s not the job, it’s the management.
It’s not the job itself, it’s the management.
Love is what there is.
Underneath the floorboards there is a small bed and he sleeps there.
[CHORUS]:
The ultimate romance
of the owl and the pussycat.
Golden crosses and diamanté details.
- - nails.
You can keep getting juice from the orange
if you persist to return.
[CHORUS]:
She goes the gym and everything.
I’ve left roses on her doortstep
- and all that.
EAT SOAP AND FUCK OFF.
No ball games.
I think you're mistaken - we all want
to do something.
At 1.30am all over the land a brand new band of poets emerge. Sending their slushy, gushy feelings with all kinds of grammatical errors to those tucked up in bed. [Receivers of a heavenly delight.] A purist kind of poetical expression that bridges all kinds of time-and-space nonsense. A Heaven and Hell collision. An unhinged desire set free that does a quantum physics leap leap - oiii. New realms reached. btcxts like thibs are all iwnana read forevere mre.