Steve Bucknell's photos

Hipstamatic app.

The ice canvas used for the Ice Acrylics.

Angiogram, maybe, of a colourful heart,

Greece

beyond the sea

Collage 2018

It’s better to leave the dust where it is. There are no ghosts only clouds that gnaw at the windows. There is no locked room. No mystery. That’s unfortunate. Yes. Oh, there’s that singing again. I must have left a radio on up there, or it’s Adrienne practising the Messiah. The stairs, by the way, are multi-purpose. This is the Main Library, of course. I’ve booked a pantechnicon for next week, all will be gone. Well, go on through: the ceilings are all hand stitched, the carpets are wet with moss. The front door sticks. I broke all these statues myself: arms, noses, penises, some ears. I was going to make a Classical collage in my studio. It didn’t work out, but I still have all the pieces . That’s the glory hole, surprisingly useful even in such a big place. Oh, Emberson? A local GP. He had the house built. Lived alone here for fifty years. A happy man they say; he died in bed. Yes, this one. Quite a positive, I think. We’re number 13093, as in Orphée, just off the A616. Perfectly placed. The postman always seems to find us. Now. Let me show you the tower, it’s amazing:looking down there’s a precipice and a raging torrent buzzards floating by below. In the spray there’s a rainbow. I never get tired of it. And in autumn I just sit and watch the dead leaves whirling and falling such a long way. You’ll like it. We just decided we needed something smaller.

Doddington Hall sculpture garden.

One candlepower.

Assemblage

Under the Sign of the Hourglass glass tied so tight presses in on us squeezes the flow so all that blown glass curved air quick sand silver holes in water must sink through us from skull to heel in drifts of used stuff trees sky minutes hours days shed skin we are dust motes the light the needle the eye the lens ash cloud dust all our particular comminuted days fine and and infinite grains sift away between chair and bed self and others being and nothingness until you find the glass and turn it again S.Bucknell. 22.11.55 - 22.11. 19.

Blessed are the mice, for they shall inherit the earth.

found under torn posters