With any book promotion it’s difficult to find something to say about my work without immediately giving into to compulsive self-deprecation (according to Kate Fox this is a perfectly normal symptom of Being English and nothing pathological at all), and with postcardsfromanexplosion it becomes even more tricky because it’s an art book.
It comprises a series of close-ups of mundane settings and light conditions rendered alien by the intense scrutiny this mimics, and a series of pseudo-cut-ups and genuine cut-ups numbered from a far wider pool (I selected each via an extremely silly method involving several scuff marks on my bathroom wall from throwing shoes at a pile of paper slips. It sounds fine in theory but in practice when you’re lobbing trainers at fragments of poetry you feel a bit of a tit).
postcardsfromanexplosion is only available from Lulu.com, it is a 36-page full-colour paperback (which is why it is so embarrassingly expensive), and as I cannot bring myself to tell you that it’s an in-depth examination of the human pysche and the randomness of fate contrasted to the alienation of city life or whatever I’m supposed to say in order to sound duly pretentious, I will say this: it’s a collection of written images which I thought were cool, lined up with some photos I took which I thought looked cool. Hopefully you will also think they look cool.
This is why I am not an art critic.