text

Annie's work is often shaped by text and spoken word. Words are sculpted into various spoken and written forms, and are a major part of her practice. Writing includes, instructions for audiences, information giving, storytelling, poetic text, essays and responses to other artists works. A small selection of writing below offers a flavour of the work. 

_{Empty swing in the library (2001), a two week international workshop at Braziers Park}

Poetic Text

A Response to the death of my father (2010)

Friday 29th October

You stopped breathing at 7 minutes past seven,

the birds continued singing,

the trees rearranged themselves in the breeze,

the next shift had just begun

and the world went on living

meanwhile underground with you in rest

checking you were comfortable

I shifted the cloth just a little over your open mouth

stroked your head and waited. Annie's work

Watcher

I am the watcher

I watch out for you

Stroke your hair

Gaze at the pulse in your neck rising and falling

Bathe in your rasping breath

Listen for any hesitation and hold my breath

Perhaps in unison for one moment

I am a watcher

I straighten the cloth around your body

Make you feel comfortable

I remove the weeds and till the soil

_{Walking the waters edge (2017), photographic image, a series of text based works, Shropshire}

Carding Mill Valley work

1.

Your teaming foaming consistency overwhelms

the earth the stones obey you

they succumb to your cold fingers

you step down in a circle of ribbons

and white light

forever in a cycle of trepidation

elevation and meditation

you sound like nothing else

you are constant but never the same

you move under, over, through and down

taking sediment with you to the outer light

to the lime scale to the granite

to the wood to the blocks and stacks

tipping turning constantly roaming

2.

If I lived under a water fall I would get through a lot of umbrellas

I would sit in my plastic rain mac huddled under my protective veil

looking at a cathedral of light before me

If I lived under a waterfall I would get used to the rain,

I would marvel in the colours of the rainbow

and every now and then I would come out from under my umbrella and have a swim

Underneath my umbrella under the waterfall

there are a myriad of small animals who share my space,

they live on tiny little invisible beings who pop out every now and then

and they munch on them in-between their cups of water

Meanwhile I live on watery soup

I live on cold soup cool soup flowing soup

and sometimes when it’s really dry I have dry soup.

3.

If I was a mermaid and I got beached in a stream

my scales would scratch and become wounded

I wouldn’t be able to swim very well.

I would try and pull myself across the rocks

instinctively trying to find a way back home.

Every now and then,

I would get caught in a puddle

and would splash delightedly.

If I was a mermaid and I got beached in a stream

I would wait for someone to rescue me

and perhaps they would pick me up in a net

and kindly take me back to the source,

and I would swim away delighted to find my way home.

4.

If trees grew from the clouds

and their roots twisted and turned

and embedded themselves,

apples would fall on my head

and everything would be abundant.

I wouldn’t need to pick anything

the wind would just take them

and sometimes I would walk along the road

and a pear would hit me on my head.

If pumpkins grew from the sky

it might be quite dangerous

and I would always have to watch myself

when I went out,

looking up and banging into things

as I walked.

But what a delight to see an orange ball falling,

tumbling down from the sky

and embedding itself in the pavement

_{Corridors and Cuttings (2005), a series of actions interventions and an installations at OVADA, Oxford}

Beach combing along the hard shoulder

I am scavenger

Patrolling the border

For illegal immigrants

That scale the fence

I clear up the litter

the corpses of small mistakes

Combing the edges

And they look down to see if a morsel might come their way,

Rubber innards

A bird stapled to the tarmac

Showing off all its got for all to see

you might find

a plastic bag

clinging to the hedges

I am beach combing for scraps

tossed from a window

The sound of 90 miles an hour

Essentials fork a roof rack

Forgotten moments

After pile ups

I cruise the corridor

Finding my flight path

Corridors and cuttings

Intoxicate us with your sweet smelling petrol

Bask in the delights of your citroën shimmy

Honour them in plastic bags that hang from the trees

Pray for those forgotten by the roadside with made to measure flowers

Love those who walk the unmapped dead lands

Adorn their images in dandelion clocks

Praise those who skirt the perimeter fences and come back for more

Tempt me with tar sulphate and ammonia

Stroke us with the quadraphonic sound of rubber

Bathe in the saccharine smell of redevelopment

Devote yourselves to the corridors cuttings and embankments

Dig deep into her heart and excavate the dumped soil

Softly touch the immigrants who transport biodiversity

Sing out loud for pollution tolerant colonisers

Inhale the sweetness of top soil on her skin

Festoon him in things that germinate from fly tipping

Dedicate your life to the highways and byways

The dark

In the movies

you sit behind me

a stranger

in any other situation

I would call the police and have you arrested

breathing down my neck chewing

violently on popcorn

how do I know what you might do to me from behind

Thoughts on my love...

your eyes

see through me

like pins

your eyelashes

incline

like cotton wool

feathers

our lips touch

like sandpaper

you move

towards me

as if

walking on glass

you look

at me

and our eyes

touch like a

heated quarrel

your voice

strokes me

like a company of

clocks

your breath

envelopes me

like folded paper

you write your name

on my heart

with your finger nails

A certain distance (a response to social distancing)

Keeping me at arms length,

my edges are fraying,

electricity has fused,

earth to earth,

flesh too flesh,

how do I know I am here,

breath to breath,

what is the temperature

our touching?

_{Spread, (2007), series of events inspired by the rituals of domestic life, with Kitchen Antics and Appliances event at Abergavenny Food Festival}

Spoken word text for performance works

The story of Harriet, a gentle child loved by her family

How many miles to Absolan?
Three score and ten.
Can I get there by candle-light?
Yes, and back again.

Harriet is unlike any other child; Harriet is a child drawn to the light; in fact Harriet’s life is ruled by the light.

Her parents try and distract the poor child – they buy her two kittens and name them Benson and Hedges, but Harriet is a child possessed.

She sits in her room for hours gazing through an open window. Meanwhile her mother continually calls her, “Harriet your tea is ready child”, but Harriet does not answer. She has questions of a more important nature, like how tall is the sky, how can I navigate a journey to the moon, can I look at he sun without blinking, what country has the most daylight hours.

Harriet traces the spaces between shadows; she draws round them and lies prostrate sucking up the light through her small body. She walks with her head held up towards the sky.

Neighbour’s wonder if Harriet is endowed with special powers - perhaps she is an angel; perhaps she is Lucifer

(sing)

Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.

While you've a Lucifer to light your fag smile boys that's the style ....

Harriet lies in bed unable to sleep; the night is not for her. She reads about the making of the light bulb by torch beneath the bed clothes

She shines her torch towards the ceiling creating a beam of white light – “Oh beloved light” if only I could capture you and put you in my pocket”.

Harriet lays awake, eyes wide open, she watches the light through the crack in the door waiting in anticipation for the sun to waken, she watches the light dancing on the ceiling as morning rises

Harriet observes the street lights every evening. She keeps a diary of the time they emerge from sleep, she likes their reliability.

She keeps a scrapbook of newspaper articles – man jumps to his death from a burning hotel, severely burnt Glasgow bombing suspect dies, a discussion on the diminishing population of the glow-worm.

Harriet stretches her body out over the windows ledge a candle in her hand – she watches moths circling around the flame their fragile dusty wings fizzing as they are drawn towards the light. She plots their movements and feels herself drawn towards the dog star Sirius

During the winter months poor Harriet’s eyes are red and swollen, the child visits her doctor. The doctor suggests taking her to a foreign country where she will have more light

Harriet finds a box of matches and oh her mother and father have warned her not to play with matches.

“Harriet you are not to play with matches, the sandman will come and get you if you do that.” But Harriet is not deterred, so fascinated is she by the bright clear flames of light.

Then one night Harriet is visited by the Sandman, who comes too little children when they won't go to bed and throws handfuls of sand in their eyes, so that they jump out of their heads all bloody. He threatens that he will return one day and put Harriet in a bag and take her to the half-moon as food for his little ones; who sit in their nest and have hooked beaks like owls, and pick naughty little boys' and girls' eyes out"

But Harriet is not deterred, she is willing to take her chances, what will happen to her, who knows, such is the story of Harriet, a child drawn to the light. So ladies and gentlemen let this be a warning to all those who read at night beneath the bed clothes, who gaze through open windows and look at the sun for too long.