Tag Archives: Creative Corner

M20 Collective this year so far

Wow, time flies when you’re doings things doesn’t it.

Funny that?!

Well we’ve been doing things this year, and as we find ourselves nearing the final quarter of the 2016 we thought it would be nice to summarise our year to date; and fill you in with the goings on in and around the M20 collective networkings.

As some of you may or may not know, myself (Yemi Bolatiwa) and Joel white are co-founders and leaders of the collective. in 2013 our very own Joel White began making links with small acts and bands in the Withington area, in an endeavour to build a local music scene. Naturally as his musical pal and social companion I intervened and we put our heads together with various friends, supporters and local organisations to put on events, which would lead to the creation of a new community organisation for south Manchester’s creative circles.

 

Now three years later, we continue to create platforms and opportunities, mingle with fellow artists and creatives and put on showcases of talent in the south Manchester area and beyond  – staying true the grass roots origins of the concept.

There’s still time for a final M20 2016 artistic blow-out, and it’s brewing… but for now join us in reminiscing on the events of 2016…

January
A quiet month for most, when we were busy sending emails and having meetings with the Ask My Bull boys, in preparation for their EP launch.

February
A certain male M20 collective co-founder has his final 20-something’th birthday, days before the AMB event was due to erupt.

March
POW – a creative explosion of flamboyant gypsy punk was splurged all over the walls of Aatma. What a night, Ask my bull succeeded to show they are one of  Manchester best and most unique live acts and we were happy to help support their self-title EP release. To say it was a success would be an understatement. Relive the night in the video below…

On 8th March, The International Women’s Day #IWD16 happened, so we helped Claire Roberts with her line up of spoken word artists and female creatives at the boutique event Women Make Works (and I even did a little sing myself).

April
It rained in Manchester, M20 collective’s 3rd birthday past (uncelebrated) and the cogs were turning for the (Chorlton Arts Festival CAF) show that were to be a part of.

May
We put together a line up of 7 bands including the debut of Lychee and a brilliant start-up by Agbeko an array local fashion stalls and creative works by Elnaz Yazdani, Little Beasties, Threads & Dreads,  Chan Yang Kim and many Others  had Danielle Jawando do a writing workshop as part of the CAF programme a day and night filled with arts and creativity.

 

chAN yANG kIM

(Above Photography exhibit by Chan Yang Kim)

June
There was a heat wave so we were far too exasperated to do anything #BBQs

July
A bit more downtime as mine and Joel’s personal endeavours were taking off with a gig-packed July for Pareidolia and a Manchester Jazz Festival debut.

August
 After 2 months away it’s now time to reconnect, and so the planning begins for our next event. We’ll give you a hint; the concept is borderline ready…

Performers, creatives and artists of all shapes and sizes please get in touch and let yourselves be known as you could be perfect for our winter affair. Until then…

Peas and Love – Yemi Bolatiwa

Email: M20collective@gmail.com or to feature in the next blog for an interview about your work, or to submit an opinion or creative piece email: them20press@gmail.com

Creativity – Collaboration –Community

 

 

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Local Literature: ‘List of Lists’

Allegorical piece by Fandango Hack; a list of the weird, the beautiful and the atrocious things that make up the world

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The bath, the stainless shovel, the mask, the cat, the bastard and the brothel

The sloth, the slowly sinking, the dogman in the doghouse drunk and slowly drinking

The cot, the dripping tap, the cobra and the Bearn with cradle cap

The nag, the reigns of brass, the hands retracting from the chance to clasp

The mole, the focal point, the oil slick and dripped drawn to anoint.

The eldest, dead and dying, the trier God would love giving up trying

The prayer, the prongs of forks, the damsel in distress popping the cork

The window, the tubby fucker, the golden punishment for copper suckers.

The world, and all its raging wrong, the sorrow in the truth of every song.

The tape, the worm escaping, the lacerated shapes, the plates that Greeks be breaking

The sand, the flooded earth, the man, the battle and the bloody birth

The heart, the tumour clock, the startled pecker pecking and the strangled cock

The news, the bloated leader, the reader of bad blues, the filthy minded bleeder

The grass, the meadow strung with deaths own tinsel, the tooth, the biter of the bitten pencil

The fruit, the guardian of all unknown, the beauty bought and battered cloaks a clone

The worms, the worms that guide us to the core, the claws that burrow, the bully come a bore.

The gas, the flame, the poisoned budgies feather, the world that went to war over the weather.

The world and all its rarest rights, the joy found in the truth of every fight.

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read more at:www.fandangohack.tumblr.com

CREATIVE CORNER… Myles Bagnall

Protesters Manchester Center 2014

Who are you in Manchester’s Eden?
Longing for justice, protesting for freedom.

Tarpaulin shelter and tales of woe,
banners of facts of crimes we should know.

Holding vigil for those who are lost.
Discussions of politics, counting the cost.

Displaying disturbing photographs of terror.
Carefully laminated against English weather.

Displaying the flag of a proud & treasured past,
their fight for the hope that Palestine will last.

Myles Bagnall

myles_photo_protest

CREATIVE CORNER… Remembering Our Future and Our Origins

remembering our origins

‘From mother to child we carry ancient information in our DNA, we are inextricably linked to the planet in our past and in our future: we’d do well to remember this more often. Once we die we will return to that place of non-existence, whatever it is, but our legacy will live on, in our children and the world we leave for them. This painting is supposed to represent a foetus in the womb, which in it’s early development is difficult to tell apart from other species, the unborn life form is surrounded by organic patterns of nature. Many people I have spoken to have taken different meaning from it: a protective cocoon, the centre of the earth, the growth of a cell, roots and a seed, a breast, meditation and the eastern symbol of the OM – whatever you see I hope it inspires some thoughts of your own. Peace x’

Danny Smyth, MCR born London living artist and writer

Check out his poetry and illustration elsewhere in the creative corner…

Basement Sessions #1… Paugwe//Kolo Tamam//Rachel Ferguson

Join us for the first of M20COLLECTIVE’s brand new weekly creative sessions in the Northern Quarter…

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On Thursday 18 September, M20COLLECTIVE launches a new, free weekly night for Manchester’s creative community at Montpellier’s Cafe/Bar in NQ. Each week, the best of the city’s musicians, poets and artists will be sharing their work in an intimate space tucked away in a cosy basement on Back Turner St  – come along for chilled, creative, collaborative vibes!

For the debut session, we have three amazing artists playing a range of styles for your listening pleasure…

on the stage

Paugwé

This electro/trip-hop duo create a soulful vibe with Sasha Pannu’s powerful vocals layered over looped synths and intricate melodies

Kolo Tamam (reduced set)

Indie infused sounds with splashings of electronica. Vocal and guitar harmonies intertwine to propel lead singer Iain’s poetry into the atmosphere

Rachel Ferguson

Poet, artist and mesmerizing singer song writer. Folky/alternative vibes. Have a read of some of her work on the M20COLLECTIVE Creative Corner…

MORE TBC

details

When: Thursday 18th September, 8pm

Where: Montpelliers Cafebar, 42 Back Turner Street, Manchester M4

How much: £0!

Basement Sessions #1 on Facebook

See you in the basement! M20 x

Storm by Jonny Heath

The storm arrived in the middle of the night. Nothing and no one was prepared for its force.

They had said on TV that people should expect heavy wind and rain. Maybe the weatherman was new or asleep or drunk on the job, or maybe the weather itself had made the last minute decision to behave in a completely new and unexpected way, because no whisper of a warning ever came close to reflecting the savagery of that wind, that rain; that force.

First it arrived as an icy wind so powerful that as it swept through the city’s streets it tossed up cars, pulled down chimneys and ripped out road signs; obliterating with whistle, howl and moan the silence that hangs between dancing and dawn.

The first three victims of the storm were, in order:

A set of traffic lights,

The front window of St. Margaret’s Church,

And a papier mache elephant named David.

St Margaret’s was the church on Witherton High Street, and it had a window display that was updated every now and then with a new symbolic item. For a while there had been an elephant there, along with a sign that read:

 

‘ELEPHANTS NEVER FORGET. DON’T FORGET GOD.’

 

When the storm hit, the traffic lights came off best, because they were mostly made of metal; the window of the church shattered into a million pieces, and poor David was caved in like a collapsed meringue.

The storm’s first lucky escapee was a man called Lou, who at the time was watching his feet.

When the wind tore the traffic lights from their moorings in the concrete, pulling up a big clump of it like the earth that comes up with the roots of a weed, Lou was pretending to be in the Bahamas. Lou had never been to the Bahamas, but he had the idea that it was warm there. He was watching his feet because when he brought his face up any higher he got scared that the wind would scrape it off.

The traffic lights missed him by three inches. He didn’t see them but he heard them go; the dreadful rumble as they were ripped from the ground, and immediately after that the dreadful crash of the window as it shattered.

Lou was saved by the same gust of wind that got the traffic lights. It picked him up too, taking him off his feet and throwing him into the opening of an alleyway running alongside the church. If it hadn’t been for that gust of wind, those traffic lights would have taken Lou’s head off. (Although actually they wouldn’t have done any such thing, as if it hadn’t been for that gust of wind, those traffic lights would have stayed just where they were meant to.)

Lou went into the alley on his hands and knees, not thinking anything at all. He held on tight to the bottom of a gate a little way inside. Still Lou had no thoughts, but he knew he should hold on tight to that gate. Sure enough, as soon as his gloved fingers closed around the bars another gust swept through the alleyway as if a giant was trying to blow the dust out, and lifted Lou’s feet clean into the air. Then Lou was upside-down, and his arms near torn from their sockets, but still he thought nothing.

Then he came down with a thump. Then, he had his first thought:

Bloody hell.

His second thought was for Deirdre. She was in the breast pocket of his fraying jacket. Deirdre was a rat.

You’re alright, Deirdre, Lou thought.

(Lou’s thoughts only came every so often, and when they did they were white on a black background with a white embellished border, like the narrative frames of old silent films.)

Maybe Lou felt a wriggling near his chest, as if Deirdre was letting him know she was alright and hadn’t been crushed. Before he had time to check, the spire of St. Margaret’s fell into the alleyway.

There was first a flash of blinding white, then there was a sudden tumbling around, and then there was darkness.

The darkness was total. The darkness was like velvet, blacker than black, and the darkness was deep, stretching out in front of Lou forever. An unmeasurable number of moments passed. Then a thought came:

Can’t feel my feet.

It was true. He couldn’t move them either. One peculiar thing was that Lou couldn’t tell which way up he was. There was pressure from all sides. Soon the parts of his body that he could feel began to complain about the weight of the stones or the ground or the sky or whatever it was that had fallen in on top of him.

Deirdre.

   One of his hands was trapped up against his chest, the arm bent at the elbow. He wriggled his fingers to discover a small cave of space to move around in. He cupped the bulge in his breast pocket; it was warm. Carefully he freed the button of the pocket. His wrist had just enough room to bend so that his hand could slip inside. His fingers met fur.

You’re alright, Deird. You’re alright.

And Lou felt a nibble on his index finger.

Must be terrified.

And he stroked her with one finger, up and down.

You’re alright, Deird.

In the dark with weight on all sides Lou lay, and with each thunderclap he felt the rat quiver in his hand. He heard another window shatter. Kebab King? Solomon Grundy? The One Stop Supermarket? Then came a noise like clashing titans’ horns, and the scream of tearing metal, and thunder erupting in cracks and booms; the wind was a chorus of tortured creatures; high-screeching banshees and low-groaning undersea giants, and car alarms, whistles and shrieks, howls and moans, and ever more breaking glass, breaking glass, and every so often the faraway rumble of a wounded roof.

Lodged in the black, Lou could have been a stone in the belly of a mountain. He remembered the time when playing hide and seek with Uncle Felix as a child he had found the perfect spot, a space behind the washing machine where there was barely even room to breathe.

Felix couldn’t find me as hard as he tried.

Then he noticed wetness seeping through the back of his jacket, and that made him notice the constant radio hiss of falling rain which before he had taken for silence.

The only clues given by time of its passing were each white clash of the storm and the spaces in between.

There were no thoughts for a while.

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CREATIVE CORNER… Danny Smyth

Silent Fruit

 

Goda is an Egg,

Goda is a Caterpillar,

And Goda is a Butterfly,

(all at the same time).

Goda is as patient as stone,

eroding into sand,

Which, for Goda is an instant.

Goda is the grains of sand in my shoe,

Goda is the water in my glass

(and the glass too).

Goda is the glug-glug,

As it comes from the jug.

He is a she,

She is a he,

He is hard and soft,

And she is soft and hard.

Goda is she,

Goda is me and you,

Goda is we and they, and poo.

 

Goga is an uncontrollable force.

Gofa is dead and growing –

Self-ingesting and recycling,

A bubbling stew of liveliness –

And everyone has their own tastes!

What a wonderful stew! – I say.

 

I recognise Goda;

I see it constantly,

I know it as I know myself – but I just can’t remember…

Cos we’re talking endlessly instead of listening.

I can’t speak his name, or tell you exactly what she looks like,

As much as I’ve tried.

And others have tried too,

In Art, Music, Science, Maths and useless words.

 

Goda is all the colours of infinity,

All the spectrums you can’t see, or haven’t thought of yet.

Gova is a fading dream,

Hidden behind a mirror –

That beautiful mysterious bastard.

 

Goda,

Me,

You,

They,

Us

The eggs, caterpillars and butterflies,

We are a jigsaw puzzle,

but with a piece of us destroyed by words.

So we’ll never see it finished.

 

Goda’s forgotten what it looks like anyhow,

Chuckling throughout the cosmos;

As silent, and as reverent, as sliced fruit,

Like a mother,

watching-over her baby

learning to walk.

 

Poem ‘Silent Fruit’ and artwork ‘I have a healthy obsession with avocadoes’ by Daniel Smyth