Central Saint Martins degree Show June 2011

http://csmbafineart.com/students/student/25/56

Roman Cochet

http://csmbafineart.com/students/student/18/85 
Marcus Woodcock

Last Thursday at 6pm, as I was swept by a crowd of what looked like pirates through the curtain of water that guarded the entrance to Central Saint Martin's - sprung from the broken gutters above and  infused, no doubt, with a homeopathic essence of Chernobyl-Fukushima Reactor No. 4 and Osama Bin Laden - I felt like I'd stumbled off the slick wet pavement of the Charing Cross Road into some kind of inter-galactic trading centre, an interstellar freeport where off-world access could be gained for a few muttered words in the right order on the right stair. Stuff lay everywhere. Imagine a supermarket conceived  by Sun Ra and Doctor Seuss and you get the initial impression. An avalanche of affekt strewn over 8 - or was it 9? - floors (but seemed like it went to 11).

Too much to take in, a labyrinthine ascent through flickering images in strange rooms, half-glimpsed canvases, the psychic flotsam and jetsam of a world accelerating beyond its own comprehension washed up in the condemned cells of a building already racing toward dissolution.

Ghosts. My son Adam in a sailor's suit holding forth to a beautiful multitude, TS Eliot declaiming "Dark, dark into the dark" in a Moorish enclave.

Meanwhile, a pair of heavily skidmarked underpants rebuked me as I uneasily examined the sunlit image of a woman bowing to a thick cock that rose through her fingers, my lupine nature momentarily exposed through the guise of tweed and grey, while upstairs in a back room a dutiful daughter embroiders her apologies to her mother in phrases of such searing simplicity that cotton becomes flesh. Simply, the cat's paws.

http://csmbafineart.com/students/student/25/48

http://csmbafineart.com/students/student/26/108

Helen Rance