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It strikes me that the only way to know this place is through touch. To place myself inside it. Incorporate myself into its compressed landscape. To reside, for a while, within its shattered rooms. Its deserted chambers. To allow my arms and hands to become extensions of its oblique geometries. Gently plug holes and fissures with my own body. To feel it. Observe the impression left upon my skin by its obdurate contours. To bear its scars, clinging like kisses.


​Richard Skelton, Landings, 2009





Frottage 
noun (mass noun)
The technique or process of taking a rubbing from an uneven surface to form the basis of a work of art.
ORIGIN 1930s: French, ‘rubbing, friction’, from frotter ‘to rub’, of unknown origin.

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​Curated by the photography collective ‘Inside the Outside’, Out of the Woods of Thought at Argentea Gallery features work by its founding members Al Brydon, Rob Hudson, Stephen Segasby and Joseph Wright whose collective philosophy hinges on a number of interconnected questions about how we relate to the landscape and the way in which this informs their representation of it in photographic form.  Complementing this philosophy is work by a number of handpicked guest exhibitors that include Lynda Laird, Tom Wilkinson, J.M. Golding, Brian David Stevens and Guy Dickinson.

2nd November – 21st December 2018
Opening: Thursday, 1st November 6-8pm

Series info: Centre for Alterity Studies.
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The work of the eyes is done.

Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.


Rainer Maria Rilke, Turning-point: Miscellaneous Poems 1912-1926



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My friend, I am not what I seem.

​Seeming is but a garment I wear — a care-woven garment that protects me from thy questionings and thee from my negligence.

​The "I" in me, my friend, dwells in the house of silence, and therein it shall remain for ever more, unperceived, unapproachable. 


Khalil Gibran, The Madman, 1918


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intermediary sentinels

forgotten souls prowl and stutter. 


dust veiled echoes

time forged tapestry

her ashen veneer torn, bar a helix suture.


from within, a still, penetrating stare 

sorrow lurking like a lost augury.


ruined, not dead, she whispers 

a slow, staggered refrain. 


the silent chatter 

deafening.


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Guy Dickinson, Peripheral, 2017

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Seen from this high,

The fields have a terrible monotony.


​Randall Jarrell, Field and Forest, 1971

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"And this also," said Marlow suddenly,

"has been one of the dark places of the earth."


Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, 1899

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Gales brandished the half-denuded boughs and whirled the leaves in madcap companies about the roads. The whole world sounded.

​A roaring and a rustle and a creak was everywhere; and dust and dead leaves eddied in the gateways. 


Nan Shepherd, The Quarry Wood, 1928

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How is it that in childhood everything new that caught my interest had an aura of the uncanny, since according to all the authorities the uncanny is not some new thing but a thing known returning in a different form,

become a revenant?


John Banville, The Sea, 2005

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There never can be a man so lost as one who is lost in the vast and intricate corridors of his own lonely mind, where none may reach and none may save.


Asimov