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ALFRED CAMP

@alfredcamp

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. In sickness we’re humbled but also transformed. In this often violent mutation, mind, body, and soul are dissolved to its most base, stripped of everything in health we’re willing, if not so able to carry, and the victim and the perpetrator become coalesced into untidy union, for who needs enemies when we’re so eager to poison ourselves with such apparent joy, and this wondrous blindness we seamlessly share, surrendered to this insatiable palette of cravings, absorbed into another dimension, like an abandoned child left to wander, arms outstretched, but nothing to touch, alone even when the world is full of bustle and noise, and distant alarms ring like clockwork, struggling for space as the doors shut behind, wrestling ourselves as the universe opens to swallow anything else we’d hoped would find a way free, when our steps hold us in regardless of direction. But if the limits of our existence were bordered by our own skin then we would not be here at all, but extinct, and so our blindness to folly is almost our strength, our skin a mere carrion, for everything that matters is not matter, but the unknown forces that hold the frame, as you see it anyway, just as to touch is not to feel, but the memories of how we learn what to feel, the training of the senses to no longer sense, just to remember the last image, to fix upon it until nothing else is there, all but erased, still blinded as I was, as I am, as you are, in this world, to its invisible doors, that pass right through us, as they do you now, as too time passes, until we both sleep, our eyes closed, but still images pass, and worlds form, from everything we have ever seen, and learned to hold, all there but as lost as we two are trapped on either side of this reflection, when all we want is to touch and to feel as if something real were there, and not this perennial illusion we have so much faith in, and as we spin through space, so much noise in this silence, that whispers above the ebbing tides, primed by words more carefully placed upon this most uneven of surfaces, this face that looks back without need of eyes as if it knows everything in this nothing, where all memories coalesce, heal and return taken in The Noctambulist Narratives by @alfredcamp
8
a year ago
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. We all seek escape in our own way, and find comfort in differing destruction, just as a painter finds pleasure from adulterating surface, which can feel to some eyes as a salve and fill others with a sense of aversion, for beauty in anything is in the eye of the beholder, and we’re not the most faithful of cameras, our eyes an oft corrupted lens, the image it shapes deformed by our internal mirrors, and their distorted reflections, and so how can we see nothingness within this active frame, if the nothing is the invisible frame, everything we omit to make and support the image, that now finds its shape on this canvas, for without the nothing there would be no something, no drawing without the paper it’s overlaid, and so what makes the image is the void it resides within, the negative space that shapes the world in the same way we are nothing without the emptiness that each atom must be connected by, and within itself constructed, and so if the universe we exist within is the sum of all nothingness, the emptiness that makes the shapes we share in space, what makes matter a fact other than light and our received reception; this materialisation of beliefs, shaped by language, that if we look long enough we will convince ourselves we see, and that we are as real as what we see, when we could just as easily be ghosts, or a figment of imagination, a painting that moves in the light, and alters at a distance to reveal another, and so what really is there in this mirror if all eyes see different, and what makes anyone feel they’re such an arbiter of reality, even of our own hand, for no one holds the key to the truth or is any closer to it than another, we only have a greater or lesser purchase upon a fiction, and one that the same hand has already discarded, just as our skin will shed a thousand times before our eyes without us knowing, other than the dust that captures the light or settles upon neglected surface, that lingers like ghosts long after we’re gone, the traces of the past that remain to turn the nothing into something, which to us becomes the world, and a part of everything that has ever existed still lives in another form, rebirth from ephemeral decay #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #ArtWriting #NewPhotography #NewWriting #NewPoetry #NewPhilosophy #Autobiography #Mirrors #Reflections #Memoirs #AlfredCampArtist #BritishArtist #BritishWriter #AlfredCampPhotographer #BritishPhotographer #AlfredCampWriter taken in ephemeral decay by @alfredcamp
0
a year ago
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. Our eyes are not to see, but to reach consensus, which becomes universal, as with any language, just as a baby constructs the world from abstractions, that only they can understand, and thus we’ve evolved from this abstraction to no more than colouring by numbers, occasionally arguing over the assigned, whether it’s blue or it’s grey, and everything else is filling in the blanks, arrived at long before the light has reached the point we perceive as our recognition, a world taken for granted because our life has been reduced to mimicry and differently shaded comparisons, but in this visual blindness to some lies freedom, for what does it matter what really is there, when conformity is the norm, and the norm our means of survival; what has allowed the species to thrive, yet unlike ants to mask and make complex our invisible pathways, such that above all Gods do we so readily worship the mythology of free will, no matter how firm our known restraints, all a means and a symptom of our great illusion, which by some fault or design in our genealogical construct have some been contrived to break, and so for me art has always been one such an affliction, a silent distress masked occasionally by an acceptance of minor artistry, which I’ve tried to escape far more than I sought to court or harness, and dulled, hidden, and destroyed its signs far more than they were celebrated, embraced, or enjoyed, but I never thought to wish them away, even when all images had reduced to a coloured blackness, for the fear that, like encountering a devious genie released from a discarded lamp, I might become the unwitting victim of its cruelty and tricks, which there seems no escape from, and left to inhabit an even more barren surface without the means at least of my own disguise, to no longer be able to hide myself in its baffling layers, to reveal truths in their excavation, only to be promptly returned by their hasty burial, truths within deceits, deceits within truths, a puzzle only I know, and only I can know, a place to leave the remnants of what remains, so maybe for me it’s an exorcism, a ritual to draw out the phantoms that so wilfully abandon me in this silent frame now…. #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #ArtWriting #NewPhotography #NewWriting #NewPoetry #NewPhilosophy #Chance #Destiny #Autobiography #Mirrors #Reflections #Memoirs #AlfredCampArtist #BritishArtist #AlfredCampPhotographer #BritishPhotographer#AlfredCampWriter #BritishWriter #IrishWriter #London #London taken in The Truth Of Lies by @alfredcamp
1
a year ago
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. Every attempt to represent ourselves is by nature a fiction, it cannot be anything else, just as the images we create to navigate the world are made of the same material, equally in question and inherently unstable, that exist in between the conscious and unconscious that shapes the lens from which to us the world appears; but what defines the palette if colour does not exist, and is itself is a prisoner of light, and ourselves to the limits of sight, that should surely be enough to place in our minds a shadow of doubt, but instead impels us to solidify our perception of our desired reality, to fight over its colour and form, and so what you see is what you want, or seek to deny, and thus must become projection, when what I’ve shown you is nothing but the inherent failure of images, the arbitrary nature of its lens, its tricks, and slights of hand, which provide no more a record of anything than what is lost to your own eyes now, for our present is but a fluid state, and our eyes a frame in search of content, and as I seek out the shape of nothingness, the only true reflection, you seek out meaning like an addiction, that pivots along an orbit of perpetual artifice on a trajectory of self denial, just as we’re all a slave to our own perfected images, the centre stage of our illusion; this grand mask from which all our stories unfold, forever absorbed into one artifice to justify the next, a reinvention that slowly possesses the self, and in this process overrides our agency, since we’re no longer ourselves, but relegated to a validation machine; a slave to image, which drafted by corrupted eyes, can never be achieved, our shapeshifting no more than an the externalisation of our palette of trauma, fear, envy, and desire, which forms the mask that has become its own addiction, and thus the trauma itself, just an an alcoholic is impelled to undermine previous manifestations of the self to justify the supremacy of the addiction, and credit this surrender with the parts of our previous self that remain functional; to take over the mind and body, and make it both mentally and physically dependent on the very thing that’s slowly destroying the whole… #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #ArtWriting #SeperationAnxiety #StandingReserve #Witgenstein #MeaningOfImages #WordsAndImages #TruthAndLies #Mirrors #Reflections #Memoirs #AlfredCampArtist #BritishArtist #IrishArtist#AlfredCampPhotographer #BritishPhotographer #IrishPhotographer #AlfredCampWriter #BritishWriter #IrishWriter #London #LondonArt #LondonArtist #LondonWriter #AlfredCampinLondon by @alfredcamp
1
a year ago
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. No one wants to depart from here, it’s as if the mind were it’s magnet, for it’s our most basic human reaction to fear the unknown, our return to nothingness, where all begins and ends, for which even the thought is enough to make one run and scream, as I know you have, even if to others you were as still as that which you fear the most, when it is already with you, just as I recall my own attempts to flee such realities; to escape its cold finality that is already a part of us, such that we’re no more what we think we were, only an idea that holds together this mutating form, an accumulation of ageing tags upon its fraying garments, our grand illusion of which barely little survives, an accumulation of small deaths lost in the haze of a dusty room, full of yesterday’s dreams to hide inside; to hold onto like a raft, these newly arcane pieces of our ship of Theseus we’re destined to be abandoned on, or at least their ghosts that we shape into other forms, a myriad of delusions so carefully crafted out of this creaking vessel that we almost trick ourselves it floats, and so I know we two seek life, even if the reflection speaks another truth, if only because we fear death more to deny the edge of its precipice, but being near death can also make us feel more alive, don’t you think; to crave the lost we had forgotten, this vista of knowing phantoms, the life only death can speak to, and when one feels life slip from our grasp, to cry out in the night for imaginary saviours—and only then—does one find its meaning, and everything else is as ethemeral as all those selves that have been and gone—another delusion—a knowing salve—just as soon forgotten as the last; a perennial search for the next illusion, a new place to hide in plain sight, always begging for time, fighting against the tide, as the sand slips within its reflective shell, where here, awoken from deathly grasps, do I live the same, lost to its current, the dreams of new worlds now quashed upon the tides; another night passes over, a shadow playing in the light, an offer, an invitation, and delay; all marks our return from form #AlfredCamp #PossessionPoint #Philosophy #Poetry #ArtWriting #MeaningOfImages #MeaningOfImage #WordsAndImages #TruthAndLies #Mirrors #Reflections #Memoirs #AlfredCampArtist #BritishArtist #AlfredCampPhotographer #BritishPhotographer#AlfredCampWriter #BritishWriter #IrishWriter #London #LondonArt #LondonArtist #LondonWriter #AlfredCampinLondon taken in Posession Point by @alfredcamp
0
a year ago
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. Trapped on the edges of artifice, the artist our assigned membrane, now so often the seeker of similar vanities, but certainly no less frailties than behind our own disguises, for we’re all artists and actors, denying more subtle dexterities, as too this outer shell that cracks so easily, such that we might forget we’re no more than our own sacrifice, even if it might pass as comfort, to be subsumed in pursuit of pleasures, and all encompassing distractions, and this ever-expanding myriad of contractions, a palette of displaced addictions, the cravings we flee from in so many differing guises, even if we remain as still as David, frozen in trepidation, solid yet pulsating, alive to the eye as the world that hurtles unnoticed, a force that holds this complex whole together, as our own lives in permanent industry and eruption, this inner volcano, full of molten lava, pregnant of new forms, made of old, lost in smoke, struggling to hold its contents under the surface, a victim to itself, and insufferable time, that weighs heavy upon its skin, where we’re too destined to collide like breaking plates, the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object, all our constructs torn asunder, lest we’re consigned to some less precarious decay, harmed by shadows, suffocated of light, alive yet shriveled in form, from roots to leaves, left to diminishing elements, lost of faculties, one moment already forgotten, hardly laid upon the next, as if we were never there, these memories once born of fire, that chiseled the shape, now hardly to be seen, no face left to recognise, or to touch, only this shadow offering signs of disappearance, but not to our own eyes, always so lost in light they were blind to themselves at the height of their bloom, even as the fires burned, craving to be consumed until all we are has past, our last apparition, the ghost of ghosts, where all is dissipated into ether, freed of neglected form, live but immaterial, untied of earthly bonds, the dust upon a cloak now cast to indifferent winds, all equal in its storm and settle—how easily to return to its folds—but never to see the final frame, left to be shaped by others, or to disappear without a trace taken in The Final Frame by @alfredcamp
3
2 years ago
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. However far one travels it’s impossible to leave who we are behind, just as all previous selves before must travel unattended, like a ghost of oneself in a sea of apparitions, that to you now were never there to pass on these words, as language itself has its own storied journey and words too might find themselves unrecognizable in such short distance, like twins lost in reflection, confused as to who is the mirror to the form, and thus subordinate, and so what if this dread of return is no more than the fear of ghosts, not of those that might greet an old face, but the face itself no longer were a match to its contents, that these words are already a transgression, and one of us, that might share the same space, is already departed, leaving only these abstracted words as indication anyone had once been here at all, like sometimes a word might sound both familiar, yet alien, no boundary formed other than in curious way it might feel to us almost an artifact of distant others, as our instincts live as always with no need of such structures, invisible as our last breath, yet the frame all is built upon, early foundations now only known from fragments, as we more consciously construct our cocoons from their dust, and all our figments of imagined pasts, just as we two now are superseded by another layer, as extinct as the last, cast to a memorial wind, no need of stone to guide or make pathway, just as others are no more concretely built upon, only out of need do our ghosts find themselves empowered of greater form, and thus unable to discard, now giving shadow to precarious dawn, and with their footfall upon this over-crowding trail do thoughts collide into singular image that to one might be seen clearly through as a new window over cleared horizon, and yet another as impenetrable as this room we reside in here, with curtain drawn, scrambling in the dark, arms outstretched as eyes for light and reflection, when none of it was ever real, only layer wrapped upon layer, one reliant upon close proximity of another, a presence built solely to deny an absence, like a second lost in an hour cannot be itself unraveled, but absorbed in remembrance of the next… #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting taken in Double Take by @alfredcamp
1
2 years ago
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. I’ve been unsure how to end our conversation. I know there’s still much to say, but also things we’ll never share, even if we were given all the time in the world, and we were the only two left in the universe to here these words, for what use the utterance of such things when they are already known to us; to exist enough they may consider us but a shadow to their own entity, and ourselves the ghosts, for how do we really know we’re here anyway, and it were not all a dream we’d awoken into again, a projection of events in time, and us the echo, to repeat ourselves amongst all other distanced matter until observed, like a signal reaching out into space waiting for reception; to live again in another form, and be possessed once more, as if this day were the virgin snow before the light, caught under a singular lamp, left on even in such secluded space, as if destined to be, waiting in anticipation; to make of itself new found shapes, and so what use this body of text, other than to offer yet another fiction, a mere hint of apparent flesh, when we’re no more than memories in time cast upon unwitting canvas, as if it mattered more than the one before, or the next, when both are equally lost to us, just as there is no left or right, no up or down, no in or out, only this distant signal in space that reaches everywhere and nowhere; the what ifs, what was, and what might’ve been; this everything and nothing that connects us without end, and draws us in as dust to light, to almost settle until disturbed again; and what use these words without a form to speak of, when all can exist without them, but the words not without us, and so you’re no more than I myself, a necessary sequence, a part of the code, flickering on and off, a signal reliant on distant reception, and so now is no more a farewell than before, only a change of circumstance, a fact of matter, like the sound of rain upon a window paints unseen picture, yet as real as if itself observed, and not all a figment of imagination as you might yourself conjure from these words, long after I’ve vacated this chair they were wrote, if that were not another fiction, but still life #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting taken in STILL LIFE by @alfredcamp
1
2 years ago
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. All matter is a shifting state, a symbiosis fractured by our consciousness, an awareness we deny yet struggle to wrestle, a cycle we can’t change regardless of our attempts to alter its path, just as our evolution itself, this broken branch that lies disconnected, but still part of a whole, as much as we two seek to dismiss such thoughts, to set ourselves apart from its roots, and become our own Gods, rather than recognise our fictions, a means to cope with the fear of the unknown, this expanding universe that makes no distinction between our aging vessels, and which in time will return us back to its form, freeing us from the paralysis of image, that blinds us evermore to corrupted pathways, the monsters of our own creation that haunt our reflection, that can so easily posses yet are so powerless to prevent, only delay inevitable decay, but until then we spin around the sun, to sleep and awaken back into shared hallucinations, and release ourselves from the darkening chasm of secrets that tears away at this fleshy membrane we believe contains and separates us, this mutation we perceive as our epicentre, and not the edge of the precipice, destined to depart with nothing, a dissipation of all fears and desires, some might welcome, to make of ourselves strangers, to finally lose our shadows, and leave only this muted voice that whispers between ears, a life’s contents, partly captured, a false presence of words on a shelf of half empty containers reflected back as if our own projection, that lives beyond its frame, which you now hold as if it were the projector itself, and the film, the light and the dark, and all of this itself a projection, part of a greater fiction, made of the things we cannot see to understand, nor find under the microscope, the universe that exists between all matter, and holds itself free of our imprint, this limitation of words, and it’s here where everything we are exists in seamless nothingness, the ghost of ghosts, and all previous lives, the kept and the discarded, the small deaths that joins us to all things, the entity at the start of our universe that remains til the last, the maker of things that collects the dust #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting taken in The Projection Room by @alfredcamp
1
2 years ago
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. Where do we draw the line between reality and artifice, there’s no way to know which is which until a proof - or impossibility - is found, and so what is truth or fiction in all of this that flows between us, and all things seen and unseen at this juncture, which in words I seek to pierce now, as one moment is absorbed into the next, like a river with no current, and so no bubble to burst into new reality, only quietening deflation, a continuation in search of difference, as time disappears into fog and fold, each day a justification of their connection, when they hardly know each other’s face, as we our mask, itself hardly of our creation, like colours do change, brought to life by light, and lost to shade, so our gaze no more a chameleon upon undulating surface that isn’t there, and never was, just the memories of lost depositaries, once hidden now hastily reassembled, yet still no more than ripples in invisible matter that is more than we will ever see or touch, and as such beyond the senses, and so we crave to shape the un-shapable, to convince ourselves of form, and make of it a cradle, born into and from then reinforced, until it’s all we’ve ever known to see, a world of inherent blindness, so colourful a distraction one wonders how we could ever have doubted ourselves, yet here we are, us two, busy holding together its semblance, our false reflection, mixing its palette, studiously affixed upon craving surface, itself a projection, and so there was only ever disguises and the time it took to convince ourselves we were more than temporal image we thought forgotten, a carousel of filled mirrors of assumed realities and knowing artifices, two sides of a spinning coin that to the eye becomes a whole, a cascade of fleeting images, all form absorbed into none, consigned to unstable memory, lost and found and lost again in the blink of an eye, a life in search of the next addiction to mask our fear of time, and drawn by hands across an open face, its needle piercing the skin, and eyes melt into days, and daze into night, craving this knowing hallucination, lest our mind should turn to what lies on the other side #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting #TheOtherSide #hallucinations #ParallelWorlds #ParallelLives #Writing #Autobiography #UnspokenWords #WordsAndImages #WhatWeSee #TruthAndLies #Remembering #Illusions #Windows #Shadows #Mirrors #Reflections #Memoirs #AlfredCampArtist #BerlinArt #BritishArtist #IrishArtist #AlfredCampPhotographer #BritishPhotographer #IrishPhotographer #AlfredCampWriter #BritishWriter #IrishWriter #London #LondonArt #LondonArtist #LondonWriter #IrishPhotographer #BritishPhotographer #AlfredCampinLondon taken in Angel Entertainment by @alfredcamp
0
2 years ago
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. The dust never settles, we just take equal comfort and displeasure from that which we see, so we may discount the whole, and what lies at its edges, and all that must come inbetween, which like us two has travelled an age in its space and time, each a universe of untold stories, an unheralded accumulation of lives that must all end in decay, the pieces of us that are shed as we breath, held so tightly in the grip of this world, and such gravity we should hardly dare to fly, or to see light in the dark, so weighted down by greyed life, but despite such insignificance to a world’s eyes, we do, without the joy and despair, whatever life exists as meaningless to us as we are to the universe that knows not of our existence in its endless patina, destined to be consumed and connected by an eternal cycle, of life from death, and death from life, nothing but words to that which speaks without need of tongue or form to speak of, and which holds us together across such distance without need of such primitive forms, as fire from stone might appear to us now still magic, much of this universe still lies unseen, so insignificant until it takes upon a more visible form, its accumulation a landscape from which we can now write ourselves in, of god creators, passed on like one dying candle to another, until left in a singular shadow and emptying reflection does this slowly filtering form emerge from darkening clouds so light might exist, as we have been before so we return, and return again, just cycles around a sun, so we too will settle to ground, but betwixt and between are our traces left for an eternity, still in the same air, our scent lingering, both the loved and the lost, for the good and bad must exist for us to know their difference, as paths must be crossed for all stories to unfold, and to give our shape to things, until they’re overwritten by this timeless clock we can’t see to watch, but in time brings itself to bare, and we sense and smell its presence, and we’re freed from this shared grip, alone in scattered ashes, as a star’s dust creates the universe at our feet, and so standing here, alone in shadow and reflection, I leave these traces to follow #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting #SelfPortrait #Selfies taken in Beyond Our Sight by @alfredcamp
0
2 years ago
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. It’s all an act really, isn’t it, all these images, lost and dissolved into one, this performance of unknown actors, partially remembered but mostly forgotten, except you that stands there as if in a different world, alone but connected, that sees things where there appears to be nothing, in command of your own silence, such that I wonder if you’re a ghost, an apparition, or object of suggestion, and that maybe I‘ve found within this haunted image another world others cannot see, free of noise, my mind drifting into the door you’ve inadvertently opened, where all reside, carriers of such complexity that if we were to see all we know, and all that resides between the senses, we might look at ourselves differently, without fear, and more open to horizons, not scared of heights, and fixed to the ground, even when we find ourselves looking down upon the world, often so outwardly excited that we could almost fool ourselves of our demeanor, which is why you intrigue me, at least at a distance, as can often be the case, which I’m sure you find, and so we’ve all played our part in the act, the scene, and the passage of play in between, from one to the next, unclear who was more active on the stage our presence sets, and sometimes hardly there at all, as if yet only partially awake, unaware we’re centre stage in another’s universe, but for a look, a gesture, or a phrase overheard, or misunderstood, that unlocks a door and opens a window, not to anything specific, maybe a trace, or a crumb dropped along a shared path, as if one of us toys with the other, yet with so many commendable performances it would be hard to recall, and so instead it’s best to enjoy the view from the place where we’ve now arrived in this journey taken, that despite being so far apart we find ourselves sharing, even if you‘ve never read these words before, and they were as new to you as that first image, still hazy, but carried like pollen from one to the next, until something germinates that could almost be a mirror casting a long unseen reflection, like these words that flow towards an unknown course, one feeding the next, whispers that become waves… . . (Cont’d below) #AlfredCamp #Philosophy #Poetry #Writing #ArtWriting #SelfPortrait #Selfies by @alfredcamp
2
2 years ago
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