1. F O L D S 


  2. Side B


  3. Installation shot, 

    Taboo exhibition, Antwerp Mansion, Manchester 


  4. Side A 


  5. nameyoulater:

    Subtle fluttering, new work

    Aimee Walker



  6. Preparation for tonights show. 


  7. Oh Venus, how the idealism of you is far greater than the reality.

    Gallery 436, Manchester


  8. WIP #5

    Red, burgundy, blood, maroon, wine, scarlet, firebrick, rose, auburn, ruby, and lust, there is something about red, the consistency of it that draws me in. I want to explore its intensity, and dabble in its rich oeuvre.  It speaks of energy, power, and strength. It raises blood pressures, it take no victims in its hunger.

    It’s a colour that makes me feel powerful, gives me strength like no other. It is the red lipstick on the cheek, the tantrums, the tempers that rattle you, it does this, and it wants to evoke you.

    I want to make a red room, of velvet, or glossy sticky red tar. I want to entice you into my boudoir, for let’s be honest, we all have an underlying desire to investigate, a subconscious lust to play with fire.

    Let me describe the scene for you. The bar you are in is dimly lit, it is trying to be hip; industrial pipes are exposed, giving the underground New York vibe bars are currently sporting at this present period in time. At the back of the room is a lustful red space, inside it is a comfy, slightly sunken red 3-seater sofa, with armchairs tightly by its side, a Chesterfield perhaps; a sofa of sophistication and class. Or deep red plush soft velvet, coupled with deep buttons or a simple womanly curve over the back of the sofa.

    The velvet has luminosity, a virtual glow under the lamplight, giving it divine blood red warmth. It may conjure up film scenes or an imaginary confrontation in one of the many red light districts across Europe. This space is meant to be snug, a tight space of imposing walls. These will be padded out with wadding, making voluptuous mounds upon the wall, the more people that enter the space the more claustrophobic the walls will become. I want to suggest the feeling of a sleazy presence in a packed bar, which feels too close for comfort. There’s an arm around you, and you can feel a heavy breath upon your neck in the crowded room. What looked all right from a distance, now you’re near, you want nothing more than to vacate.

    Smaller accompaniments to the space would be the use of cups. On arrival to the space there would be a free cup on wine. The wine would be a cheap red. A potent vinegar, a ghastly burn in the back of your throat, delivered to you in a higher quality red cup. It would have a band of velvet around the middle where you would firmly grip the cup. Do I make it comfortable, with the smoothness of the velvet in the palm of your hand, or make it irritable by wrapping it the other way round, with the rough raised nap of the fabric on your hand. I imagine the bar to be packed, you are holding onto your drink for longer than usual because it is only slightly bearable, but enough to drink. In this time your palms are sweaty, the room is hot, and the velvet would be more and more uncomfortable in your clammy hand.

    The velvet could be on all places that would be in contact with your hand: the cups, the arms of sofas, the rim of the bar, and the banister of the stairway.


  9. WIP #4

    A boiled milk skin, a thin silk.

    Sliding off red pepper skins gently with thumbs.

    A furious gasp of air after downing a pint of liquid.

    I want to douse you in green paint, and spank you like a naughty avocado.

    Peaches giving a little in your palm; you can tell it’s going to be juicy, you know of the slightly rough texture inside.

    Body temperature chocolate truffles, guided into parted mouth,

    Splitting a ripe grape apart with a strong flick of your tongue

    The skin ripens to a warmer tint.

     A peach is a softer fruit than most; it calls to be picked gently

    with little pressure.

    Using the sides of your fingers rather than your fingertips

    helps to avoid bruising. 

    Grab the peach firmly and pull it straight off the branch.


  10. #3 WIP

    It starts with dim lighting, the smell of sweetness coming from the kitchen, scent drifting, dancing from the seams of the door. Excitement is penetrated in tiny tingles and light footsteps, sneaking through; my body led by nose, to the door.

    There stands an elegant chocolate cake. No need for a spoon. Devilish in its manner, gorgeous and glossy, I’m lured by the creamy, overly dark, mysterious frosting, just begging to be licked; after it touches my lips, I long to be kissed.

    “Eat me,” it said.

    “Maybe just a slither…” I murmur.

    Reaching for a knife, slowly sinking it into the darkly delicious adornment of frosting.  Go gently, I think, savour each moment. Pulling out, it is covered in a rich creamy frosting, a hint of crumb. Sliding underneath and lifting with ease, there, elevated, basking in the glory is a devil’s chocolate cake. It gets me thinking about the sheer pleasure and sensuality of food, its delights, its dangerous dance on your tongue.

    Maybe you and your secret sexy food have a ritual? Do you dunk it into a hot mug of tea, or enjoy rolling the curve of the chocolate in your mouth, letting saliva and chocolate play a wicked game, never allowing yourself to bite? Find yourself lusting after a cappuccino? Do the two of you nestle in a cosy spot, longingly staring at the chosen partner with lusty eyes until it happens? The floodgates open.

    My knees buckle at a moist cake. When it is cold and I want some warming inside, this is one of the cakes I turn to.