Derek Jarman

Wyrd prairies by Sarah Wishart

In the photos I had seen in some book, Jarman’s studio looked like a New England shack, or at least something not quite British, black walls, yellow roof, the garden was flotsam framed, with twisted metal and sea-blanched wood, and he had planted up the shingle with an eye for survival. I read more about his garden, as in time I discovered my own.

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