‘whirled without end...’
James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake
‘At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward,
and brings the sailor home from sea, ...’
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
‘A song is anything that can walk by itself.’
Bob Dylan
In The Violet Hour, Reynolds tracks twenty-four variations on a remorseless ‘cloudburst’ motif. This serial imagery flits between sunset banalities and unravelling apocalyptic pyrotechnics. Phrases from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, relocate the imagery within the local topology and its current quake-driven upheavals.
