BEN MESSIH



ABOUT

Ben Messih is an educator and organiser working with children, young people, and their communities.

Ben initiated and co-runs the Big Family Press, a child-led risograph printing press inspired by the radical pedagogy of Elise and Celestin Freinet’s L’Ecole Moderne. The Big Family Press is currently based at Rabbits Road, east London.

Ben was raised on the stolen land of the Bidjigal (Bediagal) people of the Eora Nation and he pays his respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.  



CONTACT

ben[dot]messih[at]gmail[dot]com



SELECTED CV

Curator:
Fire Station Programme
South London Gallery
2017 - 2020

Assistant Curator:
Education & Projects
Serpentine Galleries
2014 - 2017; 2021

Programme Manager:
Art & Dementia Programme
The 19th Biennale of Sydney
2013 - 2014



SELECTED EDUCATION

MA:
Curating & Cultural Leadership
University of New South Wales
2015

BA:
Visual Arts & Design
Australian Catholic University
2008


NOTES FOR A COMING ATTRACTION






Language: English
ISBN-10: 0882681281
ISBN-13: 978-0882681283
  I died. Deader and deader.
"Little joke corpse!" Yeah, I
shrank beyond belief; I'd even fit quite neatly
inside the bowl of my ridiculously
miniscule briarwood pipe.
  Ishmael they call me, Father
Ishmael. I'm such a pipsqueak, though,
they have got to be kidding.
  Being dead means
    very light housekeeping.
  It's dark,
    and cold.
  Cold as the dawn of a new
Ice Age. A sage frostbitten
under gelid palmtrees. The pallor
of one's foibles.
  Dark: A rat standing
at attention on the tip of his
hairless tail squealing bloody
murder without the slightest movement of his snout.
  Cold: Across an almond-green plain
a procession of pale blue elephants
walking backwards.
  Dark: A diminutive stringbean of a rat hovers
on dragonfly wings.
  Cold: A wee purple face glares out of a winejar's
bulging glassy midriff.
  Dark: Two perfectly identical human mouths
kiss each other to death.
  Cold: A truncated male torso
gives with a significant wink.
  Dark: Above clouds or
black sands. Idols of old religions
set up. Facing them,
horror in tar: the grin of certain dead people.
Cold ...—Polar ...— I'm entombed