max ferguson
                            london           

                      deadfall
   whistling for owls

  whiplash memorial _wip
          tower block _wip
                 turbulence _wip

     books          
     projects
     about


 

deadfall

Max’s second book Deadfall is a photographic novel that weaves together literature and photography, inviting the reader to slide in free-fall through the life, dreams and memories of its faulted protagonist. We follow him back to a small village in rural France, apparently devoid of life, where he struggles to write, smokes too much weed and comes to terms with his isolation and insomnia. What is he running from and why did he turn up in the small village in the middle of nowhere unannounced?  





He smoked two for every one of mine, although I tried to keep up, and he must have been fifty years older. Today he asks me slowly if I’m leaving again soon. I say nothing and light a cigarette. Can I finish smoking this without answering? It’s not an easy question I say, which is met with more silence.

We both know I’m avoiding the reason I arrived unannounced in the night so long ago.















Rumours said double-stacked Mitsubishis were dangerous and we double-dropped the anyway. Handing out pinches in the dark. ‘inner city lifffee’. Dancing fractured by strob lights. Is she looking at me? The girls I loved first were from ex-communist countries. Monika then Marta. Primary then secondary. Is that star a star or a satellite? Drum and bass echoes. Out of the darkness into the light like moths to a kerosene lamp. Now we hold hands on the to deck of the 23 night bus all the way to Grove. We barged past the driver without paying an are 2sing my last cigarette watching London slip past the window. Suck your mum if you dare to turn round. Save a chip for a zoot in bed and maybe we’ll fuck but this kissing feels so good.