Friday, 13 March 2015
Edwards hits the pavements and counts the retraced steps of killer and victim conjuring his own theory into life. The old street maps are like veins of some dead beast on an autopsy table before you. In your minds eye you find yourself hovering above Whitechapel watching the bloody craft of the Ripper take shape. The Minotaur in this Labyrinth is all too often imagined in an opera cape and a top hat like some theater fan or stage magician.. Poverty and despair wear altogether different clothes and the only magic in its story is very black indeed.