Peter Shukie
Writer, reviewer and filmmaker.
Recent: Winner of Creative Match 2025 — a collaborative writing project selected by Manic World Magazine
My work explores working class culture, outsider art and the creative lives that unfold beyond official cultural spaces. I write fiction, essays and criticism, and collaborate on experimental film and sound projects. Recent writing appears in publications including Northern Soul, alongside essays, fiction and collaborative film projects.
Current work includes the novel Flyover Gallery, alongside essays and reviews on art, music, theatre and film.
My work includes essays, reviews, fiction and experimental film. Much of it explores the creative life that develops outside official cultural spaces.
Latest Writing
The Fine Art Degree Show: Lancaster University
A digital print of a fallen arm resting on a bedsheet, poised somewhere between surrender and death, bears the words ‘Shared Skin’ across the flesh. This was the first work I encountered in the LICA Building: Nico Sharma’s ‘I knew you under its touch, and it knew us (Mud poem)’ (2026). I noted the phrase […]
The complexity of class: artist Jamie Holman’s red glass and resistance
Driving into Blackburn in May, the election aftermath still spills from the airwaves, the tremors of the night before continuing to unfold as presenters attempt to narrate a country shifting beneath them. The language suddenly feels old again, full of talk of crowds, resistance, anger and nationhood, while the roads into town pass the very […]
Creative Match 2025 — Collaborative Letters Across Time
This work is part of the Creative Match 2025, an initiative by Manic World Magazine pairing writers in collaborative exchange. What follows is part of an ongoing epistolary project between myself and Canadian writer, Jess Logan — letters written across time, distance, and shared ground. Chapter I July 19th 1970. The sign says “The […]
The Hacienda Must be Grown
Dragging the canvas to the flyover when it was just plain and grey and flimsy was not the kind of drag that meant channels of mud. It never once touched the ground, it was always at least waist height and it blew around a bit and acted as a sail. The sense of being dragged was inside the body, of the walk harder usual because of this giant, empty thing.