Friday, 28 December 2012
Crackling between heavy roads in the night Exploding consuming enveloping enraging love fire Anything will be consumed by the night. Do you want to join and explore the raging burning heat without being drowned? Or suffocate, fire like a glazed pot in the silence. The furness grew wild while sparks sparked and fell into the sky in coffins collected by hands that glowed Beneath sparkling faces.
Saturday, 8 December 2012
Tonight is the inside of rabbit`s ears Punctuated and hyphenated by dying pinprick bulbs and the white pupils of night Its velvet Amazonian honey and amethyst browns fading to the blackestboard and minute flecks of chalk that spell a language that not even the night owl understands. They say I`m civilised but this isn`t; I`m all the savagery of a cave`s insides My stalactite legs collide...just, with Earth My home that leads to this. Sepia days are dead.
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Dear Written World,
I've spent the most wonderful day with my friend today visiting exhibitions in Manchester both of which I highly recommend (please visit links below). They encouraged to think about beauty, truth and purpose since D has just finished her dissertation on beauty.
We spoke about our passion for our creative practices to swing back to what we both believe that art should mostly stand for: beauty. For a long time, the notion of the untroubled artist and a simple appreciation of an aesthetically pleasing work has seemed taboo to both of us. The mythology of the suffering artist is strong and, even in pop culture today, contribution to the creative realms is deemed more valuable with a traumatic back story. Now before you think that a smoking piece of coal sits behind my ribcage where my heart used to be, of course I recognise that there is a value in expression from hideous circumstances. Some of my favourite singers are reported to have suffered greatly. However, it's equally valid for expression of the reverse to find consideration even though it may not seem as weighty.
D argued from her research that too often admiring a beautiful image was seen as a past-time of those who aren't of an intellectual nature, those who lack sophistication and want to be instantly gratified; on the other hand, the person who is required to reflect deeply on a more challenging piece of work (that wouldn't be considered to be beautiful) has more merit. I can see truth in both but, in my experience, work that I have presented tutors that celebrates, say, the simple beauty of a sunset or a field of flowers has been considered twee, lazy and 'needed developing'. In order to push boundaries or broaden perception, if those qualities are in the repertoire of art's functions, is it necessary to go beyond imitating and interpreting the obvious?
As much as I enjoy debate and the written word, I recognise a time to just look, enjoy and relax with a piece of art that has captured the primal beauty of a moment at least in the eyes of that artist. No need for explanation, no need for analysis; you can just like it.
We continued to think about belief and the appreciation of certain values like beauty and its objectivity. For example, when it comes to education, without core values being drummed into them like kindness and patience being taught, would children become selfish ignorant savages and run riot? What one person may consider beautiful or kind, another may disagree. Is there a consensus on beauty? D has spent the past few years working in projects with the Catholic church whose members strive to live their core beliefs. Without religion, can we be trusted to get on with our lives ethically ... without stealing, lying and killing our neighbour? Personally speaking, I feel at my freest and happiest when I live what I consider to be beautiful...simple things like eating lovely fresh food, getting lots of exercise and spending time outdoors looking at the nightsky and sunrises, spending time with friends and family, debating, travelling to new places, listening to music and dancing. If we trust that everyone we know and meet is working towards their own version of a beautiful life, surely that will make for a very beautiful world. And that's the most obvious and fundamental message.
Sunday, 2 December 2012
`Uncle Mohan Singh` is a poem by Amarjit Chandan. At his workshop in Hebden Bridge, participants were invited to re-interpret the literal and poetic translations of this beautiful work about the first screening of a silent film in Nakodar. Below is my interpretation. Please find originals and other delightful works at http://amarjitchandan.com 1930s Nakodar Where innocent pupils await dilated fate To re-focus, re-see As the waxed woven canvas of night melts the world It suffocates daylight And brings forth a dreamtime A magical square A single cell that dances A dance that resembles sleep or death Are we dying, are we dreaming to the charms of Uncle Mohan Singh? The dance of his fingers... The dance of his bones... Is his rhythm an allure... a tender trap for fools Like the trickery of nymphs in the night? Dare we be seduced by the mute square That is still like a stuffed bird Dead, yet beautiful with a square fire in its vacant eye Flickering across the flowers of caged vitality That erupt and blossom with tremendous control We are all now paralysed in animation A joyful collapse of surprise An exquisite death of the present jasmine`s bloom This blossom unfurls its scent with unscented falling petals Petals that wilt not with each invisible phrase from Uncle Mohan Singh The rose in their cheeks dilates in surrender. As Birds of Paradise fly against the heady sands, The misty flowers of time and music die.