Dryads

•December 8, 2016 • 9 Comments

dryads

“Dryads” WIP

Mixed media/December 2016

One of my newest pieces. It is a Work in progress and I would like to take away a few minutes of your time to explain something I often get asked about:

Why do you post a Work in Progress, why do you post something Unfinished?

There is more then one reason why I do it. Firstly, I would like you to see the process. Seeing a WIP and seeing something I dub a finished artwork, can give someone some insight into my creative process and I think, creative process in general. It also gives me the same info. I have the chance to observe and study myself, see my flaws and where can I improve, in a way that it does not impact my imagination and inspiration.

Secondly, just like everyone else, I sometimes get stuck. Regarding this particular artwork, it is not the case, but it happens. It happens in all forms of Art for me, these artworks I create, my poems, my stories, you name it. Posting a WIP can incite commentary and more importantly, advice. You don’t have to be a professional critic or anything similar, any word from someone else can so easily set the inspiration sparks going again. It can also show problems that I do not see, which I can correct before the final version, to make an artwork that is more accessible. To use this artwork as an example: The lighting needs work, the piece is too much obscure. Someone with bad eyesight might not get a chance to experience this artwork. There is many things like the lighting I mentioned that can be tweaked. But sometimes, starring and working on an artwork for hours, gets you so immersed in it that you simply overlook the simple and basic things.

Thirdly, sometimes it is a challenge I set for myself. When I am writing, I usually do not stop until the poem/story is finished. I am way too often scared of my ideas fleeting before I can fully pen them down, from start to end. I have developed habits where I prevent this from happening, and it feels hard on myself to challenge myself. By posting this WIP, I can see how it is now. I am not working on it now, I will be working on it later. Later, I might artistically be, in the hour of working, an entirely different person. And this artwork might turn out better, for my own self, than what I originally intended. It is about letting your ideas grow firmer, deeper and not being scared of change of inspiration.

Those are some of my reasons for posting a WIP, and for the same reasons I appreciate a lot when artists post their WIPs..

What do you think, do you see merit in seeing a Work in Progress, or you prefer to see a finished product?

Thank you to all who managed to read through my wall of text. As always, I am open to your thoughts, suggestions and questions. Have a nice day!

The Duchess of Music

•December 4, 2016 • 29 Comments

 

phylors-collage

The Duchess of Music
Come in, come in,
Come in with your ears,
The door is upside down;
It’s made of topsy-turvy songs
Succumbed to things,
The tears and joys are but a sound,
Come in, you saxophone with wings,
With your garments, your earrings, your drums.
Hear me whistle, hear me chisel,
Watch me weight it with my hand –
The sunsets, dear, I twine the reds,
Align the stars above the bars,
Dim the tones that spruced up
Fuss up like girls with chestnut eyes,
Through scar and tar; they trumpet from afar:
Bum, badabum, bam, bam.
Hands a – rapping to the birch trunks,
Hands are resting on the hips of dryads,
Fingers snapping, fingers tapping
Through triads and valleys of my arms
And the veins of Mother Earth are stringed
Like badabum, and badabim
And the insides are hollowed out plums
In drop C.
Come in, come hear
Orchestras laughing,
Languishing between my teeth,
Their skeletons like decorated clay,
Bada- dam, badam, bum,
I dare you to stay, I dare you to sway
Along alleys
Vomiting crews of Spanish ships,
Badabum; they sail on the toes
And the sky bloats up
From forgotten woe.
Come in, come in,
Turn up the tiny lungs of doe,
Louder, never still,
Knock thrice,
Dress a gown to a deer
And hang your broken hearts
Upon the chandelier,
Badabum, badabim, bum, bum, badabim,
A dirty spit on the neck of violins
And you are a coal miner town
We long ago abandoned
And notes are alive and chewing your tendons;
Wear blue and journey home!
Badabum, bum, badabum;
Never let a hermit sing alone.
Like a chorus
In lipstick, cologne, and smog,
Diluted arias, clattering in a throng,
Like pipes under lovers
Dancing the Rumba,
Like the march of dawn through the bog
And your cheekbones are mandolins,
And dear, it might feel wrong!
The clouds go drained and vacant, just like palms,
So come in now,
Hold tight your qualms, make sure,
Set loose
The neurotic sparrows,
Shoot them from the throat like they are arrows,
Like badabum, like
Dum, dum, dum,
Like operas birthed at gallows,
Like ancient hymns escaping from the ribs
Into sugar-coated lovers;
Come in with your ears,
Come and weep into jars!
I am the magenta, ever-opened scar,
Tissue
Drizzled over flutes,
Badabum, badabum!
Leave merry the doom,
Be wed the rainy day,
Go pillage, like you’re brutes!
Come in, come in,
You host, you guest,
You actor, you stage,
You knight and mage, you soliloquist;
The abdomen of me is spacious,
Carries many rooms, salons
And kitchens full of
Hoping morsels;
I am the unforgiving rhyme
That invades your tonsils
And you cough up symphonies
Like badum, and bum and badabim
And watch me untie a mountain
On a whim,
Descend Mongolian hails
Inside your tea,
Bum, badabum, dum, dam
Like folklore over
The drought adorned ground,
As dust on the piano
In the outskirts of a city,
Come in and andiamo,
Whether you like it or not!
My eyes are posters in your lucid dreams,
I hijacked trains, all buses,
All your machines,
I trapped the sour sea, and mango
In cog and wheel
Like badabum, and like badabim
And your aunt thinks you should journey
And spin on old records
And eat them like curry,
Badabum, dum, and dum and dam,
The lips like marry-go-rounds,
They always come around
And if you’ve no soul mates,
The trees in the wind will do fine,
And your legs will worship the Bongo,
It’s not a crime!
And if you are sad, or
If you are laughing,
Come in! I bid you alive!
Badabum, badabim,
It pounds from inside
And I am the world, the peer,
And you my verse, my purse,
My words;
The concubines of blues, half – melted,
Half tongue twisted with tango –
You can wake, shake, swallow,
Drown and sleep
As I go badabim, badabum;
You can love, suffer, and burn
Lulled in distant echoes, cousins to whispers,
You adorers of mornings, and under moon screamers,
At noon I arise from the ocean
and feast;
Everything bum, dum,
Badabim, badabum;

 

And every tune will take its turn.

 

 

*Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. The collage immediately made me think of music, because of the image on the right and because of the quote shared. I think we witness more and more miracles that can be achieved with music every day and I am sure each one of us at least once experienced how music can change how you think and feel.

Hope you enjoy reading the poem!

Solitaire

•December 2, 2016 • 9 Comments

solitaire

“Solitaire”

Mixed media/ October 2016

It is no secret that wolves are my favourite animal, hence why this piece is one of the first homages I plan to do for them. The piece is simple, its purpose mostly to reflect my loves and passions, the goal of the artwork being to look grounded, centered and real.

During the recent years, I witnessed and read a lot about how deforesting and unauthorized hunting are permanently damaging the population of wolves around the entire world. My artwork is not revolutionary or even creative in raising awareness of this, but I would like it to remind people that wolves are magnificent and needed creatures in the world, and we should not: forget they are there, or take part in making them not be there anymore.

Archaeology

•November 23, 2016 • 25 Comments

 

climb_by_krunodebenc

*Image found HERE

Archaeology

Searching,
my hair like a brushstroke
digging through pallets
of mushed strawberry and pale grape,
rippling like a cold glass of sangria,
through the silence of wreckage and late sleep,
searching for where do we begin
between the clouds streaking through
the veins, ripe and blue
of disenchanted entities,
distant, loose ends
over orchards of concrete.

They dream of us,
as supermarkets,
hand grabs and rows
of love and sadness,
eager palms for their mouth water,
instant soup.
When they yawn,
our most nurtured offal extends
gone, swallowed, melted
like vanilla pudding
among the lanterns and lights,
quiet and waiting,
stretched across the street
like drool.
There is morning, in a white suit,
polished, collared, expiring
with the steady clockwork.
There is a dozen stewardesses,
elegantly black, wildly docile,
taking their lunch break,
dropping the Sun’s teeth
in their coffee like sugar.

Most birds are gone,
except the ones that orphaned
sing in the belly of the machine,
a cruel wind
mingles through the sleeves
of drying laundry
and it kisses dead,
it stirs bone dust in the ectoplasm
of suburbia.
I scratch through the schedule,
I am shredding meanings,
I’m demanding answers;
a graffiti on Russian,
which I do not speak,
tells with its darkened fingers
“We want, hence we are screwed.”

I am searching
for the words
that were not planned

In a square of asphalt,
a parcel, edges white,
almost like calculated innocence,
the square like a deserted island, a land
that I own,
the land
that owns me

and words, never tailored or touched
to debug an emperor’s lung
and unhinge it versus the limbs of oaks
stoic over the wheezing river;
words as raw blood
running amok the music boxes,
I inhale for no predetermined chaos,
like wildflowers in hordes
that pushed their heads
through hoarfrost,
to meet the geography of my waste,
swaying in rows,
in detention, beauty in spite
the rule of season,
the naked, the white –

an angel of golden strands
strolls there, beguiles,
touches every stalk, every leaf,
gazes into every eye;
he drives
his beige, metallic SUV
over their verdant beds,
he does what he does
and does not regret,
but carnages, and smiles,
like it must be done.
With things.

He knows of blessings
and of timely hours
and what needs die, and when
exactly will a flaming star
adorn the world again
and keep secret the trade
from unsuspecting visitors
that ask too much.
An angel would know, after all,
what should and should not be touched
or asked,
but did and done.

I don’t.
I search for living crickets
inside myself,
drowning in evaporated lilac,
draining the sound of myself
to the distant buzz of steam engines.
I hoard decapitated stems,
I am growing us to learn
where do we begin,
where do we end,
where are we between the gears,
half flesh, half bronze
and it makes me
sit for hours
at the parking lot
behind my building and cry;
compelled,
like a human,
to believe.

*Sharing with dVerse OpenLink Night. Do hop over and have a read at the amazing contributions.

 

Visions of Autumn

•November 18, 2016 • 12 Comments

visions-of-autumn

“Visions of Autumn”

Mixed media/ October 2016

I am sharing this artwork I created with you, before Autumn flees this year, and is replaced by pearls of winter. I hope you are enjoying the palette of deep, dark and often soothing colors, I hope you are blessed with a sight of forest inflamed, without an actual fire, sunsets and sunrises with improbable colors and emotions.

I hope you like the artwork, do let me know what you think!

Repeating the mother’s words

•November 14, 2016 • 7 Comments

early-snow-by-john-francis-murphy

*Image found HERE

Repeating the mother’s words

What lies within the dirty white threads
in the negligee of madam November?
Her dry ribs in shards
jut out over the monotone wasteland
with a gaping mouth;
the grayness and foul air
stick their fangs in the clouds, lined like crepes.
There is us, a monolith of snow,
a mantra of tusks,
a plow against the sterile, dead dirt.
There is our bodies,
like mountains of sorrow,
steamed orange dots over the dirty windows.
there is our hands versus the noose of her stockings,
nightshades in our scapula
conspire daylight, dream heavily.
What lies there in the hole of her palm,
but an ingenue’s monologue
of shredded doves,
of sleep, thread into our skins
like madness, circuits, choices.
Do I dare set fire in her irreplaceables,
do I dare untie her hair
and teach coyotes to howl for sunlight,
should we like vandals
defibrillate the flowers,
processing low and quiet,
numb,
forgiven,
never tasted, never given,
what lies there in the madam’s bedroom drawer,
in handkerchiefs and woven linens –
our guts, marinated in champagne,
our fingers
divorced from one another,
our hearts shivering and soft as bread;
a thousand vacant fields
scurrying in the noise of rabbits,
trees lost in chatter and chanting,
skies like milk and caramel,
love like a tame sipping of a tea, whispers,
river alive beneath a layer of frost,
jealousy lies there
and wants a mistress,
in scarlet, a garland of wisteria
atop her head, crooked like a broken fetish,
warm like the blood of an elk
despite what any lips or calendars might say,
lacerated, craving, young and unbuttoned –

We stand like necroscopes
beneath the matron,
pale and broken, stitched
like woodlands full of pines
against the fences of the suburbs,
disturbed and pickled, forever wanting,
forever chared with thirst;
we stand beneath to translate
what is hurt

and how to have a share;
repeating the mother’s words.

*Inspired by Wordle at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

Starchild

•November 2, 2016 • 29 Comments

starchild

Mixed media / September 2016

I like to give full freedom to the observer to decide what my artworks mean for them. For me, this artwork exposes my love for all things mural, graffiti,spray paint, glass mosaic – that I did not for various reasons get to practice enough off screen.

I find it to be a gentle piece, and I am really interested to hear other opinions, mostly because I am very curious to know does this too feel ghostly and mysterious, like the previous artworks I’ve shared?

Enjoy your day, everyone!

 
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