Terry Egan and Mitch ToddRow are the two major influences on my writing.. Not them per-se, but to sit and listen to them play just makes the day a little bit more clearer. A YouTube clip is posted on the sidebar. Not the best video but there will be more in no time! Hopefully. These two young emerging artists, give hope to creativity and the innocence to early mornings.
...............
It is called ‘Morning’.
A memory of time, light,Sound and life whether it be peaceful or painful, in the early morning.
The use of poetry/writing will be the basis of the story and is only left to be interpreted by its audience. If the writing Is seen as obvious, it’s only as obvious as the minds eye.
Memories, shadows, light and sound will all reside in the carving of the guitar. It’s about life in life and how it passes.
I’m using high fire paper clay. That will be carved almost all over, using washes and oxides to fill in the pieces.I would like to use the neck of a real guitar so it is more a realistic, and only the body has been over taken by my emotions.
The final piece will have a sound recording device on the inside with the obvious The acoustic. Sounds taken from a memory of my early morning.
There are two new pieces of writing to also go with this work, which will be presented in unknown way…..
Board to life
Art is self and Nature. Its life and Experience. A world without colour is dark and gloomy.
The mind is within the hand and the heart is in the soul. The expression is rather deep and a way to escape the walls that surround. The beauty of confrontation, the journey to completion, blinking your eye to find yourself right at the beginning again.
These life size snow boards were something I wanted to do from the beginning. An object that holds memory, tears, laughter, pain, strength and so on. I must admit I had a fortunate up bringing, travelling to Mt Hothom on a yearly basis. So my reasoning and want to create this work fairly obvious. Though my boards aren't perfect, they hold many cracks and breakages as does the family. The family tree. My obsession with trees will never end? Why? I don't know, but I'm happy for it to stay around until I do find out. Maybe iamtree is it! And yes, I don't like capitol letters.
The Boards are made out of earthenware clay and glazes. Though the insanity of it all was the 27 litre press mold that I made!!
Writing one
Imagination, infatuation
Trust and lies and mixed emotions
Hands and toes painted red
Strings and drums
Echo through train express
a mission a journey, a stop in between
They say its not the end
But how you get there that means something
Castles fairy tales, snakes and clowns,
Smeared black lipstick was meant to be that way.
Tone and Rhythm, a simple beat
You laugh and think as you reminisce
(of course those good old dancing feet)
Motion and stillness which ever you chose
Is OK with me
A dream is but a wish that a heart needs to tell
A heart, Explosion. Two lines were missed.
When you get to the end you realize the twist
You know you don't need to do it again
Draws close, Windows slam
Lost arrows, signs and symbols don't mean a thing.
Sleep the days, you don't awake
Clap for the amazing things you can appreciate
Forgive yourself and skip a stone
Its the one that will meet you in the end
The end of the road.
The road,
The one that didn't stop at the bricks and bends.
Jump. Jump high, you'll find something will give you that lift
Without the effort, you thought you couldn't resist
Trust the soul, that the heart believed the imagination was actually the real thing.
The red was the colour, you chose for a reason.
Not a tulip, a rose, the thorn and the stem
The smeared black lipstick
was a disguise for the blood running thin.
The blood of your hands and feet were cleaned
A soft towel to wipe your face clean.
When you realize you re alive again, and feel the inner was clearly expressed
But who knocked down the bricks with the skipping stone?
Is this all your imagination, from the day you didn't awake
Or is it infatuation of a hidden image
one hard to see....
But heard it,
in the hands that played the strings
The drum was the beat that made it so real.
Am I the girl
With hands and toes painted so red
And the smeared black lipstick
That was meant to be there.
12:11 pm 10Th Oct 09
(when i was a little girl)
Writing two
moments and memories
one in the two
time in a circle
who is it you ll see
the one on the inside
or the one on the out
the second it passes
you see the one in between
only a moment
a glimpse of reflection
a forgotten emotion
too often not seen
a crack in the glass
when present becomes the now
the Small image of the sound
A story, a tale
A book with no pages
A name a place
What will it all mean
A smell in the darkness
No colour or perception
One simple aura
Making the memory a moment
You made it to the in between
though will it last longer
to get the one in the two
The second you hold it
No. in., No. out
A perfect circle
or is it just a reflection
You think you perceive.
10:28 Oct 09
Must be seen live, Just doesnt cut it.
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