Thursday, April 2, 2009
Train Journeys
On my way to the studio in Melbourne. I got the station in Ballarat and I realised I'd left my purse behind so I had to turn around and walk back home to get it. It could have been worse, I could have to all the way to Melbourne before I realised it was on the kitchen table. Still, I knew if I hurried back I'd still make it in time to catch the train. So I rushed back ony to find the train wasn't running now. Melbourne trains are a fucking joke. Really! As soon at it either rains, which it was this morning, or it gets too hot, the whole system grinds to a holt. I'm glad I'm on holidays from my day job, I'm not too stressed about. I'm sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and eating toast instead. I'll give them an hour to sort themselves out and try again. I miss my studio and Im really want to finish my lastest painting.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Prose I wrote in May 2005 and reworked over the past two day
Ghost Man Hiding.
The path winds past tombstones and onto the house. Old house, heavy with dust. Parts of the interior had never seen the light. Long forgotten. He lived in this house in spirit only. He was hiding.
When he was younger he would sit inside an old wooden box in the corner of the first floor room. He would sit for hours, still and quiet, his hand on its lid that leant against the wall. This was before the house was forgotten and before the darkness engulfed it’s rooms. From inside this box he felt his dark self could live, his light self could die peacefully.
Many years later he lay down amongst the musty old newspapers that lined the bottom of the box. Face turned upwards he would stare without seeing.
When he hears the footsteps coming he is soaked in a delicious feeling of danger and enticed by the courage of the approaching steps. He feels a sharp uptake of power owing to his clandestine position. Deep inside his box he wishes he could experience these lost feelings forever. But he can’t, the footsteps will eventually turn away and walk back. He will be still barren and still dead.
The path winds past tombstones and onto the house. Old house heavy with dust. I wander down this path never knowing where I’m really going. Or what I am heading towards. You lie safe inside your box with nothing to confess. Silent. You’ve nothing to hope for. Yet inside this dark death you have begun to feel. And if you lift the lid it would no longer be death, it would be life. The whites of your eyes would flicker and their black centers would see again.
I step through the front door into the dark. It’s not at all like I had once imagined it would be. There is no life in here, there is only death. But death is different here. It can move and it can see and it feels.
Unrestricted.
A dream is a ghost in your life.
So many of these. Ghosts, you could call them, but they have never been dead.
I ran through the unexplored house. I ran through the apprehension, and through the fear. Lurking, he was always lurking. I stopped in a small room at the top of the staircase. It had a large, wide window with dusty cotton curtains. I flung them open and stood blinking. The window blackened almost to the top; moldy gnarled branches and rotting leaves blocked nearly all of the sunlight. Only at the top did it shine through, bleaching the ceiling but leaving the bottom of the room cold and dank. Nature was smothering his house in green. From this side of the glass it seeming so black and dirty but from outside it would have pure beauty.
Room now all unused. I walked past he dirty furniture, past the apprehension, and past the fear. He was still lurking
I see your coffin. I know where you’re hiding. I can lift up the lid and make you come out. Do you want me to?
Word and art...Virtue Fern. Reworked 1-2 april 2009
The path winds past tombstones and onto the house. Old house, heavy with dust. Parts of the interior had never seen the light. Long forgotten. He lived in this house in spirit only. He was hiding.
When he was younger he would sit inside an old wooden box in the corner of the first floor room. He would sit for hours, still and quiet, his hand on its lid that leant against the wall. This was before the house was forgotten and before the darkness engulfed it’s rooms. From inside this box he felt his dark self could live, his light self could die peacefully.
Many years later he lay down amongst the musty old newspapers that lined the bottom of the box. Face turned upwards he would stare without seeing.
When he hears the footsteps coming he is soaked in a delicious feeling of danger and enticed by the courage of the approaching steps. He feels a sharp uptake of power owing to his clandestine position. Deep inside his box he wishes he could experience these lost feelings forever. But he can’t, the footsteps will eventually turn away and walk back. He will be still barren and still dead.
The path winds past tombstones and onto the house. Old house heavy with dust. I wander down this path never knowing where I’m really going. Or what I am heading towards. You lie safe inside your box with nothing to confess. Silent. You’ve nothing to hope for. Yet inside this dark death you have begun to feel. And if you lift the lid it would no longer be death, it would be life. The whites of your eyes would flicker and their black centers would see again.
I step through the front door into the dark. It’s not at all like I had once imagined it would be. There is no life in here, there is only death. But death is different here. It can move and it can see and it feels.
Unrestricted.
A dream is a ghost in your life.
So many of these. Ghosts, you could call them, but they have never been dead.
I ran through the unexplored house. I ran through the apprehension, and through the fear. Lurking, he was always lurking. I stopped in a small room at the top of the staircase. It had a large, wide window with dusty cotton curtains. I flung them open and stood blinking. The window blackened almost to the top; moldy gnarled branches and rotting leaves blocked nearly all of the sunlight. Only at the top did it shine through, bleaching the ceiling but leaving the bottom of the room cold and dank. Nature was smothering his house in green. From this side of the glass it seeming so black and dirty but from outside it would have pure beauty.
Room now all unused. I walked past he dirty furniture, past the apprehension, and past the fear. He was still lurking
I see your coffin. I know where you’re hiding. I can lift up the lid and make you come out. Do you want me to?
Word and art...Virtue Fern. Reworked 1-2 april 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
My Tattoo Nightmare
I woke up at 5 am this morning because I had the worst dream.
I had this really crappy blue butterfly tattooed on my foot and I could not remember when I had it done or why? It was horrible. It was one of those cliched cheap tattoos and I was so upset. Some one kept telling me it was done by a really famous tattooist. I thought it was so badly done, it was terrible, imagine some one like me, having a crap drawing permanently displayed on my foot. I could not sleep a wink after that thought. I will never risk getting a tattoo ever!! Oh the horror!
I had this really crappy blue butterfly tattooed on my foot and I could not remember when I had it done or why? It was horrible. It was one of those cliched cheap tattoos and I was so upset. Some one kept telling me it was done by a really famous tattooist. I thought it was so badly done, it was terrible, imagine some one like me, having a crap drawing permanently displayed on my foot. I could not sleep a wink after that thought. I will never risk getting a tattoo ever!! Oh the horror!
It's nearly over!!
I've almost finished I am wreckage hear me roar No 5.
Thin gs to remember for No 6...Do a smaller version! I tell you 2 metres by 1 metre and it's sch an intense painting experience, he wreckage paintings always are..What was I thinking?
I'm really causing myself harm here, this bloody paintings hurting like all hell. Next one is going to have to be smaller (she says as she orders another huge piece of paper)
Can't help myself.
When I study this painting I go from thinking it's a beautiful piece of work to finding it repulsive. This is a good painting when you not sure which end of the poles it's sitting at. It's expressing both at the same time. It find of full of that opposing energy but it's a single entity.
Shit, I'm sounding like a hippy.
But, it's wine o'clock now.
I've got to work at my day job tomorrow but I'm coming back to the studio so I can finish this piece Wednesday. There's definitely only one days work left in it now.
Thin gs to remember for No 6...Do a smaller version! I tell you 2 metres by 1 metre and it's sch an intense painting experience, he wreckage paintings always are..What was I thinking?
I'm really causing myself harm here, this bloody paintings hurting like all hell. Next one is going to have to be smaller (she says as she orders another huge piece of paper)
Can't help myself.
When I study this painting I go from thinking it's a beautiful piece of work to finding it repulsive. This is a good painting when you not sure which end of the poles it's sitting at. It's expressing both at the same time. It find of full of that opposing energy but it's a single entity.
Shit, I'm sounding like a hippy.
But, it's wine o'clock now.
I've got to work at my day job tomorrow but I'm coming back to the studio so I can finish this piece Wednesday. There's definitely only one days work left in it now.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
running list
Apart form having to do one days work on Tuesday, I'm on holidays until the 20th April.
So heres' the list of art stuff I have to attempt to get done.
Finish the following pieces:
I am wreckage here me roar No 5
The rework of No 4
Finish the collage pieces for the new repetitions.
Photograph this series and submit them for possible group show and solo's.
Go on a new gallery hunt...I need to do some shows..the years half over and I haven't done any, nor have I entered any art prizes. Maybe look into organising my own group show.
Figure out whether I do this TV appearance, I guess I should just see what these people have to say.
Created 3 new windows for repetitions
Redo the first Nine in a line...I'm not happy with the canvas it went onto, it blocked before I could finish it...I lost the creative flow which means it's not right...It needed to be on paper in acrylic. It's a much faster painted and keep the energy of a painting flowing. So I need to rewrite and draw up the nine new pieces them extend these by putting the on a 2 metre piece of paper. They will hang vertically down the wall.
I want to create a writing site of some sort, I written some nuch poetry and prose and I sit's in studio doing nothing. It needs to be online...
This is all I can thnk of at the moment...Better get to work
So heres' the list of art stuff I have to attempt to get done.
Finish the following pieces:
I am wreckage here me roar No 5
The rework of No 4
Finish the collage pieces for the new repetitions.
Photograph this series and submit them for possible group show and solo's.
Go on a new gallery hunt...I need to do some shows..the years half over and I haven't done any, nor have I entered any art prizes. Maybe look into organising my own group show.
Figure out whether I do this TV appearance, I guess I should just see what these people have to say.
Created 3 new windows for repetitions
Redo the first Nine in a line...I'm not happy with the canvas it went onto, it blocked before I could finish it...I lost the creative flow which means it's not right...It needed to be on paper in acrylic. It's a much faster painted and keep the energy of a painting flowing. So I need to rewrite and draw up the nine new pieces them extend these by putting the on a 2 metre piece of paper. They will hang vertically down the wall.
I want to create a writing site of some sort, I written some nuch poetry and prose and I sit's in studio doing nothing. It needs to be online...
This is all I can thnk of at the moment...Better get to work
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