The Challenge and Call
Sculpture is like writing
Full of expression
Sculpture is like editing
Killing your darlings
And bringing them back to life again.
Writers and sculptors have this in common
Once it’s written
Once it’s made
We must not let dust gather
We must show our creations
To a curious world
And speak the message
In our hearts.
Through our hands.
Enjoy the work.
And when that’s done
Vacuum the dust away
And start again.
A Mother's Love - Chris Sproule
The Fox and The Ox by Roy Johnson
inspired by “A Mother’s Love” by Chris Sproule
The Fox and The Ox
is a lesser known fable
that the vixen would tell her pups
around the kitchen table.
A night time story from long, long ago.
Ox was old. He had worked many years hauling logs, huge stones on sleds, cultivating the land, keeping the property prosperous with his friend the farmer. They worked together until the ox became too old and the farmer gave him a paddock for himself. In the paddock there was a family of fox. In his retirement he appreciated the young pups with their running, scampering and playing through his home. He would often lie down and let them climb on his back and do what they like. There wasn’t much chance of them hurting him through his thick hide.
One day they were playing tag around him and Ox saw a car stop. Two boys got out, one with a large knife, and said ‘Let’s get some foxtails to decorate the car!’
Ox gave a snort and sent the pups racing home.
He knew about sharp knives from many years ago, when, on a cold, wet, dreary afternoon the vet came to visit.
He recalled hearing tales about a place called Pamplona where the bulls raced through the streets creating havoc where they could. Recalling his younger days, Ox slowly stood up, shook himself, lowered his head and charged. His massive head hit the boy with the knife and tossed him over the fence onto the car while the knife flew into the paddock. The other boy ran but Ox caught him as he reached the barbed wire fence and a swift kick helped him through with some of the wire wrapped around him. Ox snorted again, in distain, went back and picked up the long knife in his massive mouth, took it to the dam and spat it out as far as he could. He stood tall, raised his head and bellowed once, triumphantly.
This may be true . . . or maybe not
as the mother said to the children,
is the lesser known fable
of The Fox and Ox.
after the sculpture Mother Nature by Catherine M Brennan
A canvas of potential, the promise of colour. Each tone or talent or chakra given space to sit with another, different, but perfectly placed.
Let us, all of us, tend this earth gently that we may be held in its safety, grounded firmly until it is our turn to rest in its embrace and nourish others.
Let this nature woman remind us of the vitality we have been given to live sensually, to flow with the emotion we bring to and from the earth.
Let yellow abundance shine a light to our own power, to strength of mind and heart, and for those who need it a clear assertion from the 19th century. No means No.
May her green, glowing between blue and pink and yellow remind us of the work of love, of the value in connecting with, but not owning another. Let this fertile colour insist on our giving.
Let the blues of oceans and sky fill us with the creative power we were born to serve. May every piece of sculpture and every word of poem speak to each of us, truthfully.
Let us not be limited by what we know, by the perceptions we inherit, but like the depth of indigo, draw deeply from within, from all that awaits us in spaces we haven’t dared yet imagine.
And when all is said and done, let this nature woman sit like a beacon watching the effort of form as we sculpt and write and paint, as if we were the ones cloaked in golden coils, springs of possibility.
E A Gleeson
Mother Nature 1 + 2
A is the articles and deadlines to meet,
B are the bees and honey so sweet.
C is for the committees, I'm on one or two,
D is the diary and a daily review.
E is for the emails, some sent overseas,
F is the French walk, completed with ease.
G is the garden where I don't spend enough time,
H are the horses all kept in their prime.
I are the incoming bills that don't seem to stop,
J is for a Japan trip, on the list near, the top.
K is for Kelly and a family reunion that's pending
L is the lantern, when the daylight is ending.
M is the manure, that comes with the horses,
N is for networking and attendance at courses.
O is the Ocean walks while dodging the hoards,
P is for playwriting and treading the boards.
Q are the questions, take nothing for granted,
R are the reasoning's and mantras still chanted.
S is the spoon, I use to shovel mountains away,
T is for the tales, often told during the day.
U are the unread books, left on the shelf,
V is the volunteering, depleting the wealth.
W is for the worms, the composting type,
X is for the xylophone I'm learning via Skype
Y is for Yucatan who might well win the Cup
Z is the lack of sleep, before I wake up.
So there is the ALPHABET without even trying.
I know what you’re thinking, he's bloody well lying.
But I can assure you, except for the xylophone, the rest is all true,
And it comes with a dilemma and I'll share it with you.
There are still several balls, down on the ground,
All colours all sizes and just lying around.
The problem's solution, is causing me pain,
As the thoughts spin, around and around, in my brain.
Then all of a sudden there is a break in the loop,
I'll just triple my serving of ALPHABET SOUP.
DJW 23 OCT 2018
P's for Patsy - Patsy Bush
An E-Type Jag, sculptured in wood
You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty good.
I think I’m right, I’m sure it’s a fact …
It was Golden Cypress … to be exact.
A rectangular block, raw and plain
But something special hid in the grain
And this is where the sculptor’s vision
Saw Terry become- a man on a mission!
The concept grew, began to evolve
And this ignited Terry’s resolve
To chisel, saw, hammer and plane
‘Til people thought, is the bloke insane!
To me he’s caught a car in flight!
Both still and moving … can that be right?
But who’s inside, behind the wheel …
A superwoman … or a man of steel?
E Type Jag by Edward T Guida
words by Sally Groom
inspired by Kerrie Bedson’s boat piece
The sea has its own language
Some understand it
They are fluent in its tenor and rhythm
But others, the inland dwellers,
Are accustomed to the mirror surface of the limpid lake
The constant rhythm of the river’s flow
The heavy mass of storm-pushed sea shocks me
Our boat slides up and down the roller-coaster waves
How strange this precarious journey to safety
We’ve left the shore but have yet to arrrive
I have dreamt of home each day of these forty-two years in this new land
The memory of that journey scorched on my skin
"""BE HOLD T"""""""
In the Modern
Invented in the 8 century
By the Greeks who
Borrowed it from the
Is the numerical equivalent
Used in Reinforced Concrete
Construction for STRENGTH
Terry Guida x
Response to Bodice by Kerrie Bedson
Bold red on black draws my eye, conjuring thoughts of lingerie and bright red lipstick. Here, walking in the dunes, surprisingly, I find the remains of a bodice. Breathe.
Red cord lies tangled in the shredded back leather, except for a prominent corner of crisscrossed lacing, tightly bound. A bodice burst?! Breathe.
To do this damage, I can feel that there has been an explosion to escape. Heart, lungs, chest, flesh, body – released. Breathe.
Nipples and mounds, shoved high for the viewer’s pleasure, now untethered. Breathe.
Leather, black leather: ‘timely rip’d’, torn, detonated, gutted, vented. Breathe.
A bit like a shell, left behind, discarded, after its usefulness has ended. To be picked over by small animals and curious walkers like me.
I look more closely at the remains and am surprised again. I discover the fabric is not destroyed.
The red threads do connect its parts, conjuring blood flowing to the whole. It is black kelp that twists and turns; like unruly, bountiful crinkled hair. Its thick and thin tresses curl around each other and reach out to the sea breeze and sun.
And red seeds, which I had not noticed before, sit dormant, connected, until their moment to drop and regenerate.
Bodice - Kerrie Bedson