In order to share the joy of our annual sculpture exhibition and it's various themes, we started an annual writer's event in 2018.
Inviting writers from far and wide to visit our exhibition and then encouraging them to compose words in response.
This form of ekphrastic writing is then celebrated on the second last Saturday of our exhibition with a public reading.
Here are some of the results.....................
Inviting writers from far and wide to visit our exhibition and then encouraging them to compose words in response.
This form of ekphrastic writing is then celebrated on the second last Saturday of our exhibition with a public reading.
Here are some of the results.....................
"Who's Your Muse?"
Writer's Event Oct 2019
Petrina Dakin
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Ivor Steven
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Roy Johnson
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The Challenge and Call
Sculpture is like writing Fun, tactile Full of expression Sculpture is like editing Chipping away 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 Carved Etched Hammered In our hearts. Through our hands. Enjoy the work. And when that’s done Vacuum the dust away And start again. Anna Kosmanovski 
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 but this, as the mother said to the children, is the lesser known fable of The Fox and Ox. |
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Nature Mother
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
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Writer and Artist....connected through art and words xxxx |
Mosquito + the Bee by Barbara Hebb-Roe |
Mosquitoes and Bees by Ivor Steven
I was asked the question, "who's your muse?"
My mind flew into overdrive, now I'll have to choose
Year's ago the answer would have been, my Queen
The lady who was always in my dreams
Living longer than her altered my life's mission
Spending time alone enlightened my vision
Mindful thoughts were constantly buzzing
I'd learnt enough to know, this world's not humming
Nature's lifeblood, mosquitoes, bees
And the air we breathe, sheltered by life giving trees
Are the persecuted convicts of corporate greed
Leaving us, the planet's custodians, begging on our knees
The bees pollinating wings have been broken
And purifying forests have been stolen
It's time to dismount the angel's white ponies
and ask my muse Melpomene, please save earth's colonies
I was asked the question, "who's your muse?"
My mind flew into overdrive, now I'll have to choose
Year's ago the answer would have been, my Queen
The lady who was always in my dreams
Living longer than her altered my life's mission
Spending time alone enlightened my vision
Mindful thoughts were constantly buzzing
I'd learnt enough to know, this world's not humming
Nature's lifeblood, mosquitoes, bees
And the air we breathe, sheltered by life giving trees
Are the persecuted convicts of corporate greed
Leaving us, the planet's custodians, begging on our knees
The bees pollinating wings have been broken
And purifying forests have been stolen
It's time to dismount the angel's white ponies
and ask my muse Melpomene, please save earth's colonies
A snapshot of our inaugural writer's event......it was a magic moment to see a number of writer's from different groups meeting for the first time in our space xxx
"Alphabet Soup" Writer's Event Oct 2018
ALPHABET BALLS by Denis (Wally) Walters
inspired by P's for Patsy - by Patsy Bush
I attended the opening night thinking I might get some inspiration out of one of the pieces on display and when I came upstairs, I saw a piece that was like looking through a window at my life. I knew straight away that it would be the piece that I would write about. It was No … Peas for Patsy. But I didn't see Peas, I saw Balls, held up in the air on rods. I thought to myself, that is exactly what I need, some support for my balls.
Now I'm talking about the Balls of Life. Everybody has them. Some, more than others. They are the ones we try to juggle every day, trying to keep them in the air. I have been collecting balls for many years, the trouble is I never swap, sell, or give any away, so I have ended up with a lot of balls.
To give you all an idea, just how many balls, I have written a piece and I have titled it ALPHABET BALLS.
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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 |
A Car Is Born by Rod McLure
inspired by E type Jag by Edward T Guida
We’ve all heard about the magician who turned his car into a garage … but get this … Terry Guida turned a lump of wood into an E-Type Jag!
Now … that’s magic!
Terry chipped and chiseled, sawed and planed and then, plainly saw, that Enzo Ferrari was onto something when, back in 1961, on the release of the first E-Type, he said … “it is the most beautiful car ever made.”
Like Mr. Ferrari, Terry comes from proud Italian stock but that didn’t deter him from making a British automobile the subject of his most recent work.
He chose to sculpture his conceptual E-Type Jaguar in Golden Cypress.
The chosen timber was trimmed to size and with pencil and ruler in hand, Terry began the first rough outline.
A handsaw was used to criss-cross the wood, making tiny cuts that were then patiently chiseled out until, through the splinters and chips and dust the familiar Jaguar shape began to emerge.
The sharp, pointy edges were caressed into smooth curves.
Wheels were rounded out and given a dash of metallic paint … and the free-flowing grain of the cypress came to life with a lush and lavish lacquer overcoat.
Hand-hoisted onto its concrete base and with a dash of British Racing Green on the bonnet, Terry’s contribution to the mystery and magic of the E-Type Jag is, I believe, just another step in his journey of discovery as a proud and happy member of the Geelong Sculptors.
And just to wrap things up … all of that led me to, just a little bit of this …
It’s called:
inspired by E type Jag by Edward T Guida
We’ve all heard about the magician who turned his car into a garage … but get this … Terry Guida turned a lump of wood into an E-Type Jag!
Now … that’s magic!
Terry chipped and chiseled, sawed and planed and then, plainly saw, that Enzo Ferrari was onto something when, back in 1961, on the release of the first E-Type, he said … “it is the most beautiful car ever made.”
Like Mr. Ferrari, Terry comes from proud Italian stock but that didn’t deter him from making a British automobile the subject of his most recent work.
He chose to sculpture his conceptual E-Type Jaguar in Golden Cypress.
The chosen timber was trimmed to size and with pencil and ruler in hand, Terry began the first rough outline.
A handsaw was used to criss-cross the wood, making tiny cuts that were then patiently chiseled out until, through the splinters and chips and dust the familiar Jaguar shape began to emerge.
The sharp, pointy edges were caressed into smooth curves.
Wheels were rounded out and given a dash of metallic paint … and the free-flowing grain of the cypress came to life with a lush and lavish lacquer overcoat.
Hand-hoisted onto its concrete base and with a dash of British Racing Green on the bonnet, Terry’s contribution to the mystery and magic of the E-Type Jag is, I believe, just another step in his journey of discovery as a proud and happy member of the Geelong Sculptors.
And just to wrap things up … all of that led me to, just a little bit of this …
It’s called:
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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 |
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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 |
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"""BE HOLD T"""""""
T the 20th Letter In the Modern English Language ALPHABET Invented in the 8 century By the Greeks who Borrowed it from the Phoenicians. Spiritually meaning T Is the numerical equivalent Of 2 Representing GROWTH. Used in Reinforced Concrete Construction for STRENGTH in T Beams...... Ciao Terry Guida x |
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BODICE BURST
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. Unrestrained. Petrina Dakin |
Bodice - Kerrie Bedson |
