Tuesday, 2 January 2018

The Change Part 10: Objectness, Second Iteration

She needed certainty.
A repeated path well worn.
Security, reiteration, peace, comfort.
All this she found in her singular pattern.

Nineteenth century American quilt block pattern
In nine patch formation.

Linked to an object
A time, a state of being
A Southern-Bible-Belt state, cardinal red.

Connected to objectness
Theoretical object
Dream object (the chair)

The dream-state-trance she hypnotised herself into
Astral travel across 5000 miles,
every night to be with the one she loved.

The pattern has many names
The construct is half square triangles set in opposition.

Imagine a chess board kitchen floor
In a Medieval villa in Perugia or Assisi
Frescos on the wall
Warm dry
Fragrant with olive, mint, rosemary, dog.

Imagine this chess board
Dark and light tiles in opposition to each other, perfect balance.

Then imagine each tile sliced diagonally left to right, right to left
And the pieces moved into a mathematical puzzle
Creating a new configuration
Of tints and tones.

Seen a certain way the pattern is lozenges.
Viewed another way the ornament is cotton-reels and bow-ties.
Pure logical abstraction.

Yet chaos.

A thrown rune, fallen to the earth
Fontana’s slashed canvas
A window through which is seen a doorway,
Through which is viewed a section of another window,
Through which is glimpsed a Vermeer night sky
Bluest of azurite, lapis blue

And now she starts to comprehend
the complexity of the objectness of the object she has created.

The layers of colour,
she has, trance like applied to this flat object.

Creating deep objectness.

In this newly crafted thought-work entity.
and the thoughthingability
of the workpiecentity.
becomes evident
in the heart of the maker
and the skin of the object.

Monday, 1 January 2018

The Change Part 9: Objectness

Twined and intertwined
The objectness in her life has refrained.
Like a song, she may come back to it later in the music.

Making, crafting, shaping.
Her time of objects is on pause, halted.

In her dream a very specific chair blocks my thoughts
To other things
Yet wood is not my medium, my raw material.

Structure, design, presence, desirability
The tools and processes of wood work
Although pleasing in themselves as object in their own right,
Devoid of purpose
Are not it.
Do not give her the joy she seeks.

Not sure what does.

She found refuge in the flat.

Through her weeks, months, half a year of her
It was not objects
She turned to for diversion
But painting.

She filled her sketchbook day after day with pattern.
And narrowed it down.
And narrowed it down.
To a single repeated ornament.

In the simplest of motifs.
A square,
with two lines running from corner to corner
and intersecting in the centre.

In fugue.
Worked in varying scale.
Diminuendo, crescendo, ritardando. 

In blue and gold.
One pattern
One colour-way.

Variety in the maker’s hand.
The flat
Became the object
Not painted on canvas or paper but on a slab of wood.

A new objectness.
Differently pleasing.
Equally satisfying to create.

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

Dream Poem 102: The Maze, The Wall, The Question or Belshazzar’s Answer.

Daniel 5:5
“In the same hour the fingers of a man’s hand appeared and wrote on the plaster of King Belshazzar’s wall. 

The Genius Professor and I,
along with other research scientists, computers, equipment and robots
are working as a team
bang in the middle of a maze.

Looking for the answers.

One of the robots, unexpectedly is
Swallowed up by the wall,
For not fulfilling his role adequately.

I see what is happening and catch hold of his eye as he disappears.
I pull and pull, hanging on to the eye.
Yards of metal tape come out
But I kept hold of it.

I want answers.

The wall is a female entity and speaks to me saying
“you are not playing fair”
But I say
“Any means are ok in order to get the answer”
And she clenched her grip on the robot tighter
But I would not relinquish my grasp and pulled harder
And finally the robot came up to the surface of the wall.

And I asked my question.
And he answered me.
And I let go.

And let him be devoured by the wall once again.

The Professor’s wife was pregnant, I knew that.
We sat on the metal seating in Pudsey bus station,
Behind us a row of shops with the Bentleys the Butchers on it.

I was explaining about the shops to a table full of colleagues
But they couldn’t see it.
And I said they had to look over the wall and through the density of the trees and it was there.

We were waiting for people going into the maze
And coming out again with the answer.

I suppose we could piece it all together to create a larger answer.

(images. Top - Pudsey Bus Station: wymetro.com. built 2010, bottom image, National Gallery, Belshazzar's Feast, Rembrandt, 1636-38. )

Tuesday, 12 December 2017

Dream Poem 100: Through the X of Pinking Shears

Scissors in the kitchen.
Long arms
Spider fingers
Table full of possibility
Popping and bursting with ideas and plans.

In my hand a pair of pinking shears
Their serrated edges
Waiting to decorate
An edge
With a row of miniature mountains
Or a factory roof.

The scissors X
Is a gateway
Crawl through
only slightly hazardous
Just avoid the sharp blades like Indiana Jones.

But once through
A whole world of pink rivers
Purple sunsets, golden mountains, green lakes and blue grass.

The sound of cicadas
Not too loud
My hammock and a sweet iced tea in my hand.

It is a high hammock
So my feet don’t touch the ground
There is a breeze
Sweet with magnolia blossom and grass

My eyes close in the warmth of evening.

Dream Poem 99: The End of an Affair

I am in a large flat
in an institutional apartment block,
a student residence

I am doing some teaching and the flat comes with the teaching job
I have got a piano
People are bringing it down stairs in sections
It is very heavy

I have been in and out all day
Two people have come to collect me
I go around
Turning the lights off

As we leave.

Monday, 11 December 2017

Dream Poem 98: Disguised Wine

A court of manners
A 1700’s party
All powder and crinoline.

Underneath the guests all desire to be top dog
They outdo each other
With rare and expensive bottles of wine.

I’m am in disguise
and try and pull off the act that I belong.

The wine is dusty
And horridly dry
but it is the oldest, most expensive and sought after.

Later I am discovered
And I tell everyone, blurt it out

“Your wine is awful.”

Dream Poem 97: Anno Domini

Running down stairs
There is no time to pack
We have to go
The children will just have to keep up.

A moment ago I was poring over ledgers and old photographs
Now we have to run.

We are in the shop named Anno Domini in the back room

Going up the stairs.