At the moment I'm enjoying Geoffrey Gorman's sculptures, Nick Bantock's assemblages and Anne Westlund's poetry.
I loved reading Gorman's artist statement. It captures exactly what he's all about.
"A broken bent tree branch, bleached from sun and rain, makes me think of weathered bones: fingers, legs, backbone, and hip bone. Old stained strips of cloth act like bandages and clothing, hiding and holding it all together. Sculpted wax covers the frame and joints of wood. Found and lost objects assembled into curious and evocative shapes is what excites me.
When I am making objects, I think of model airplanes made of balsa wood, then covered in thin transparent paper. Or I see decoys and shapes made to attract wild animals. I visited a museum in Alaska that had drawers filled with toys that had been put together, used and collected from previous cultures. I also think of a forest of tall, dark trees covered in moss and moisture, a silent, meditative place".
The Artful Dodger by Nick Bantock is a book that I dip into frequently.
Anne Westlund is a writer I "met" over at Coach Creative Space where she runs a group called Writers Clique for "all the unpopular kids."BLOCKED
I wait for inspiration
Like waiting for the electricity
to come back on
But the light bulb stays dim
And I sit here in the dark
Cold and alone
And bored out of my skull.
There are candles
Like some desecrated church
With candy wrappers and pop cans
And graffiti on paper if not walls
For anyone to see
If they would just look
But it’s dim in here
I can hardly blame them
For their disinterest
It’s my own
That I find so distressing
Unable to write
More than this note
To self—take out the garbage
Tomorrow—when it’s light.
For now I sit and smell
The incense, marginally better
Than the litter box, I listen
To music sung by rock gods
Now six feet underground
Death carries a tune
Better than I ever have
Still uninspired, stale
Unrewarded.
So many poets,
Not near enough rotten fruit
To go around this theatre
Of the faintly amused
With cynical smiles
Painted in silver greasepaint
Everyone’s a clown,
Turn that smirk upside down
I can’t even muster tears
Tonight, not exactly sad,
Just annoyed that I can’t
Check my email for Nigerian
Bank scams and Dell communiqués
How many computers can one
Person use?
One.
As far as I can tell
But don’t quote me on that
Cyber Sunday is long past
I missed out on all the good deals
The light is burnt out in the bathroom
I don’t suppose that matters now
With the blackout, outage, 75 mph
Wind gusts shaking the house.
The neighbors finally break
The quiet, some altercation punctuated
By truck doors slamming and a cold
Engine going into gear
I’m fabricating a little here, just
For my own amusement
Of course you can’t really tell
What’s the truth, and what mere falsehood
Don’t even try
Most days I can’t either
With all those creativity articles
I should be able to come up
With something.
No, I can’t think of anything
To write about, not nature, love,
I can’t even write one of those depressing
Goth teenage poems about heartbreak
And suicide. Not tonight.
This dim bulb has gone out.
December 4, 2007
© 2007 Anne Westlund
