Sagacious Serendipity – Red

 

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A working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

Click on images for more detail.

Sagacious Serendipity – shed skins

shed skinsshedskinsA working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

Click on images for more detail.

Sagacious Serendipity – VERN

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vernA working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.

The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.

 

map of my heart

map

In case I disappear here is a map of my heart,

a patched up job, repeatedly reassembled.

With a little patience it can still be understood

and if gently handled it won’t fall apart,

but please do not fold, spindle or mutilate.

 

Its paths and crossroads are still echoing

with songs of travelers passing through,

tears too are heard, of the wandering lost,

for though the roads are straight they are also worn

and collapsed with confusions and misdirections.

 

Notice how the blue of fallen sky becomes an ocean

where angels and mermaids dance in arcs of light.

I rest on these beaches when I lose myself,

cool my feet in the waves and sleep for awhile,

then I remember, this is the way back home.

 

And here are the greens of meadows where I lay

deep in new growth, my thrusting blossoms

seeding the verdant winds and high forests of isolation

with pollinations of laughter, longing and desire.

I smudge the map with unseen words against forgetting.

 

And there the golden glow of a thousand votive flames

illuminates the holy dark, recalls the first January sun,

places lamps in all the windows, engorges summer heat,

reflects itself in conjured forms of island fantasies

and shapes of full moon dreams in fields of wheat.

 

The signatures of red I will not hide beneath the surface,

they are its surging life and are crying for acceptance.

These bleeds of love seep through the gauze of landscape

however many bandages of colour I apply.

No compass needed here. This is a map of my heart.

torn and reassembled acrylic painting and poem by clinock

‘The 100′ – # 100. Fin

Fin_2

Done, over, concluded, terminated.

Remember the end of those romantic

French movies? “FIN”,

as in finished and finale.

Fin_2_2

Time to put on coats and hats,

shuffle through popcorn detritus and cola cans,

leave the cosy sentiments of make-believe,

the warmth of shared fantasies and holding hands,

the smells of perfume, upholstery and sweat,

and step through swinging doors

into the glare and noises of the street,

stunned for a moment, floating between

two worlds, not certain which is real.

Fin_2_3_2

Mixed media art and poem by clinock

Thanks Mr. Twain.

 

‘The 100′ # 97 – Dove

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…” the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.”

Leonard Cohen. Anthem

 That which once was clearly read

now manifests in ciphers,

silent, broken and disintegrating.

Whatever the answer was,

in this parchment of peace,

it is gone now, forgotten,

fragmented and lost.

Dove 6

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Words and songs are smudged,

dark wings tear the light,

chaos reigns beneath the ordered surface

and the zero and the I,

tattooed in bar codes

indelibly across our eyes

binds us and blinds us.

Dove detail 2

And our blindness multiplies

with the hate and lies,

the killing, the hurting, the violence

wasting our hearts

to ashes, charcoal, stone,

and all we might become

is lacerated by darkness.

 

Dove detail 4

 But still we inhabit our dream

 as if the unbearable pain

was part of a stranger’s nightmare,

otherwise, we ask

how could we breath?

how could we sleep?

how could we believe in love?

Dove detail 3

So we claim neutrality,

pretend we do not see

the millions of bodies of falling doves

filling the sky like tears,

blood on white feathers

heaping around our feet

freezing us numb in holy snow.

 

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Mixed media collage and poem by clinock.

Thank you Steven @  http://poemimage.wordpress.com for design inspiration.