Sunlight

At the beginning of every May, the date was variable, a quirk in the alignment of buildings around the third floor flat of Sandra Cavendish allowed a triangle of sunlight to appear on the kitchenette’s west wall. It began as a faint luminescence, vaguely discernable about a foot up from the skirting. An isosceles of light lasting half an hour which brightened as the sun rose, easing from regularity to an elongated scalene as it slid to the floor, always to be extinguished before getting there. For only six days, dependent on clouds, the visitation waxed and waned. Then was gone. It coincided with the rising of Sandra herself, who was up at seven-thirty almost every day. She spotted it the first spring she lived in the flat, and thereafter every year. On these mornings she felt good. The corners of things weren’t as belligerent as normal, the pills not so bitter.

One morning she angled a compact so as to mirror the beam back into the room, across the sofa to the television. The following day, ready for the experiment, she bounced the light from kitchenette to a hand glass on the television that cast it onwards to a framed photocopy of Klimt’s kiss. By the end of the six days allotted her, she had included four reflective surfaces and a diminutive mirror ball.

Inevitably the solar event ended. Normality reasserted itself. But she left the mirrors in place, for already the countdown of months had begun until the sun, tired, weakened, returned southwards and the ping-pong lightshow reappeared.

Delirious Scale

Wherein the artist uses examples of dimensions beyond all possibilities to express the boundless nature of the imagination.



“And all this Vegetable World appeared on my left Foot,
As a bright sandal form’d immortal of precious stones & gold:
I stooped down & bound it on to walk forward thro’ Eternity.”

William Blake – Milton

Here Blake, inspired by the return of Milton to earth as a fiery comet, sees the sensorial world as a mere sandal, which, once strapped on, allows him to stride forth in poetic creativity.
It was in the preface to this book that Blake wrote what would become his most famous lyric, “Jerusalem”
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“Well I’ll stand up next to a mountain
And chop it down with the edge of my hand.”

Jimi Hendrix – Voodoo Child (Slight Return)

The power of Hendrix’s wah-wahed chops more than match the boldness of his lyrics. What I love about this verse is that after he has picked up all the pieces of the mountain and made them into an island, he suggests he may even “raise a little sand.” How generous, he’s going to make us child-like mortals a beach to play on.

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“You race naked through the wilderness,
You torment the birds and the bees.
You leapt into the abyss, but find
It only goes up to your knees.”

Nick Cave – Babe, You Turn Me On

In this mischievous song, which sees the Gothfather liken himself to a “little deer,” the upsetting of scale is used to portray the immensity of the singer’s lover, the power she wields over him.

A sign!

I made some toast yesterday, and look!

The face of Charles Darwin appeared.

This must prove something.

A Slight Delay

Nathaniel Webber, fat and forty, eased his ship against the tide of gravitons, geared down to third, and took up a wide orbit over earth. Coming out of light speed always give him the jitters. Going in and coming out. That thwock of light and the suddenness of location. It was Sunday evening and earth was busy; the weekend flyers were coming home to roost. He slipped himself into a lower stream and a light on his left flashed in time with a ping-ping chime in his right ear. Earth was calling him. His computer answered and was identified by the traffic centre’s computer. They chatted in quantum time, we’re going here – yes, you’re scheduled to go there. His monitor informed him he was free to come down in ... thirty-five minutes. Not too bad. He tapped on auto-cruise and sat back from the panel.
Thirty-five minutes. Which really meant about fifty, judging from the traffic. With his mouse he zoomed in on the craft in front of him. Tourists. Outer arm moneyed types, probably making the long journey to earth to find their roots. They’d go home with caps bearing the earth logo and stories of a special feeling, like we were there, where it all began.
He laughed and switched on the telly.

One For Sorrow

The magpie didn’t move. Its attention was fixed on the ground, something there that the man, only a few metres away, could not see. This man, who had been still for so long the bird had not bothered with him, sat on a low wall waiting for something to happen.
All of this was being watched by another man through the scope his sniper rifle. He was just under half a kilometre away, tucked into the edge of a forest. The crosshairs panned from bird back to man, resting on his left temple. The sniper took a long, deep breath and prepared himself to ever so gently embrace the trigger.
Just then the magpie lifted, a flickering silhouette shot through with a brief blue sheen. Impulsively the sniper followed it, confused by its proliferation of wings, and he realised it was not one magpie, but two. They flew apart and off into the air. The sniper immediately dropped his line of sight back to the man, but he was gone.

France, Sep 8th, 1940

He knew this was no ordinary cave. He knew it. The others scrambled into the chamber and stood close, well within the weak light of the lantern. Marcel studied the ground and took a step. Another. The ceiling was low. There was a wall to his left. He lifted the lantern and a great white bull appeared, arching over him. He stepped back
“Mais, c’est quoi ca?”
He raised his arm again and they all looked up. A stampede of creatures ran out along the wall.
“C’est des animaux,” whispered Simon.
This was no ordinary cave.
Open-mouthed, the four boys walked from room to room, calling out the names of the animals they saw. Stag. Bison. Bear. Horse. Bird. Like young gods naming their world. The first visitors to a gallery, reopened after more than fifteen thousand years of darkness.



Polaroid art: Don Ng (click on image for larger image)

No art

We stand.
We wait.
Our costumes are heavy but we do not move. The ceremony will begin when everything is as it should be. There is no art here. There is no politic.
So many of us that we make the silence resonate. Who will be the first to speak?
We look at each other. Or we look away.
Only our faces show. The costumes are heavy, though made of feathers, and we do not move.
The ceremony will begin when everything is as it should be.


Polaroid art: Don Ng (click on image for larger image)