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Friday, 3 May 2019

And just because i want to share some poetry by Mary Oliver here is another Owl Coming down out of the freezing sky with its depths of light, like an angel, or a Buddha with wings, it was beautiful, and accurate, striking the snow and whatever was there with a force that left the imprint of the tips of its wings—five feet apart— and the grabbing thrust of its feet, and the indentation of what had been running through the white valleys of the snow— and then it rose, gracefully, and flew back to the frozen marshes to lurk there, like a little lighthouse, in the blue shadows— so I thought: maybe death isn’t darkness, after all, but so much light wrapping itself around us— as soft as feathers— that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement, and let ourselves be carried, as through the translucence of mica, to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow, that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light— in which we are washed and washed out of our bones.. . . . . . . . #wip #illustration #wildlifepainting #adoseofnature #barnowl #wildbird #contemporaryprintmaking #humananimalrelationship #contemporaryart #sketchbook #inthestudio #collageart #creativityandplay #camoflage #anthrozoology #abstractlandscape #acryiicpainting. #landscapepainting #cornishfields #cornwallpainting #mixedmediapainting #contemporarylandscapepainting #cornwallart #cornishfarm #farmlandbird #winsorandnewtonacrylics #screenprinting


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Another Barn Owl ... appearing and disappearing in the same moment barely seen ... And a poem by RS Thomas BARN OWL Mostly it is a pale face hovering in the afterdraught of the spirit, making both ends meet on a scream. It is the breath of the churchyard, the forming of white frost in a believer, when he would pray; it is soft feathers camouflaging a machine. It repeats itself year after year in its offspring, the staring pupils it teaches its music to, that is the voice of God in the darkness cursing himself fiercely for his lack of love. ii. and there the owl happens like white frost as cruel and as silent and the time on its blank face is not now so the dead have nothing to go by and are fast or slow but never punctual as the alarm is over their bleached bones of its night-strangled cry. by R. S. Thomas from The Way of It (1977)


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Saturday, 20 April 2019

Back to print making last day @tremenheeresculpturegardens for the @nsanewlyn ExLibris exhibition tomorrow for this linocut with monoprint Responding in part to ... The Risen He stands, filling the doorway In the shell of earth. He lifts wings, he leaves the remains of something, A mess of offal, muddled as an afterbirth. His each wingbeat – a convicts release, What carries will be plenty. He slips behind the world’s brow As music escapes its skull, its clock and its skyline. Under his sudden shadow, flames cry out among thickets When he soars, his shape Is cross, eaten by light,  On the Creator’s face He shifts world weirdly as sunspots Emerge as earthquakes. A burning unconsumed,  A whirling tree – Where he alights  A skin sloughs from a leafless apocalypse. On his lens Each atom engraves with a diamond In the wind–fondled crucible of his splendour The dirt becomes God. But when will he land On a man’s wrist.  Ted Hughes


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As I sit invigilating for the @nsanewlyn ExLibris show @tremenheeresculpturegardens I feel very humbled and grateful for the time people spend looking at my work ...(and the work of other artists in the show) the visitors don't know if I am one of the artists or a gallery assistant and I am only able to see the engagement with my particular pieces on a cctv screen so their time spent is purely about the viewers interest in the work ❤ it is really hard I find to get genuine feedback about your artwork so this is a valuable experience.


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