Do not ...

Here's a choice. But very much N O T my own!
Having said that, it makes for a harder 'live'.


I'm reading 'Room With a View' and Lucy sings:

"Look not thou on beauty’s charming,
Sit thou still when kings are arming,
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,
Speak not when the people listens,
Stop thine ear against the singer,
From the red gold keep thy finger;
Vacant heart and hand and eye,
Easy live and quiet die."

- Sir Walter Scott
from The Bride of Lammermoor.

It reminds me of Dylan Thomas : Do not Go Gentle ...

The Cottleston Art Gallery - a bit about how it came about.

This house of mine no doubt had a name at some stage.  Most older houses did - this one must be about 120 years old - but if it did, the records are lost in the local council fire in the 20's or 30's.
When we first came here almost exactly 23 years ago I had every intention of calling it "The Last Visible Dog" as it was an idea that had always been very dear to me. But someone said that either sounded like some kind of dog-food factory, or worse (in that person's mind) some weird hippy commune. So as I didn't have any other idea, I didn't give it a name.
After my P.G.Dip in 2011 I was starting to produce art seriously and wanted to work towards an exhibition.  One thing led to another and I began to think that since the last child had left home, rather than lease a vacant shop in town, or try and get into an art gallery (very tricky without some exhibition history - Catch 22) the best option was to have an exhibition or two at home here. So, to cut a long story short, I combined a big renovation (new ceiling in the kitchen and dining, two new sets of skylights, new paint in the lounge, dining and kitchen,) with banks of rheostatted spotlights throughout the whole house, gave the old dear a name (something that hadn't been used before, and was 'whimsical and cottage-y and English-sounding'), and the Cottleston Art Gallery was born.

In August 2014 I had my first solo, and since then have shown my and others' works on a fairly regular basis. The current exhibition, 'The Bee Appreciation AGM, my second solo, is the tenth show.

Opening night of my solo 'Kuaka the Godwit' August 2014

'Our Bees' joint show Kate Steeds and Yaniv Janson December 2015

'Our Bees' Kate Steeds and Yaniv Janson 2015

 

Gallery visitors to Viv Davy's solo 'Daily Voices' November 2016

Deborah Forkert talks to gallery visitors during her January 2017 solo 'Remains of the Day'

Artist in Residence Sheena Mayer's show 'Decision', monotypes. December 2016

 

Sheena Mayer's encapsulations, 'Decision', December 2016

Visitors to my solo 'The Bee Appreciation Society AGM' currently showing.

Cottleston in the spring when the wisteria is out.

If you want to know more about these shows, here are some links.

Cottleston Gallery website

The Bee Appreciation Society - 'Appreciating the Bees' SunLive

Remains of the Day - 'Teabags Turned into Art' SunLive

Daily Voices by Viv Davy - 'Intimate Messages in Thread' Weekend Sun 

Why 'Cottleston'?  As I said above, as a word, it seemed to suit the house, which is like an unfussy large cottage, and has modifications that are typical of the Arts and Crafts movement, including tapered door jams with wide lintels, an inglenook, high stud, black beams and cross-beams, and five matching lead-light doors. A google search showed no other competitors for the name either. I liked the idea of being, if not unique, at least the first location to use the name. I see there is now a child-care centre.

My son James found a pleasing, unusual, yet clear font for the name and also came up with an idea to use part of the house's lead-light door design as the logo for the gallery.  I'll write another post about this because I think it was really subtle but clever.

Many may also be familiar with A A Milne's Pooh Bear's poem 'Cottleston Pie' which seemed just the right degree of humour and humbleness, that I revere as a life philosophy. 

Here is a  link to a new website of the same name and one explanation for the words.  Perhaps the poem means 'It is what it is'.  Or perhaps it's a way, as Henson thinks, of avoiding tricky questions. Maybe you have a different idea. Answers on the back of a postcard.

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,

A fly can’t bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
“Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.”

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fish can’t whistle and neither can I.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
“Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.”

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
Why does a chicken, I don’t know why.
Ask me a riddle and I reply:
“Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.”

Here's Henson's Rowlf's cute version. The original didn't have a melody of course.

 

 

Birdy Thoughts

I was reading a book (this one) yesterday, and the author quoted the first two lines from a poem by Emily Dickinson:

"Hope is the thing with feathers/ that perches in the soul"...

It seemed lovely to me so I jotted it down.  Later I found myself wondering how the rest of the poem went, and, feeling inspired by all the painting I've been doing,  found myself jotting my own version, rather than look it up on Google.


Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.

Fear is the thing with scales
That coils in a hole.

Courage is that with fur and teeth
That sits atop a hill.

And Love combines them all
Ground to power in its mill.



An image to go with it, is this one from Leunig:

Being Happy 2

Have you a set of those fridge magnets that consist of itty-bitty words that you can put together?
We do.
It seems to take very little effort to make poetry-of-a-kind.*  Sort of like colour-by-number paintings, only not quite.  Because unlike colour-by-number paintings, the finished product takes shape much more spontaneously, which is odd, considering there are only about 200 words one can use.

Anyhoo, somehow, quite pleasing verse can be composed by the most unlikely guests, seemingly painlessly, possibly because there are a limited number of words, and therefore necessity is the mother of invention.

The only problem is, because of the lack of joining words, the results are treacly-thick with adjectives and whey-thin on verbs.

But, and this is the most important thing, it makes me happy!

Fridge poem.  By Me.

Improved version:

Colour is My Inspiration

Be it
Floating cherry haze in spring, or
Golden dusk: autumn orchard shimmers as
A dark ruby sunburst spear ignites a plum.

See the
Orange ginger exotic idol shine against a
Dusty indigo empire army uniform,
or that
Ghostly cream feather float down in a sultry jungle night.

Above
An ebony lunar eclipse poised amid ethereal cloud's veil,
or there
Silent turquoise skyline silhouette
And
Bright violet moonlight cloaks a chill northern night.

In the garden a feisty crimson silken dragon lily glows.

In the forest a tender moss froths the plummeting waterfall.

Colour, pray absolve, dissolve me.
Delight my soul.
Carry my intoxicated spirit.

Dusk from the front garden, one evening last week.

* Probably wouldn't win any literarary∞ competitions...
∞ literarary is one of those words that's easy to say, but difficult to stop.  Like cinnaninnamon.


Today's post is inspired by Jay of the Depp Effect.

Simple Morning

Helsie posted a nice poem on her blog recently.  

I'm sure she won't mind if I reproduce it here.  I was rather taken with it.  My life seems very complicated these days.  I need the reminder, so it's now on the fridge.

I Have Found Such Joy in Simple Things.

I have found such joy in simple things;

A plain clean room, a nut brown loaf of bread

A cup of milk, a kettle as it sings,

The shelter of a roof above my head,

And in a leaf-laced square along the floor,

Where yellow sunlight glimmers through a door.

I have found such joy in things that fill

My quiet days : a curtain's blowing grace,

A potted plant upon the window sill,

A rose, fresh cut and placed within a vase;

A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair,

And books I long have loved beside me there.

Oh, I have found such joy I wish I might

Tell everyone who goes seeking far

For some elusive, feverish delight

That very close to home the great joys are :

The elemental things -- old as the race,

Yet never, through the ages, commonplace.

- Grace Nell Crowell

It occurs to me that I would add dawns and dusks to the list, too.  Look at this one:

click me to get closer.

View down the river on an early morning walk.

Farewell Song to Blogland

Cold Day in July.

The moon is full and my heart is feeling empty

All night long this island's pleaded and cried

I always said the day that I'd leave Blogland

Would be a cold day in July.

My bags are packed and not a word is spoken

Yorkie said everything when he said goodbye yesterday.

Time moves so slow and promises get broken

On this hot morning in May

Sun's coming up, coming up fast back on my beach

Seagulls shout as they're flying up to play

Head in my hands, standing on the deck in my bare feet

Watching Blogland jungle drift away.

I said I would stay forever

I said my love would never die

It looks like the tropics and it feels like sunny weather

But it's a cold day in July.

Oh sun's coming up, shining gold on the sands of my beach

Seagulls cry as they're flying out to sea

Head in my hands, here I am standing in my bare feet

Watching you drift away

Watching you walk away.

Now the moon is full and my arms are full of suitcases

All night long I've flown in this bird and cried.

I always said that the day that I would leave you

Would be a cold day in July

Oh yeah it feels like a freezing cold day in July.

Apologies to the Dixie Chicks.

Poem

Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary enjoy a cup of tea when they are unexpectedly visited by the third to reach the summit.

The Little-Known Fact of the Third to reach the Summit of Everest.

Everyone knows the storilly

Of brave Sherpa Tenzing

And laconic Edmund Hillary

And their remarkable ascending.

Many people remember

That Hillary took of Norgay

A photograph of splendour

To mark their little foray.

Hillary left a cross there

Up on the windswept top

And maybe he said a prayer

On their fifteen minute stop.

And it's true, tho' you may not know

That Norgay left something too

Buried slightly in the snow

Before he too, withdrew.

One glossy chocolate

As an offering to ... what?

Perhaps t'was past its use-by-date

Or, then again, perhaps not.

Carefully they went back down

The way they'd clambered up.

And before too long these two renown

Had hot soup in a cup.

But less commonly known

Is the third to top the bastard.

For the third ascent was lone,

So verily, better mastered.

For Sherpas often privately speak

Of a creature very hefty

Who'd climb the highest mountain peak

For a single chocolate: Yeti.

Poetic Thoughts of Autumn

Here about the park I wander'd, walking a dog sublime

With the dog lead of polycarbonate, with one eye on the Time;

When the summer behind me like a fruitful land reposed;

When I thought about the present, of the winter that would froze;

In the Autumn a fuller orange comes upon Redwood and Birch;

In the Autumn the silent Heron gets himself another perch;

In the Autumn a livelier yellow changes on the spurwing'd plover;

In the Autumn a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of rugger.

With apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Locksley Hall.

Hazy Moon

Here is a monochromatic scene spotted through my kitchen window a couple of nights ago. A full moon softened by high cloud, peeks shyly from behind the macrocarpa.

Here's a lovely set of Tao words from Delwyn's blog, "A Hazy Moon" which was in my mind as I looked at this moonscape. She accompanies them with some of her own stunning imges here.

Show by example

Lead by behaviour

Inspire by content

Teach without words

Be useful without action,

based in the beauty,

serenity,

and

now.

Happiness

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

- William Blake.

Poem

The Curator

By Miller Williams


We thought it would come, we thought the Germans would come,
were almost certain they would. I was thirty-two,
the youngest assistant curator in the country.
I had some good ideas in those days.


Well, what we did was this. We had boxes
precisely built to every size of canvas.
We put the boxes in the basement and waited.


When word came that the Germans were coming in,
we got each painting put in the proper box
and out of Leningrad in less than a week.
They were stored somewhere in southern Russia.


But what we did, you see, besides the boxes
waiting in the basement, which was fine,
a grand idea, you’ll agree, and it saved the art—
but what we did was leave the frames hanging,
so after the war it would be a simple thing
to put the paintings back where they belonged.


Nothing will seem surprised or sad again
compared to those imperious, vacant frames.


Well, the staff stayed on to clean the rubble
after the daily bombardments. We didn’t dream—
You know it lasted nine hundred days.
Much of the roof was lost and snow would lie
sometimes a foot deep on this very floor,
but the walls stood firm and hardly a frame fell.


Here is the story, now, that I want to tell you.
Early one day, a dark December morning,
we came on three young soldiers waiting outside,
pacing and swinging their arms against the cold.
They told us this: in three homes far from here
all dreamed of one day coming to Leningrad
to see the Hermitage, as they supposed
every Soviet citizen dreamed of doing.
Now they had been sent to defend the city,
a turn of fortune the three could hardly believe.


I had to tell them there was nothing to see
but hundreds and hundreds of frames where the paintings had hung.


“Please, sir,” one of them said, “let us see them.”


And so we did. It didn’t seem any stranger
than all of us being here in the first place,
inside such a building, strolling in snow.


We led them around most of the major rooms,
what they could take the time for, wall by wall.
Now and then we stopped and tried to tell them
part of what they would see if they saw the paintings.
I told them how those colors would come together,
described a brushstroke here, a dollop there,
mentioned a model and why she seemed to pout
and why this painter got the roses wrong.


The next day a dozen waited for us,
then thirty or more, gathered in twos and threes.
Each of us took a group in a different direction:
Castagno, Caravaggio, Brueghel, Cézanne, Matisse,
Orozco, Manet, da Vinci, Goya, Vermeer,
Picasso, Uccello, your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.
We pointed to more details about the paintings,
I venture to say, than if we had had them there,
some unexpected use of line or light,
balance or movement, facing the cluster of faces
the same way we’d done it every morning
before the war, but then we didn’t pay
so much attention to what we talked about.
People could see for themselves. As a matter of fact
we’d sometimes said our lines as if they were learned
out of a book, with hardly a look at the paintings.


But now the guide and the listeners paid attention
to everything—the simple differences
between the first and post-impressionists,
romantic and heroic, shade and shadow.


Maybe this was a way to forget the war
a little while. Maybe more than that.
Whatever it was, the people continued to come.
It came to be called The Unseen Collection.


Here. Here is the story I want to tell you.


Slowly, blind people began to come.
A few at first then more of them every morning,
some led and some alone, some swaying a little.
They leaned and listened hard, they screwed their faces,
they seemed to shift their eyes, those that had them,
to see better what was being said.
And a cock of the head. My God, they paid attention.


After the siege was lifted and the Germans left
and the roof was fixed and the paintings were in their places,
the blind never came again. Not like before.
This seems strange, but what I think it was,
they couldn’t see the paintings anymore.
They could still have listened, but the lectures became
a little matter-of-fact. What can I say?
Confluences come when they will and they go away.



CREDITS: Miller Williams, “The Curator” from Adjusting to the Light. Copyright © 1992 by the Curators of the University of Missouri.

Thanks to J R Seward's blog.

Poem

I Flew Away to England.

(A poem composed under the influence of jet-lag at 5 am on the first morning)

I flew away to England

And heard the pigeons coo,

Soft dawn in the morning,

Soft church-flint blue.

We picked the sweet tomatoes,

Drank sweet tea,

And sweet Oliver

Smiled at me.

I flew away to England,

Chestnut, hawthorn, oak.

Tiny windows, graveyards,

Thatch; and light like smoke.

little note: Oliver is my friends' 11 year-old autistic son.

Poem

To amuse emus on warm summer nights
Kiwis do wiwis from spectacular heights.

- Roger McGough

(Thanks to Kelvin for introducing me to R McG.)

Poem

"THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS"

by Wendell Berry and adapted for New Zealand by me.

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down in my kayak where the pukeko

rests in his blue beauty in the wetlands, and the kingfisher feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Fridge Poetry

(click to enlarge)

Not really Great Poetry, but fun none-the-less.  You get a whole lot of magnetised words in the packet and visitors can make up poems while you drink the wine they brought and prepare the meal.  Anyone else have these?