Ekphrasis XIV 2025 Online Exhibition
SET 3. Writer Initiators and Artist Responders, cont.
SET 3
H. NATY OSA authored May in the Mendocino Botanical Gardens. The response is by photographer LARRY WAGNER: Bride in Wonderland. Photograph incorporating AI
I. NONA SMITH: Fear of Flying, Response by artist ROBERT YELLAND: Homeward Bound, oil painting.
J. KAREN UPHOFF:: Moment's Pause.. Response by artist LYNNE WHITING ROBERTSON: Outlook, oil painting.
SET 3. Writer Initiators and Artist Responders, cont.
SET 3
H. NATY OSA authored May in the Mendocino Botanical Gardens. The response is by photographer LARRY WAGNER: Bride in Wonderland. Photograph incorporating AI
I. NONA SMITH: Fear of Flying, Response by artist ROBERT YELLAND: Homeward Bound, oil painting.
J. KAREN UPHOFF:: Moment's Pause.. Response by artist LYNNE WHITING ROBERTSON: Outlook, oil painting.
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H. NATY OSA,
May in the Mendocino Botanical Gardens A bride’s veil of white rhododendrons trails along the winding path. Lipstick-red blossoms peek through the gossamer, anchor the illusion. I amble on reluctantly, turn my head to look back every few steps, and almost walk into the thorny embrace of an alien being rooted in place but, surely, not of this Earth. It’s a madcap carnival; the bar at the edge of the universe. Revelers vying with each other flaunt improbable costumes. An imposing presence in gray-green—elegant, statuesque— pierces the air with long turgid fronds. A scruffy, emaciated shape—my erstwhile cuddler— has thrust an old man’s arms through the soil, withered and bristling with spines, pink baby-finger blossoms poke through the desiccated skin. His demure neighbor hides shyly behind the folds of a geometric fan. I partake of the fantasy, then step away, eyes brimming with whimsy. |
H. The submission of a response that is a product of AI is contentious. A discussion about AI in the arts as an issue in need of resolution. However, because of a consideration related to legality, this response has been removed from the exhibition.
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H. Response removed related to AI complexities.
I. Initiating writer NONA SMITH: Fear of Flying,
Mason Gray loved his job as chief troubleshooter for a high tech, multinational company. But when he was promoted and given additional territory, he knew he was in trouble. More territory meant more traveling which meant more time in the air.
Mason was a big guy, well over six feet tall and close to three hundred pounds. He hated squeezing his large frame into narrow airplane seats. And while he preferred sitting by a window so he could keep his eye on the propeller and make sure it was doing its job, he needed a seat on the aisle to stretch his long legs. That made it easier to get to the bathroom, but he didn’t like using the plane’s facilities because he could barely fit through the door. And once inside, he worried about getting stuck there or being sucked into the toilet which would expel him out of the plane when he flushed.
Aside from his physical discomforts, Mason hated take-offs. He was concerned that as the plane gained speed in preparation for flight, it would run out of runway. He knew the grinding noise he heard once the plane was in the air was the sound of its wheels retracting. But what if they didn’t? Plus, the issue of trusting his life to the pilot, a complete stranger, kinda freaked him out. And finally, there was the highly unlikely, odds-were-against-it concern about being sky-jacked.
Because his newly increased responsibilities required more time in the air, Mason told himself it was time to deal with his flying problem. He enrolled in a Fear of Flying class held in the boarding lounge at Terminal 2, Gate 6, of Los Angeles International Airport. By the time Mason arrived, eight people were gathered there and the instructor, a short stocky man with a receding hairline, made introductions. Each enrollee was asked to fess up to what part of flying they feared most. One man said he hated having a window seat because he didn’t like seeing all that space between him and the ground. Another confessed he too was worried about being flushed down the toilet. A young woman toting a very large handbag said landings made her nervous. Others spoke about turbulence, concern about not being able to find their floatation device in case of a water landing, and airsickness. Mason spoke about take-offs. No one mentioned sky-jackers.
When everyone had their say, the instructor nodded and scanned the room, making eye contact with each person. “I’ve been teaching this class a long time,” he said, “and I can tell you this: none of you here today are really afraid of flying.” Eight incredulous faces starred at him. “That’s right,” he said. “What you’re afraid of is not flying. You’re afraid the plane will go down and you’ll die.”
Silence filled the lounge, and then a slight chortling, and finally, sighs and nods of agreement. He’d spoken the unspeakable. “Now that we’ve cleared that up,” he said, a smile playing on his lips, “let’s get to work on dispelling your other concerns.”
Mason was a big guy, well over six feet tall and close to three hundred pounds. He hated squeezing his large frame into narrow airplane seats. And while he preferred sitting by a window so he could keep his eye on the propeller and make sure it was doing its job, he needed a seat on the aisle to stretch his long legs. That made it easier to get to the bathroom, but he didn’t like using the plane’s facilities because he could barely fit through the door. And once inside, he worried about getting stuck there or being sucked into the toilet which would expel him out of the plane when he flushed.
Aside from his physical discomforts, Mason hated take-offs. He was concerned that as the plane gained speed in preparation for flight, it would run out of runway. He knew the grinding noise he heard once the plane was in the air was the sound of its wheels retracting. But what if they didn’t? Plus, the issue of trusting his life to the pilot, a complete stranger, kinda freaked him out. And finally, there was the highly unlikely, odds-were-against-it concern about being sky-jacked.
Because his newly increased responsibilities required more time in the air, Mason told himself it was time to deal with his flying problem. He enrolled in a Fear of Flying class held in the boarding lounge at Terminal 2, Gate 6, of Los Angeles International Airport. By the time Mason arrived, eight people were gathered there and the instructor, a short stocky man with a receding hairline, made introductions. Each enrollee was asked to fess up to what part of flying they feared most. One man said he hated having a window seat because he didn’t like seeing all that space between him and the ground. Another confessed he too was worried about being flushed down the toilet. A young woman toting a very large handbag said landings made her nervous. Others spoke about turbulence, concern about not being able to find their floatation device in case of a water landing, and airsickness. Mason spoke about take-offs. No one mentioned sky-jackers.
When everyone had their say, the instructor nodded and scanned the room, making eye contact with each person. “I’ve been teaching this class a long time,” he said, “and I can tell you this: none of you here today are really afraid of flying.” Eight incredulous faces starred at him. “That’s right,” he said. “What you’re afraid of is not flying. You’re afraid the plane will go down and you’ll die.”
Silence filled the lounge, and then a slight chortling, and finally, sighs and nods of agreement. He’d spoken the unspeakable. “Now that we’ve cleared that up,” he said, a smile playing on his lips, “let’s get to work on dispelling your other concerns.”
I. Response by artist ROBERT YELLAND: Homeward Bound, oil painting.
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J. Iniating writer KAREN UPHOFF:: Moment's Pause.. |
J. Response by artist LYNNE WHITING ROBERTSON: Outlook, watercolor painting. |
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Wind stirs grasses into a sea of tender waves
jackrabbit hunkers low, its whiskers catching words ears like velvet periscopes, legs taut springs. A cloud uncups the sun to highlight bobbing baubles of twirling mustard stalks a quail’s bold black top knot the shimmering of poppy’s satin petals, and laggard crawl of lichen across granite face. A choir of pines sings from ridgetop to cosmos their steady refrain saturates the drying valley, jackrabbit stretches forward to nibble star thistle as hands carefully stack stones marking a trail to nowhere in particular. |
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