Ekphrasis X 2021 Virtual Exhibition
SET 2. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
D. JOSEPH DUVIVIER, Reflections, oil. Response by author SUSAN FISCHER: The Importance of Flowers.
E. STEPHEN GARNER, Night Nagual, watercolor. Response by poet windflower.
F. RACHEL LAHN, In the Mist, 3D with acrylic. Response by author PRIS COMEN: Through the Ages.
G. KAREN EMBREE REYNOLDS Material Wealth, digital painting, aqua pencil. Response by poet KNOTTY BIMBO: Merely Human.
SET 2. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
D. JOSEPH DUVIVIER, Reflections, oil. Response by author SUSAN FISCHER: The Importance of Flowers.
E. STEPHEN GARNER, Night Nagual, watercolor. Response by poet windflower.
F. RACHEL LAHN, In the Mist, 3D with acrylic. Response by author PRIS COMEN: Through the Ages.
G. KAREN EMBREE REYNOLDS Material Wealth, digital painting, aqua pencil. Response by poet KNOTTY BIMBO: Merely Human.
JOSEPH DUVIVIER, initial art, On Reflection, oil painting, wrapped canvas on circular panel..
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THE IMPORTANCE OF FLOWERS
by Susan A. Fisher in response to On Reflections by Joseph DuViviier Their blue-violet hue haunted her. It was the color of hope rising above despair. The irises’ beautiful form against the distant sky was her heaven. She exulted when they bloomed and mourned when they faded away. Muriel could not think about the day she was captured without shaking. Too much, too much. But after the violence was over, she awoke in a place as dark as a tomb that smelled of dank earth. Morning came and revealed a circle of brightness high above. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light of her confined space. She estimated she was encased in a long vertical tube approximately seven feet in diameter. The walls were slimy, slick and too wide to gain any foothold, though she tried many times. On one side of the space was a red bucket and four rough gray blankets, neatly folded. Atop the stack of covers, she found a tin bowl and spoon. That was it. Night came; a ground-level transparent lid was unlocked and pulled back. A shadowy form lowered a swinging pot tied to a rope; inside was unappealing, congealed stew. A litre bottle of water was lowered on a second rope. The figure’s flat-toned voice asked if she needed the red waste bucket brought up. “No,” she said. She was directed to empty the stew into her bowl and to untie the water bottle, which she did. Before she could ask questions or make any protest, the ropes were drawn up and the voice ceased. Her caretaker left no flashlight, no toilet paper, no explanation – not even threats. |
This went on day after day after day. She found if she made a request quickly at the beginning of the process, she might get something she needed on the next visit. The primary thing that kept her from self-harm was looking up toward the light to see the iris against the blue sky. The flowers were everything to her. She learned their blooming pattern so she could anticipate with some accuracy when they would come back to her. After incalculable times of singing every song she knew and making up some new ones, of reciting poems learned at school, of long conversations with herself and imaginary ones with old friends and enemies, the overhead hatch opened during daylight, something that had never happened before. She heard voices engaged in conversation. Muriel strained with all her might to shout. Her hoarse pleas sounded like gibberish. “Escucho algo ahi abajo,” said a woman. A group of curious field workers peered down and Muriel yelled and banged her metal bowl against the red bucket to verify her existence. Soon more people and loud machinery arrived and she was hauled up into the light. The iris, moved by sweet-scented wind, waved to the rescued prisoner. In the brightness of midday sun, Muriel squinted and looked at her flowers one last time through her slightly spread fingers. |
Night Nagual, watercolor. by initiating artist STEPHEN GARNER
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Found Objects Response by poet windflower One day I stumbled upon a skull along the coastline- perhaps what was once a cow washed ashore. I read about sun bathing cows in Europe and Africa cooling their heels on a hot summer’s day, and those who make the two mile journey across a low tide beach to an uninhabited Scottish island to give birth. Centuries ago air pregnant with the taste of salt shipwrecked sailors noticed those misplaced dots in the distance. |
In the Mist, 3D mixed media, by initiating artist RACHEL LAHN
Through the Ages by responding author PRISCILLA COMEN
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Centuries old Egyptian pyramid, and centuries old Earth lead us through the ages.
The creatures in the corners look like Ammonites, marine invertebrates. Pliny, the ancient philosopher, called them “horns of Ammon,” their spiral shapes reminding him of ram’s horns associated with the Egyptian God Ammon. They fall at their death to the sea floor and are buried in the sediment. They date the rocks in which they are found, centuries old. The bold ichthyosaurus is the most interesting specimen. On the beach at Lyme, England, two women, Mary Anning and Elizabeth Philpot are the first to discover these fabulous creatures. I see two of them in the painting. They show me the age of our planet, the drama of our lives lived to their fullest, from beginning to the end. Life’s journey is reflected in these creatures. They remind us of how the world changes every time there is an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, a war, a pandemic, or nothing. |
My ten year old granddaughter has an unique view of this illustrated world. She was abandoned at birth in the middle of a Chinese winter, outdoors on a snowy day. When asked what this painting means to her she says, “It’s different according to everyone’s perspective.” She sees in the landscape a sunny day at Caspar Beach, Fort Bragg, on the sand with her loving adopted family.
She brushes her straight black hair off her forehead with sandy fingers, as she builds her dream castle with rocks and sticks. And so it is, from the baby sea shells to the ancient pyramid, life improves with love and kindness. As my precious Lily Xueyan’s life at ten and mine at eighty-eight grow through the ages. |
Initiating artist KAREN EMBREE REYNOLDS: Material Wealth, digital painting w/ aqua pencil.
Response by poet NOTTY BUMBO: Merely Human
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Out on the front porch
The haze hovering above the prairie Begs to differ with me, Seeing more of me than I ever can. The background is sky, From my limited wisdom, Though what looks back at me sees tomorrow, And yesterday, without reservations Regarding truth, or fiction, Clearly apprehends what stands behind me, Reads the central understanding of my existence, Leaves me under no illusion as to my position, In time and space and the spirit of absurdity. |
I am oblivious to the rampaging doom I have left in my wake.
What I have created is only temporal. Earth cares nothing about my need for more, Speed and distance and power a poor collection of quarks, Destined to dissipate eventually, An afterthought of gravity. No flamingo will mourn my extinction. No mountain will perish from my greed. This as payment for the buffalo, the atmosphere, The failed music of my passing. I was merely human, after all. |
