Ekphrasis IX 2020 Virtual Exhibition
SET 3. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
H. Out There (Karen Fenley), I am from the Ocean (Windflower)
I. Splash! (Laura Corben), Cabin Fever (Holly Tannen)
J. Bird of Pray (Mary T. Anderson), Big Red (Karin Uphoff)
SET 3. Visual Artist Initiators and Writer Responders, cont.
H. Out There (Karen Fenley), I am from the Ocean (Windflower)
I. Splash! (Laura Corben), Cabin Fever (Holly Tannen)
J. Bird of Pray (Mary T. Anderson), Big Red (Karin Uphoff)
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Out There by Karen Fenley. Iridescent acrylic on black plexiglass. 18 x 18in No longer available for sale.
Artist's Note: Karen's alternative title for her painting is Out There (Where I’ll be when I’m Gone). Poet's note: The pulsating painting carried me into another dimension. While on this journey I heard the words “liminal space” on the radio. They resonated for me. I had the seed of an idea for my poem. I began to think about the myriad of liminal spaces-those thresholds on which we hover. Birth and death and all the geography in between. And for me there is always water. From my mother’s womb to the Mendocino Coast. windflower |
I Am from the Ocean
Writer's response by windflower. I am from the ocean of my mother’s womb before I knew the taste of ocean brine the feel of barnacles against my palm I am from the ocean of my mother’s womb before I knew the call of sea shells the sensation of sand between my toes I am from the ocean of my mother’s womb before I knew the color of sun seeping through water the moist chiffon of fog grazing my face I am from the ocean of my mother’s womb before I knew the scent of wind poppies purple sand verbena reaching for my ankles I am from the ocean of my mother’s womb that liminal space |
Splash! by Laura Corben. Oil painting, 12x12. $350.
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Cabin Fever lyrics by Holly Tannen. Let’s go hunting, said Risky Rob Let’s go hunting, said Robin to Bob What shall we hunt for? said Daniel to Joe Hunt for a rat! said Billy Barlow. I’m going crazy, said Risky Rob I’m gonna scream, said Boisterous Bob Cabin fever, their grandmother said Gimme that phone, said Frivolous Fred. Let’s go bowling, said Risky Rob Let’s shoot baskets, said Boisterous Bob Do your homework, their grandmother said I’m playing Minecraft, said Frivolous Fred. It’s ninety degrees out, said Risky Rob I’m gonna melt, said Boisterous Bob Get in the car, their grandmother said Go to the coast! cried Frivolous Fred. |
Are we there yet? said Risky Rob
I gotta pee, said Boisterous Bob Look - the ocean! their grandmother said I killed a zombie, said Frivolous Fred. Mendocino! said Risky Rob Big River beach! said Boisterous Bob Stay in the shallows, their grandmother said I’ll bring my phone, said Frivolous Fred. Is that an orca? said Risky Rob Is that a whale? said Boisterous Bob Don’t get eaten, their grandmother said I dropped my phone! cried Frivolous Fred. Comment by the painter:
A cool picture for a hot summer day. Notes by the songwriter: The words to Holly's song are to the tune Billy Barlow, a Texas folk song based on an English ritual song, Hunting The Wren. |
Bird of Pray Series - Buzzard by printer Mary T. Anderson. Engraving. 6 x 9 unframed. $75.
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Big Red by responder Karin Uphoff It lay below the power line frayed feathers torn and rumpled had flown great wings one last time before its soaring crumpled. Bent above its gasping breast it’s one eye looking vacant, took off my shirt to make a nest and asked it to be patient. Wrapped in cotton, struggle ceased carried it home with purpose, snuck in garage, dark tomb of peace and waited for life to resurface. Washed off grime and bits of blood examined its raptor tail feathers its feeble fight, caused my tears to flood could I heal this avian treasure? I gave it water and closed the door went in the house for dinner, had dreams of flight in which I soared, a bright future began to glimmer. Cool dawn next morn I hurried to find box bed with my ward was abandoned, high in rafters glared hawk unconfined over kingdom it fully commanded. Haggard feathers, now dry and fluffed big buteo spent some time preening it seemed double in size – had I been ruffed? with panicky thoughts I was teaming . . . How to release this magical fowl sharp talons and hook-tipped beak? Slipped on work gloves wrapped in towels and climbed ladder to softly speak. ...cont. |
of its feathered beauty and dignity how I meant to take it outside for its red-tail taste of sky’s liberty and with a high kreech it replied. While it flapped, I ducked, to clasp its feet it politely refrained from pecking, wings were strong though one eye did weep health details, I’d no way of checking. Shrouded in terry I carried it out set it gently atop of old fencepost, adjusting to sun as it scanned about wings lifted to sail from its host. Steady it climbed on each vault of air circling earth ever higher, then returned to follow me everywhere giving flight to my deeper desires. I longed to aid this two-legged tribe so joined a bird rehab center, beginning anew, I swallowed my pride to shadow the young knowing mentors. Now, I care for raptors each day, who are injured by human obtrusion and sometimes Big Red dips down to play our spirits forever a fusion. Karin's addendum: Up to 64 million birds, mostly raptors, are killed each year by U.S. power lines, with between 8 and 57 million birds killed by collision and between 0.9 and 11.6 million birds killed by electrocution. |
