This image is featured in the current edition of 'Outdoor Photography'
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Monday, 28 October 2013
Legacy
Legacy
What
is it about a face
Never
seen or met
But
whose image
Stays
in the mind?
The
painter saw him
And
now I see him
Centuries
later,
but
I'm caught.
The
painter can't have lied
About
his look: it's not grand
Or
status laden,
He
gazes from the picture
With
a humble humanity.
He
is pained:
Either
he or
The
world is in trouble
And
his sorrow for it
Can be read
In
crumpled brows
And
patient eyes.
I’d
like to talk with this man.
When
we die, we leave
Little
behind beyond family,
Memories
and goods perhaps:
All
transitory traces.
The
title of the painting
Tags
him as ‘robusto’ –
A
poor testimonial.
It
is not his size which captures attention.
To
be known for an expression
And
of compassion particularly,
is a
truer memorial:
A
legacy given to us
By a
man and his painter
Whose
souls met
And
touched.
The painting is thought to be of Robert de Masmines c 1425
by Robert Campin. It is titled Retrato de un hombre robusto
Thursday, 18 July 2013
The Photograph
The exhibit was a muddle,
A clutter of metal, alone in a room.
Shadow and light gave effect
But eye and brain struggled for more,
What meaning should we take away?
An icon of two feet,
An instruction to stand there
And "use your camera".
Unusual, and breaking
The normal 'showpiece' mode.
What was confusion,
simplified into message:
"It is not chaos".
The camera's lens
Brought clarity.
The eye had failed
To see the truth,
We had seen what was
And not the space between,
Mess, had deliberate form.
How often we think we see,
Know, understand, empathise
Only later to find the facts
Other than what we thought.
Space brings its own shading.
Republic of Azerbaijan Exhibit
Biennale
Venice 2013
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Saturday, 30 March 2013
Saturday, 9 March 2013
On first visiting a Spa - for a 'treatment'
I didn't fit in.
My jeans and fleecy top
was not the garb of design.
The white butterflies around me
were in towelling robes and mules.
The darkened relaxation room
with water trickling,
pipe music piped,
candles and daybeds
oozed cliché calm.
I read 'coded Shakespeare'
with interest but aware,
oh so aware of the
tinkle laughs and twitter
of my neighbours:
a moth amongst cabbage whites.
Even my drink was wrong,
my black coffee shuddered
in its tea cup amongst
spa water and elderflower.
I was called and guided
along sultry darkened corridors,
the breathy music piped on
subtle, soothing, quiet -
I lay on the operating table
being stroked and anointed,
pampered with care.
The cliché lived on but
the harsh Australian tones
of the masseuse didn't fit either.
We laughed a bit,
I was relaxed,
I liked the balms,
My anti ageing unguents
tried their best......
to cancel out
the birthday reality
of tomorrow.
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