Halfway house and anniversaries

This past few days has included imbolc, the halfway point between winter solstice and spring equinox.  Ahead of his solo show later in February the self-portrait below by Nathan Ford sees his piercing facial expression topped with his winter studio hat. Nearly time to put the chapeau away for another year….

 

Self 12.22, Oil on Board, 40 x 28 cm. £2,750

 

This week has also marked the 101st anniversary of James Joyce’s ground-breaking Ulysses.
I wonder what Joyce would make of the twenty-first century poem below:

‘To a Child Crying Over a Breakup Text’ by Joseph Fasano

Trust me, this is living, this
is living.

I promise
there is one word
that you carry,

a sentence that was given in the beginning.

Go in
through the wild doors of your own life—
the heavy thorns, the briars,
child,
the nights.

Lie down
on the far side of the forest.

Trust me, trust
me, trust me,

after all the agonies,
to someone,

you’ll say the one clear thing with all your life.

As we are on the edge of another cold front, Janette Kerr’s Greenland scenes portray that northern light wonderfully.  Janette will feature in our mixed landscape show this coming April.

 

Between Weathers, Oil on Board, 45 x 60 cm. £2,700

 

An appropriate accompanying geological poetry is by The Rapids by Mary Barnard

No country is so gracious to us
as that which kept its contours while we forgot them,
and whose valleys, closed under receding hills,
open to our return.

The water we saw broken upon the rapids
has dragged silt through marshland
and mingled with the embittered streams of the sea.
One might have kept sweet pailsful and kept nothing.

But the ungatherable blossoms floating by the same rock,
the chisel marks on a surface in full flight
have flung light in my face, have made promises
in unceasing undertone.

I think it is a good time to look East toward warmer climes.  To Gujarat…..

 

Girnar I, Mixed Media on Paper, 45 x 75 cm (framed). £2,200

 

And finally….Checkout by Caroline Bird
I think, ‘so, this is death’ and wonder why

I can still see through my eyes. An angel

approaches with a feedback form asking

how I’d rate my life (very good, good,

average, bad, very bad) and I intend to tick

‘average’ followed by a rant then I recall

your face like a cartoon treasure chest

glowing with gold light, tick ‘very good,’

and in the comment box below I write

‘nice job.’ The angel asks if I enjoyed

my stay and I say ‘Oh yes, I’d definitely

come again’ and he gives me a soft look

meaning ‘that won’t be possible but thanks

all the same,’ clicks his pen and vanishes.

 

Thank you for reading,

Aidan Quinn.