Yesterday I spent some time talking with my fellow artists. This conversation, primarily about sculpture and intentional distortion, guided my walk today. These are some of the images I came across. (Where possible, I titled them by the artist's name. Brief comments, and the occasional link, are included in the captions. If I mention a link, just click on the accompanying image to open the website in a new window.)
Today's Challenge
An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.
We have talked about this before when we discussed "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by William Carlos Williams. (Click on the title of the poem to read it.)
And, as an artist, I can't help but want to tie that practice to my love of art. Perhaps one of these sculptural pieces appeals to you? If not, another piece of art? If you need help getting started, just do a little research on ekphrasis and find some examples to inspire you.
When I was cleaning off my computer drive and organizing it yesterday, I found this ekphrasis poem about Van Gogh's paintings that I had written several years ago.
PRAYER FOR A STILL LIFE
by Cheryl Hicks
How frightened you must have been,
over eight hundred paintings,
composing yourself again and again,
again fractured and out of control.
Green strokes so unexpected on a face
as the movement of your brush testifies
to the density of your pain, never stopping.
It must have poured out of you like tears,
running down your face,
down your chest down your arms, filling your hands
loading your brush, scarring your canvas
like stigmata uncontrolled. Yet it was delicate,
a moaning proxy searching for the road out
or a way in. Every painting dies
to leave the canvas behind.
Color theory be damned,
leave the canvas behind.
I have to believe each brush stroke
numbed the pain at least a fraction of a second.
I have to imagine you had disjointed flashes of peace
away from the razor of your life. But I fear
you could never coax those moments
into conjunction, that you were left
with only fractions and fractions and fractions--
until the slices became so small
they could no longer be measured.
I check the composition.
See those swirls of chartreuse?
Vibrations of complexion. And I can tell
in this light that truth lies not in theory,
but just behind the eyes. The viewer perceives
blue skies threaten to take over, yet your eyes
are somehow the focal point.
I am stunned when a solitary pipe
on a solitary chair draws forth the hopeless image
of a bandaged ear. Such divisionism,
such angst… such blossoming orchards!
But why the crows? Did you paint them
thinking they might know something of the eternal,
something of the radiance you were just beginning
to glimpse? Did you pray in the wheatfields?
Were you answered with those dancing lights?
Such a loss your calmness would have wrought.
And so I pray every starry night
not to live in brilliance,
but to hover, just out of reach,
dreaming of colors, colors mixed beyond reason,
as I remember your faces in the palette of spring.
"Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)"
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land
Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could've told you Vincent
This world was never meant for
One as beautiful as you
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frame-less heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow
Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will
Another tribute to Vincent is this highly pixelated portrait. Each square measures one inch and was cut from past issues of New American Artists.
"If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."