This series of experimental Polaroids were created for the cassette artwork for Bonzaii’s ‘Death in the Cities’ EP (Decaying Spheres release) which was inspired by the conscious planet from Tarkovsky’s Solaris. These were made by first photographing water (an element which seems to play a part in the ‘doorways between worlds’) reflections etc, and then physically pushing/lifting the emulsion and layering these with the resulting transparencies. The aim was to create circular pieces using both monochrome Polaroids and The Impossible Project’s expired circular frame film to evoke the shape of a moving, spherical field of dreamlike consciousness. Krystyna Curtis aka Haunted Light is a uk based multidisciplinary artist, currently working chiefly in experimental photography & film, but also through illustration, sound & installation. Her work concerns the often esoteric, liminal spaces between all things; the hidden worlds usually accessible only through dreams and visions.
Instagram.com/haunted_light_art Instagram.com/decayingspheres Instagram.com/bonzaiidrones
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atom bomb—$$$$$—cancer mengive me your atom bomb your
cancer men your $$$ &&& everything that comes with it a grey flannel suit a typing machine i can’t type anything but regulation &&& routine locust chirps where the sun shines through i move $$$$$ where the sun fades dark to the----- move south in the winter where the sun ----- give me your atom bomb your cancer men boys give me all &&& lead me to death where the sun shines through a grave i sit with a flash the whole house goes up cards flying roulette wheel spins wildly red black $$$$ locust chirps where the sun shines through i sitting on the grave of the thing red black a grey flannel suit $$$$$-----cancer men----- &&&&& atom bomb----- with a flash where the sun shines through eyes open wide bomb----- within the sun ----- move $$$$$ where the winter sun shines through i men boys give me all &&&& atom bomb your men your movement south it $$$$$ locust chirps where the grave i black $$$ &&& everything comes wildly red black $$$ &&& eyes open wide shines through everything machines through i men your cancer men----- move $$$$$ locust chirps where the sun shines through a grey flash where the sun shines through i sitting on everything machines through a flannel suit with a flash the grave of the whole house goes up cancer can’t type anything machines everything roulette where the sun shines through a flannel suit type roulette a flannel suit where the sun shines through with a grey flannel suit with a grave of the sun shines through eyes open wide where the sun fades dark to death where the grave of the sun fades dark to----- “12/26/21”pastel pink easter egg sky
clashes with christmas lights, my three day bender has left me with a headache i walk through the woods to escape this town, i walk through the woods to escape myself cardinals sing their songs while remaining unseen a man fishing from a bridge casts his line out, reels in, casts out, reels in, casts out a brown dog passes by and sniffs my hand the sun sets on all of this i sit on a bench, waiting The Record KeeperA red brick falling out of place on the ground; broken into dust one hand over another a turning of the page the word 'stagnant' paper boats shrivel dead horseflies - wood carvings God, the record book keeper; the inventory clerk; something is missing on this shelf looking through a keyhole sex on the floor; finger nails tightened thighs - loosened hair one hand over another. Midnight in an hour dream journal : two cut fingers a face of pins. static airwaves. the word 'excruciating' looking out the window - a tree branch touching glass. God, the morning stranger; the familiar voice. a storm cloud opens face; paper boats shrivel. dead horseflies - wood carvings one hand over another an oil spill - loose hair murder at dawn. finger nails a crowd of shadows. ~ 2006 Coming Soon: Inventory Clerk: Collected Fragments & Cut-Ups 2006 to Present, Lemures Books
CAN’T IT GO AWAY?angels like cherry pits
in the sack of weeds-- how lines relax in the wake of summer. take this coral, make it bloom again in cooler hydrogen. stream in the basement, pastrami and swiss in the alley on microphone and asphalt. pocked, asleep, within the numbers lies no import, no import at all. Artist's StatementOne's work is a way of keeping a diary – said Picasso. The pictures reflect passing episodes. Lives and experiences expressed on canvas, with paints and brushes. My paintings can either refer to an episode that took place on a trip – a memory – or they can talk about food, or the cat that appeared on the roof. Or be simple ideas and concepts that pass in the moment. I usually use acrylic on the first layer, and oil on the following ones. Complement with oil pastel and oil stick. Sometimes I draw in pencil directly on the canvas, before starting to paint; other times I go directly to brush strokes, applying paint - on canvas or paper - with a brush, without any previous sketch. I rarely paint with spatulas. The painting is built with successive layers. Occasionally a first and only layer is enough. It's rare but it happens. During the paintings I can carry out abundant studies before moving on, before taking any decisive step, and I use the computer for planning. I don't always choose colours. Without looking, I pick up a tube of paint at random from inside the paint box. The colour that comes, is the one that will be used. But the colour that comes defines which point of the picture is painted. If it comes in blue, maybe it's the left corner. If it comes in yellow, maybe paint the top. Here is an intuitive process. All colours are beautiful, and they understand each other, it is the human eye that gives them more value or not. And there are a lot of human eyes. Additionally, I dedicate myself to writing and photography, in travel chronicles that can be seen on my website. Some of my paintings reveal episodes of these trips, trips that are normally made by bicycle, alone, in destinations in Africa, Asia, America, Australia and Europe. I am currently undertaking a Master's Degree in Painting, at Fine Arts Faculty of Lisbon University. List of Works01 - “Darkness” 2020 Acrylic on canvas 73 x 60 cm (29 x 24 inches) 02 - Christmas Cave, Lava Tube – Terceira island, Azores 2021 Oil on paper 29,7 x 40,7 cm (11,7 x 16 inches) plus the frame 03 – Pompons 2020 Acrylic on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 04 - “I Will Not Have Flowers in my Grave. Because I Won't Have a Grave” 2020 Acrylic and oil pastel on canvas 70 x 100 cm (28 x 39 inches) 05 - “The Stream of the Subconscious” 2020 Acrylic and oil pastel on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 06 - The Island 2020 Acrylic on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 07 - The Island (II) 2020 Acrylic and oil on canvas 116 x 81 cm (46 x 32 inches) 08 - The Island (III) 2020 Oil on canvas 81 x 116 cm (32 x 46 inches) 09 - In the Forest of Principe Island 2020 Acrylic, oil and oil pastel on paper 29,7 x 40,7 cm (11,7 x 16 inches) plus the frame “The best of all is that I constantly hear the rustle of large animals around me. Well, a human can't be, he can't walk in this tangle of forest he or she would have to come down the road. I look in the direction of the rustling between the bushes and the trees, but I see nothing. What animals are these? Wild pigs? Goats? Monkeys? They are big! They make as much or more noise than me. These are not 10 cm geckos. They break branches in their passage and are fast. But here in Principe there is nothing to fear, there are no dangerous animals. A thousand little eyes are watching me, for sure. (...) I will reach the end of my journey! If the forest does not close completely, I will get there! Decidedly , no one has been here for years. The forest is becoming increasingly inhospitable. Its weight increases on me. It’s more and more closed, darker, more and more humid. Mosquitoes are voracious. And the wound stings my foot . But I want to continue, I am 100% determined to continue”. Chronicle 19 of Sao Tome and Principe: https://rutenorte.com/sao-tome-e-principe/550-km-de-bicicleta-sozinha-29-dias-019/ Google Translator" button in the upper right corner of website. 10 - Atauro Island II 2021 Acrylic, oil, wax, oil pastel and oil stick on unstretched canvas 91 x 126 cm (36 x 49,6 inches) This painting accompanies a travel chronicle I wrote: Chronicle 61 of East-Timor: “The Coral Triangle covers areas within six countries East Timor, Indonesia, the Philippines, Malaysia, Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea. It is shaped like a triangle because scientists have identified that these are the limits that outline the epicenter of marine biodiversity on Planet Earth. (...) It’s here that there is the greatest diversity of corals in the world (...). The dive lasted 56 minutes, and we went down to 57 feet deep. We did about 1300 feet horizontally . There aren’t words to describe what I saw. I saw a colorful world, full of colorful fish. 80 degrees water”. RUNA
www.instagram.com/rute_norte (Facebook is for travels: www.facebook.com/Rute.Norte.Travels/ IntroductionEach poem in the full twenty-poem sequence
takes its first line from one of the poems in Cicely Mary Barker’s Flower Fairies of the Winter (Frederick Warne, 1985); my titles merely strip out the framing text, leaving the plants’ names (as, for example, “The Song of the Snowdrop Fairy”. Barker had produced books for Spring, Summer, and Autumn, but the Winter book was published posthumously, made up of poems and illustrations from her other works, in order to fill the gap in the seasons. For the most part I simply used the first line as a jumping-off point, with little or no reference to the original poem; occasionally (when the line’s tweeness overwhelmed me) I found myself injecting a certain cynical or debunking tone or content. AngularPigeon measuring my gaze
from the electric wire. Curiosity mirrored, my eyes holding the bird’s gaze. Warmth glows from my pineal gland. Yellow waft flashes mangoes in my mind. The sky has spread its light blue carpet. As I walk on, I wonder if the bird remains on the right side. I turn and it’s gone. About to jog I look at the lamppost, remembering - light curving, the post aglow like a sleepy eye. SINISTER DREAMIn dreams she was left-handed
and her hair often changed color when her body turned over. Pillows didn’t seem to matter. She would use her right hand to sign because—in dreams—you can’t hear. She often dreams you here to write music for her left hand while she chooses lyrics from signs painted on hotel walls. The colors are artfully fading. All that matters is seeing the same word, over and again. Dreams are terse. They don’t cover plot. Melodies—all hers to hear-- one note with one hand. Notes matter to the ear hiding in her left hand. She’ll spell them to you. Their colors change constantly. Her grand design is to draw you with her. You’ll sign a pledge to be her perpetual lover and to tease her hair into loud colors that you see but she can’t hear. You help her rule her left hand and they must put an end to matters large and small. Whatever’s the matter with her dreamt self is a sign that she can’t decode, like left-handed cursive. She starts to read and starts over. You hold her hand. She’s glad you’re here-- deaf, quite unable to read colors like palms. She rolls right. The colors flash and settle on blue. It doesn’t matter towards morning. Her body tense to hear an alarm (your kiss, your song, your sign). Early light and a day that’s not over Until she wakes her sleepy left hand. Then coffee matters. The flashing sign, repeating colors outside. Just over sunrise. You hear trucks. The drivers are left-handed. FIRST WALKFrom out of endless sex, below that shivery curtain of concealed nurse's faces, a screaming
mother -can you help me to walk? I ask. From that moment, a landscape, a lullaby of blood, a tense audience to first steps and I keep stumbling as the rows of spectators clasp hands, breathe out like long legs doomed to trip me - as if my very first human step will crush them - ironic, that they smile genuinely when I emerge from flabby body to move forward another clumsy foot - nothing special, and still they cheer my movement, toes grasping at the polished floor or stepping between swords, knees giving in to gasps, hands grabbing at a sofa leg, just imitate, says my head, just imitate, bewildered by the feedback from my balance, but pressing on - nothing too difficult about this floor, surely, but to a nestling? As I collapse in a chubby pink lump, more cheap applause from the past that made me. |
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