Friday, 22 July 2011
Julie Clare Sculpture: Sculpture Diary July 2011
Julie Clare Sculpture: Sculpture Diary July 2011: "Cats eyes on the road to nowhere. The darkness, the absence of information. The senses gorge themselves on bruised shin bones while flayin..."
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Sculpture Diary July 2011
Cats eyes on the road to nowhere.
The darkness, the absence of information. The senses gorge themselves on bruised shin bones while flaying arms reach for the mother of all switches to enlighten us. If only it were that easy.One eared cocked up to the news like a wound waiting for salt.. one eye welling like a cows udder waiting to be milked... one mouth full of sand pouring out castles waiting for the quenching tide... and all we do is wait.. and wait.. and wait.
One of my favourite objects is the egg timer. Its sexy bellowed waist ejaculating time upturned and empting itself into tomorrow. The glass, a safety division between inside and out, smooth, shiny and pocket sized. I carry it around and rub my finger against it, all the infinity of grains I don't have to feel.Where is my own waist?.. am I an egg timer pouring out and draining in? Squeezing the last cell through my neck before I die?
So what's this about? Responsibility? direction? The affluent west? The boy next door? Lets feel our way.. I don't believe in islands any more, nature saw to that. The hypocrisy of government and the machine of social order is just as biological as slime mould...Perhaps its refining the sensitivity to listen, like a cat and revel in the ability of each hair along my neck to feel your breath from fifty miles away. The narrow band between the stratosphere and the subsoil vibrate like frequencies and electromagnetic substations. Oh god no, not another cliché... must we 'tune in'? What are we scared of? Calling it religion ? Quaker Porridge Oats is not a cereal killer of deprivation, just a dam good bowl of carbohydrates...Sorry about the pun!
Let the cat lay in the sun and soak up the vitamins. Let the cat be oblivious. Let the cat twitch and dream and leave it at that.. The cat has nine lives and everyone of those eyes can see in the dark...apparently.
The darkness, the absence of information. The senses gorge themselves on bruised shin bones while flaying arms reach for the mother of all switches to enlighten us. If only it were that easy.One eared cocked up to the news like a wound waiting for salt.. one eye welling like a cows udder waiting to be milked... one mouth full of sand pouring out castles waiting for the quenching tide... and all we do is wait.. and wait.. and wait.
One of my favourite objects is the egg timer. Its sexy bellowed waist ejaculating time upturned and empting itself into tomorrow. The glass, a safety division between inside and out, smooth, shiny and pocket sized. I carry it around and rub my finger against it, all the infinity of grains I don't have to feel.Where is my own waist?.. am I an egg timer pouring out and draining in? Squeezing the last cell through my neck before I die?
So what's this about? Responsibility? direction? The affluent west? The boy next door? Lets feel our way.. I don't believe in islands any more, nature saw to that. The hypocrisy of government and the machine of social order is just as biological as slime mould...Perhaps its refining the sensitivity to listen, like a cat and revel in the ability of each hair along my neck to feel your breath from fifty miles away. The narrow band between the stratosphere and the subsoil vibrate like frequencies and electromagnetic substations. Oh god no, not another cliché... must we 'tune in'? What are we scared of? Calling it religion ? Quaker Porridge Oats is not a cereal killer of deprivation, just a dam good bowl of carbohydrates...Sorry about the pun!Let the cat lay in the sun and soak up the vitamins. Let the cat be oblivious. Let the cat twitch and dream and leave it at that.. The cat has nine lives and everyone of those eyes can see in the dark...apparently.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Sculpture Diary March 8 2011
So why all the fuss?
To cut, to bleed, to bend and fall, to follow, to hide, to maim and shield, the scratching, yielding, thrust. To push the button of calculable horror and crease it, between two folds of white paper. White, blotting paper. Indelible ink, word for word, web for web across this screen.The language of art. This potent bomb-drop... from my lap to yours.
This is what art is capable of and so it should be...because it is life.
But then there are the smoke sellers and spin auxiliaries - the vault keepers, those who would have us believe that currency comes from the same till as soil. Lets call them.. 'smArt' and let them lick themselves clean and leave them alone... No, lets call 'creation' ..art.. and acknowledge 'original thought' without the Sunday supplement.....No pretence.
Whether we clean fish, forge steel or milk goats something has to emerge from the way we define our value. Even driven against the blade of theft or murder comes the flicker that cracks across our mirror. Do we look twice or once? Do we know where we fit, can we afford the pause? Can we ask the environment to cloak us, or is it busy with other hand outs? Who is responsible? Its like separating the tail from the dog or the rope from the noose..
Identity is the thing we 'are' and we guild it, rape it, until the skin no longer fits. We cannot forever be silent or stand motionless, we are human. And so the cotton bales and the wheat bales and the precious crop of our seeds come tumbling out of our mouths into the blue sky and warm soil. The lambs will bleat, the politician will bellow and the birds will sing. But we have no need to apologise or weep. As our nature dictates, it is all inevitable... and there lies the irony.... the responsibility of choice.
I believe this is the cross road at which art is now poised. It is our map of discovery and yet we have the arrogance and audacity to assume we have arrived. I believe we need to once again relive our ignorance and sift through the quagmire our feet have become shackled in.We must empty our precious jewels and look again at the stones. To remind ourself of our origins is not looking backwards but understanding how we measure the truth of our journey.Only the weight of sincerity in each footfall will leave the deepest print. If we want our voice to carry we must sing with our purest note. And that is something worth crowing about!
Sculpture: Stolen Voice by Julie Clare. julieclaresculpture.co.uk
To cut, to bleed, to bend and fall, to follow, to hide, to maim and shield, the scratching, yielding, thrust. To push the button of calculable horror and crease it, between two folds of white paper. White, blotting paper. Indelible ink, word for word, web for web across this screen.The language of art. This potent bomb-drop... from my lap to yours.
This is what art is capable of and so it should be...because it is life.
But then there are the smoke sellers and spin auxiliaries - the vault keepers, those who would have us believe that currency comes from the same till as soil. Lets call them.. 'smArt' and let them lick themselves clean and leave them alone... No, lets call 'creation' ..art.. and acknowledge 'original thought' without the Sunday supplement.....No pretence.
Identity is the thing we 'are' and we guild it, rape it, until the skin no longer fits. We cannot forever be silent or stand motionless, we are human. And so the cotton bales and the wheat bales and the precious crop of our seeds come tumbling out of our mouths into the blue sky and warm soil. The lambs will bleat, the politician will bellow and the birds will sing. But we have no need to apologise or weep. As our nature dictates, it is all inevitable... and there lies the irony.... the responsibility of choice.
I believe this is the cross road at which art is now poised. It is our map of discovery and yet we have the arrogance and audacity to assume we have arrived. I believe we need to once again relive our ignorance and sift through the quagmire our feet have become shackled in.We must empty our precious jewels and look again at the stones. To remind ourself of our origins is not looking backwards but understanding how we measure the truth of our journey.Only the weight of sincerity in each footfall will leave the deepest print. If we want our voice to carry we must sing with our purest note. And that is something worth crowing about!
Sculpture: Stolen Voice by Julie Clare. julieclaresculpture.co.uk
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Sculpture Diary March 7 2011
The second we draw breath art becomes a visible consequence of being alive and the legacy of our presence.It is entwined within our culture, politics and our struggle to survive.We stand upon the space we claim our own and.... 'make our mark'.
In order for art to survive it must not only speak.. but listen. This is what instigates change, it is the dialogue between who we were and who we have become. Evolution encompasses all our creative knowledge at the pivot of change, breathing through our origins as a living process of time.We are the vehicle of our past and contained within us all, is the voice to express our future....The seed of art is me... the seed of art is you.... Welcome...
Sculpture:'Precious Bud' By Julie Clare
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