SnakeTheGeometricWonder

The Art of Confronting the Beasty

Last Sunday morning, a soft gentle sunny day, so typical of this time of year around here, I was confronted by a snake.

"Was it a big one"? You may ask. Every snake who surprises you is big. This one was.

Stepping outside my studio for a breath of fresh air, there it was, basking its magical geometry in the mid-morning sun only just outside my door.

First reaction. "Kill". I didn't though.

Why, I wondered, is our first reaction always to kill this magnificent beast. This symbol of the  creative spirit. This unfairly cast character in Adam and Eve's  play. This most exquisitely  patterned primordial piece of living rope. This silent slitherer.

Is this reaction built into our genes, is it the aggressive side of my male nature or is it fear. Blind fear. As in not being able to see. Not being able to understand.

The Adam and Eve sneaky seducer comes to mind, but only as a childhood story. However, as that, it may even be stronger than fiction.

I am not by nature aggressive and there was nothing to defend. I wasn't afraid of it in any way. A  little weary maybe, but not afraid.

 

In my case 'Fear' would have to apply to the meeting with the snake. Fear in relation to failing to understand. I don't know the particular ways of this marvellous mover. All I know about snakes are the indoctrinated and scary stories, whether they are from the biblical times of my childhood and therefore very strong, or more recent from anyone else, real or made up.

That is another consideration. Most stories based on fear are not only exaggerated, but also largely  made up. In relation to snake stories, that would have to be the case.

I slowly stepped back inside my studio to consider all this and, after considering, decided to try  and understand. To try and learn about the snake. After all, it is only early spring and I had a long snake time to come yet.

I have stated that 'Learning is the best healer' in my blog before.

First I re-looked at my 'snake history'. I started my life in Australia at Bonegilla, where the  authorities scared us with horror stories about snakes and spiders. Following this my first job was on a farm in N.S.W. It was hot and there were many snakes. I was taught how to  kill them. Effectively. Next I moved to the city of churches, Adelaide. The only snakes I had to watch

out for there were of an entirely different kind. After a short stint in the city, for my education, I  returned to the country, the Flinder's Ranges in fact. There on the very day I moved into an old farm house I found a snake moving in at the same address. I didn't ask its name, nor did I introduce  myself. I killed it. Afterwards I wondered why that made me feel awful.

Many years  have past and a lot has happened. I have learned a great deal and one aspect of this learning has been 'tolerance'. Since moving into the forest, locally, I have hardly ever seen any snakes. Yet there are plenty around. Maybe I don't give them any attention.

What I have been giving  attention is the idea of Man/Animal relations in a place such as this forest.   There is an animal, it doesn't suit me, BANG. Kill it. It begs the question. Doesn't  any animal has as much right to live on this patch as we have. Probably more so. It has been here much, much longer.

What is it with this white man attitude? I know, the problem with most animals is that they don't understand that they need to claim their bit of real estate by going to the Council and obtain their claim with a proper document, like us, superior beings. Then they would be able to do what they liked. Shoot things, poison stuff,  take wood, the whole catas-trophy. Trophy?

After these thoughts ran through my head I still had to deal with the snake. My 'concept' of snake,  which is different to a real one. I took off my glasses labelled 'Fear' and sat down near the snake. I  talked to it. I explained that we could live together but that there were certain rules. Easy. I sat and talked to it quietly for a long time. I was able to get quite close. There was no reason for it  to attack me nor for me to  kill it. In reality there hardly ever is. I have shown it the respect it deserves and now we will work on sharing this space, on living together.

"Silly Bugger" a neighbour said. 'Blind fear' I answered.

Petrus

Snake Charmer

ARandomActOfBeauty

i have been spring gardening over the last while

filling my veggie patch with colour, 

creating an annual edible artwork.

this was followed by a dream.....

While walking in Vincent Street recently....., 

which reminds me. my dream was set in Vincent Street. 

Someone, overnight and with great care, 

had removed the bitumen and rubble 

from exactly one car parking spot 

and replaced it with a vegetable and flower plot. 

A spot of bright fresh greens and many strong flower colours. 

A life mini painting as it were, sitting in the middle of Daylesford. 

So much colour in such a drab monotone area. 

People were amusedandannoyed,  delightedandangry, excitedandupset. 

However, in the main most seem to love it. 

A little investigation discovered that this act of random beauty 

was perpetrated against the community by a  local family. 

They had lost their garden and, 

since they had been paying rates in the shire all their  lives 

and did not own a car they figured they also had a right to a parking spot. 

Not being able to interpret dreams I am open to suggestions.

'reality is the invention of unimaginative people' 

ALocal(ButMaybeNot)Issue

running and getting nowhere

below a letter I wrote to the local paper 

as a member of the committee 

for the re-vitalisation of Vincent street

Dear Editor

in last week's paper, one of the wannabe councillors mentioned the need 
for 'a greater recognition for the key stake holders' 
in the streetscape debate. 

Who, I wonder, are these key stake holders? 
Are they the same people, mentioned on the front page who, 
when councillor Barrell who did not agree with their point of view, 
asked him to leave a meeting.
 Are they the same people, running what is fast becoming 
a somewhat scary authoritarian outfit, who label fellow citizens 'the enemy'. 

Where is the community spirit and respect in that?

These 'key stake holders', which I assume are the members of the association, 
seems to conveniently have forgotten that 
the street is a 'PUBLIC DOMAIN'. 
This, in my vocabulary, means that the street belongs to the public. 
Belongs to all and sundry, 
which makes the same public the key stakeholders as far as I can see. 
We are all key stake holders.

It seems to me that the traders' part of any street ownership 
finishes at the front door of their shops. 
The fact that they are the beneficiaries of this 'public domain' 
doesn't mean that they can claim ownership of it 
and then labelling people who have some new and refreshing ideas
 for what is also their street, 
the enemy.

and for those who continuously undermine the process of change: 

                                'Reality is the invention of unimaginative people' 

 

IntoTheHallowedHallOfLoss

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If you are excited by the idea of losing money on fees while banking there are other means of getting rid of cash. The easy way. Grab your savings and follow me…

1 + 1 is nothing

From the moment you enter the Crow Casino, that curious cash register on the Yarra, that dimlit, dimwit, Hall of Hope, the emphasis seems to be on expressions of getting lost in opulence. This is to be my first ever visit deeper then a frontal look. I am about to enter the guts of the beastie. The place of money machinations. The glimmering dark where folk like to think they get rich. And unseen folk do...

The enticing entrance hall, three long black gleaming limos casually parked out front, is all glass, polished black granite, diffused lighting, Chandeliers, reflections, reflections of reflections, soothing yet energetic sounds of running water, lines of lights emphasising forms and blurring reality and sheets of light emphasising the expense of the architecture. To the ordinary punter all this is very impressive, to the throng it is the start to an Alice in Wonderland type of getting lost experience, down the black hole, down the black hole… goes the cash...

In the second hall, a little deeper into the dragon, we come upon the main portal of income doom. The sound of water, to silence the warnings of the immanent purse attack, increases. This space is darker, larger, is all reflections.

Off to the side of this Hallowed Hall of Loss, the godlike brand names of the retard retail industry strut their stuff. Here, anything from a humble pair of undies to the black shiny business case, aided by clever glass case presentations and state of the art lighting, is elevated to the level of High Art. That and the increased overlay of mirrors are there to remind us how ordinary we really look, and are. Better go and get some of that easy winning cash...

I move further into the monster and soon arrive at its heartless centre, the place where, in the main, my age group play havoc with their savings and food budgets. Having been fooled all their lives to toil for little they are now fooled, once again, out of the little they have left. This central space is huge and buzzes with a weird ambience. In its generosity this tribute to Jeff Kennett’s creative spirit has designed plenty of space for the income challenged. More then plenty of space. Here everything is based on the magic concept of ‘More’. Here also the concept of ‘Mirage’ replaces the expected concept of ‘oasis’. Now you see it, now you don’t. Now you have it, now you won’t…

In all this noise and coloured confusion the absolute calm and immaculate appearance of the croupiers mesmerises. Their hand movements beautiful and ballet like. Cards and coins tumble and slide with great precision. A almost Zen like feeling, next to which the mindless banging away on the slot machines is decidedly ugly...

I wander about in wonder. Where am I?  It is both fascinating and depressing, this central gaming room for everyone where it is neither day nor night, but where I experience the twilight zone of questionable comfort. Where am I? While hundreds are having fun loosing money I already experience despair. Here where many lights flash, where the sounds of water has now been replaced by that of cascading coins, where every surface is reflective, where a confusing soundtrack penetrates everything, a feeling of not knowing exactly where you are is cleverly created. Where am I? Anywhere, but definitely not in my own reality...

A black ceiling filled with starlike lights creates a heavy type heaven set amongst the sounds of hell. In all we, the public, are in a totally confusing and overbearing mind-numbing place which gets under your skin, into your bloodstream, takes over your nervous system so that, not long after arrival every possibility of rational thought has been banished by the keep-sane delete button.  An ambience of both stressed relaxation and hurried calm reaches into every corner of this cosmic cash space…

Well beyond the sounds of win and loss a hardly noticeable, but insistent, frantic modern jazz track adds to the feeling of general mental disorder, entices us along the seams of our purse into it, melts the credit cards, becomes careless with our coins and turns our notes into nothing. Trying to block out this maddening all-around sound, the small voice of reason has no chance in (this) hell…

Walking about this losers paradise I do not notice shame or any other expressions of emotion, such as frustration, anger, despair, annoyance, but a more an atmosphere of passive acceptance. After living life you die, after living gambling you loose, same damn thing, no? The addicted are all in the same boat, not up, but down that proverbial stinking creek, are all among family, though little familiar interaction or conversation takes place. The only exchange which seems to take place is solitary, the exchange of cash for the dubious fun of losing…

In this inner sanctum of madness there are of course the occasional winners, the coins rattle loudly into their metal containers for all to hear, there to be swept up and deposited right back in the false hope of more, more, more. The deadly chant of the gambler. But here more turns out to be definitely less, unless you mean the real winners, which are there, hidden behind the dark reflective glass of this feast of feral fun and parlour games…

However, there are positives, the food is cheap, there is totally comfortable seating everywhere, stewardess-like game flight attendants serve complimentary drinks to the reality disabled and, just like the size of the winnings, the drinks are miniscule. Quick refreshment, get on with the real stuff of the game, the two cent game…

Most of the machines attended are those of one and two cent games, there are others, but these seem to be the most popular. Just imagine, five games for only ten cents, FIFTY GAMES FOR JUST ONE DOLLAR. And, here you don’t need coins, those annoying reminders of your real earnings, of the hard work you had to perform to earn these coins. No, here we use play money, make-believe money, and just like the make believe money there are only make believe winnings, because you better not believe that you get out of there with more then you entered. Additionally, and as a real plus, the time it takes to play a game is about the time it takes to push a button. Two cents…two cents, an inventive way for the government to get its pensioner cheques back…

There are no clocks, but for me it is definitely time to leave. Now, where was it I entered, everything looks the same, there are no hints of where you are, everything is reflected,  same people, same loss ration, same hellish sound track…Arghhhh…

When I finally walk out into a glorious Melbourne spring evening, it is the outside which appears unreal. An unreal winner…

and I? I am the loser, I came I to the casino with my wallet and when I got to the train station I was san wallet. Lifted from my pocket. I didn't play a game but still lost, that is the true magic of the money munching machine……

                                                                      

Breadmaking, a trilogy (3)

 While teaching a ceramic workshop in Ireland, 

and while we were waiting for pots to dry for firing

i thought it would be good to spend a day in a similar activity

that of bread making.

since we were going to be outside firing a wood kiln

the electric kiln was utilised for our bread making

the ceramic department never smelled so sweet

    

 Meanwhile, let’s have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the trunks of the birch trees with dappled shade, the sprinkler rains delight upon the vegetable garden, the soughing of pines is heard in the kettle on the boil. Let us dream a little, in this,  the present moment, and linger on the beautiful romantics of things.  

The Poet and Baker both nourish the world

A few weeks ago, after my story about making bread, a friend caught me buying a loaf in town. “Why are you buying bread?” was the question. That day instead of eating bread, I had to eat my words.

When recently, I took my latest loaf of bread from the oven the thought of: ‘I have finally arrived’ came about spontaneously and to my own surprise. This after years of messing around with dough. I thought the bread was finally right. I had achieved something with it. An ease of making.

The bread was beyond my wildest expectations and was the result of once again going back to the source, which was the use of basic food stuffs and the pure pleasure of creating beautiful things to eat. Bread in this case. Baked in a simple manner. No bread making machines. No bread making mix. The enjoyment and pleasures associated with wood-heated oven cooking. Attending the most basic expression of the ancient craft. However this time the bread had not been enhanced with fancy ingredients. Just an expression of the making and cooking of a strong and simple loaf.

Not long after this event took place, I attended a talk by Richard Perry on the meditative qualities of the Japanese Tea Bowl. As part of his presentation he showed a bowl which, in Japan, is regarded as a national treasure. Its title was ‘Fuji-san’ Fuji Mountain. A simple, and at the same time complex, Shino bowl. Its Beauty in its simplicity. My last loaf of bread, and I say this in all modesty, has a hint of a similar quality.

During Richard’s presentation, I recalled that my initial bread making, some thirty years ago, was originally inspired by traditional bread makers with their wood-heated ovens, which I had learned about as a result of my travels in Europe. Plus an initial interest in, don’t be surprised to see this in relation to bread making, Zen Buddhism. All this came back to me when Richard mentioned the concept of: ‘a good bowl leads the mind inward and outward’. Which I interpreted as: ‘A good loaf nourishes the inner and outer being’.

It was this last thought that made my bread making clear, even though I did not know this at the time. It has always been my intention to create objects of meditative quality. Now, as a consequence of attending the talk, I realised that I, as a baker also, have been practicing my skills and making bread in such a way that it has become an activity of simple yet universal proportions.

I feel that I have arrived, at the end of a seemingly circular journey, where I started. With, at the start of this journey not knowing anything and at the end knowing only that which is expressed in a simple loaf. A thing of beauty. A bit like a tree which finds itself all of a sudden, and to its own surprise, with blossoms and fruit. And the continuation of that journey now becoming one of producing more fruits and, consequently, seeds. The seeds for more bread-making. The seeds of meditation. The seeds of continuation.

The latest loaves then, which I took out of the oven this year, provided me with a stronger consideration of ‘the loaf of bread as one of the most beautiful meditative objects’. A loaf to get lost in, a loaf to lead the mind inward and outward. The reason why this thinking is somewhat difficult to appreciate for the layman is most probably because it is best appreciated in stillness, something our society of noise and speed does not do too well. A way of looking and consideration that is not a quality that has come with industrialisation, an event which also seems to have send the concepts of elegance and refinement of food, actions and manners out of the door. However, even people without the consideration of ‘quietly observing’ seem in the main intrigued by both the quietness and strength of a simple loaf resting on a flour dusted wooden table.

The loaves, finely made, are decorated, with and without intention, by the flames/heat of the fire. As the baker I have used the dough and the fire to tell the story of its making, plus that something extra.

In essence I hope to express, through this bread making, the delightfulness of that which exists. The pleasure of making beautiful things by hand and the expression of relatively simple skills to make wholesome food.

Petrus 

                                                                                     

MoreBread

Four loaves of bread in a field

Here, after having received 

some interesting responses to my recent bread post 

is another meditation on the making of bread

During this time of year, when I plant my summer vegetable garden, I am always reminded of that other simple but beautiful and earthing activity. The activity of making one’s own bread. Two simple activities which seem to go hand in hand. Planting a garden and making bread.

When I think of ‘Bread’, I think of one of the most beautiful words in our language.

‘Nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven’

Although, nothing compared to the choices of bread available in other parts of the world, we here are also beginning to have all types of bread. From the nutty flavour of the complex whole grain loaf to the total blandness of white bread, from the romantic loveliness of the fancy bread croissant to the simple elegance of the down to earth breadstick, we are presented with enough choice to make us forget that bread basically is nothing more then a mix of flour and water, plus maybe a little salt, and that all else is extra. In this simple understanding lies the possibility of the act of making one’s own bread. An activity as simple as growing one’s own vegetables. We could greatly simplify an understanding of our lives if we re-connected with these two basic activities.   

“we need more cooks, not more cookbooks” (or, for that matter TV cook shows).

Bread making itself. Where we take flour and mix it with the correct amount of water to form a dough, roll it into a ball, flatten it a little and place it on a tray then bake it. It is that simple. Perform this ancient act once and feel connected to an inherent part of your history. Your traditions thought forgotten, but rekindled with this simple act. Perform this ancient act once and recognise a dormant skill. A skill which simply cannot be forgotten. Even if you have never done it before, you are able to remember the making of bread. Flour/water/loaf.

And, as a result of the inherently creative creatures we are, we will want to play with this amazing material. This dough, this stretchy, pleasant to the touch, claylike plastic material which lends itself to shaping in many different ways. We realise that we are able to make a mark and personalise this simple loaf, that it does not have to look like a thing from the supermarket, but can take any form. A loaf of bread comes in as many forms as there are individual creative people making it. And everyone who makes as simple loaf of bread, is involved in the creative act

Another interesting aspect of bread making is that we do not have to learn how to do it. We, all of us, already know how to make bread. It is part of our gene make up. Once we make a loaf of bread we recognise the skill within us. A skill which has existed from a time well before our intellect and emotions came into being. A primal skill which you recognise as an old acquaintance, an old and trusted friend.

Flour/water, thin mix for pancakes, flour/water, thick mix for bread. Simple. Easy. Now, as the basic craft of bread making is recognised, felt at home with, play. Play as understood in the basis of all learning. Simple, add some, take some away, try this, try that, observe, easy steps. Like walking on a new path you recognise. You cannot get lost making bread. You will be guided. Guided by your forefathers and theirs. You know everything already through them. Cook, create, express and above all be adventurous and remain playful.  

Making one’s own bread teaches. Teaches respect for ingredients, materials, tools and little things, plus an understanding of the economy of movement, which ultimately manifests itself in the concept of ‘no waste’. Making one’s own bread creates a connection to the real world by providing one’s own food. A connection we seem to have given away. And with that a basic power, a power which has been compromised.

Why is this important? You may well ask. Especially in this world where so much is unreal, meaning 'unconnected to the source'. That forgotten part of the world where we are able to centre ourselves and as a result become and remain strong. Thus the need to be occasionally connected. To be connected to the earth. The earth as the ultimate provider. The earth we are in danger of losing as a result of our unconnectedness, our carelessness, our indifference, our ‘want it now’, ‘have it now’ way of life.

Get reconnected, start with a simple loaf of bread. Plant one tomato seedling and plant it close to the backdoor. Then imagine this, a slice of freshly baked nutty bread with a slice of sun ripened tomato, on it a leaf of basil, plus a little salt. Beat that. Remember that you have always known both of these activities of growing intimately. You just forgot. Forgot to remember. And, if you need another reminder about the inherent loveliness of bread making, remember another thing you have not forgotten: “it is so nice to be kneaded”.    

BREAD

Have I talked about this before

have i told you that i think 

that one of the most beautiful words 

in the English language is 

BREAD

here is my longest blog to date

the story of my connection with 

both a loaf of bread and a loaf of clay

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The most important aspect, in relation to the expression of any craft, is the attitude with which it is practiced. This is, and definitely has been, the common element in my personal experience in the crafts of both Bread and Ceramic making.

Certain strict attitudes toward the making process, the materials, the tools, and the spirit of place, (the bakery), were instilled during my time as an apprentice. These were imposed with a strong sense of discipline. A discipline enforced by an authority based on knowledge. Later, earned with practice and trust, this was allowed to turn, or develop slowly, into ‘self-discipline’.

I carried the disciplines from one craft into the other without any difficulty, because the manipulation, the forming and baking of both dough and clay are very similar and based on the same premise. The premise of learning the basics first, being followed by the development of those skills to the point where they became a personal expression. Skills first learned when entering the craft through a school, an apprenticeship, or a workshop situation.

In my case there was a specialised school in combination with a practical learning experience. Yes, an old-fashioned apprenticeship. Every move I made, and skill I learned, was carefully monitored and appraised until the particular authority deemed it good enough. This careful process of learning and acquiring skills encouraged the steady development of a professional approach towards the materials, tools, and working space. With the successful development of these skills and attitudes, came more responsibility, which meant more ownership.

Both the crafts of bread and ceramic making have, within the confines of their material restrictions,  plenty of room for personal expression. The development of a personal expression of any craft can only come about once the basic skill structure is in place. Not only in place, but preferably transcended. Transcending a skill means to know it to such an extent that it does not place any restrictions upon the practitioner. The maker has become liberated from the limitations of emerging skills and is now free to make the choices of what to do with them. When this transcendence of the basic and necessary skills occurs, it is a natural development for the maker to make the process his/her own. To make it an expression of his/her own particular spirit. To place a personal stamp on it. To find one’s language in it, and express it.

When the authorities deemed that I had a acceptable grasp of the basic skills, a three year period of working in three different bakeries followed. One per year. This gave me the experience of working under the supervision of three masters of the craft, and learn about their particular specialties. After satisfactorily completing this time, I was ready to start my own bakery, create my own specialities. Be my own man.

Freedom, as expressed in the baking and ceramic process, in itself and like all freedom, is shapeless and without form and as such does not work. However, through practice, self discipline and responsibility we are able to give this ‘freedom’ a shape, our own shape, and thus make it work for us. Within the boundaries of the material, we will feel free in our chosen field. It is interesting to note here, that the creative process cannot be restricted by any material restrictions.

I started my ‘Making’ life by learning the craft of bread-making and from there moved into the craft of ceramic-making. In the first, the end product was a loaf of bread, in the second the process started with a loaf. A loaf of clay.

There are of course some differences between the crafts of bread and ceramic making. One of which is the way society views and accepts the finished work.

My reason for moving from one craft to the other had to do with ‘freedom of expression’. At the time, the craft of bread making was more restrictive than that of ceramic making. To a large extent this was a result of the expectation of the public, who wanted the same fresh loaf of bread each and every day. The repetitive nature of this kind of work, combined with the unnaturally early hours involved, became oppressive. For me there existed an element of drudgery. A spirit killer.

I realise that the process of both bread and ceramic making have the same creative potential. However, at the time I practiced bread making, the food consciousness of Australia had not moved much beyond ‘the-white-loaf’ expression. At this time also, my creative spirit, developed and nurtured within the rich tradition and variety of European bread making, became more and more frustrated because it was unable to express itself fully.

The practice of ceramics, on the other hand, offered a much larger space for the expression of my creativity. I felt I owed it to myself to move into a field where I could be as creative as possible. I believe that the more one allows the creative spirit to manifest, the more one is partaking in life. Life expressed creatively. Life creating itself. Being a-life.

The practice of each and every craft has the potential to be special. It also has the potential to be magic. Over the years of practice, I have wondered how that quality is achieved? What is the formula?

One of the enemies of the creative spirit, and the development of ‘specialness’, is taking things for granted. In most cases we take our fresh daily loaf of bread for granted. By the repetitive nature of this purchase, we have been lulled into the belief that this is a normal expectation. We have forgotten that it is a privilege. That it is special. Thus, as soon as ‘For Granted’ arrives, the concepts of ‘Special’ and ‘Magic’ disappear. That ‘special loaf’ becomes ‘just a loaf’.

Unfortunately there is, in our culture, far more room for the expression of specialness in the field of ceramics then that of bread making. Probably because ceramic making isn’t related to our daily expectations and therefore much more space is allowed for experimentation and expression. A much larger play space is available. I love that space.

Another big difference is that ceramics are placed on a plinth which bestows it with ‘attention’, which is the magic ingredient for specialness. Yet, after working in both occupations, I see just as much beauty in a loaf of bread.

Imagine, a loaf of bread on a plinth!

Although artistic expression is possible in both disciplines, it seems easier in one than the other. We can choose the one which suits our particular spirit. My engagement with bread making was chosen by my elders, my environment and social circumstance. My engagement with ceramic making came about because I expressed my freedom of choice and a strong need to be creative

Petrus

   

                                                                                             

GodCreatedTheWorld,GoAndSeeIt

 i recently took a journey north

to the town of bellingen

the journey took me through a soft green landscape

where groups of trees stood knee deep in

large fields of golden light

for mile after mile

i camped near this landscape

which reminded me of a fred williams painting

in parts the landscape was growing,

the flat was flatter, the horizons wider

and the roads as if drawn with a ruler

then all of a sudden i was back in the land of the big brown paddock

 or this moody landscape

where i sat for hours contemplating

my good luck in having danced the big C out of my life

for now that is

and later the curves are back into the road

the straight roads left behind

the dead straight, emphasis on 'dead'

or the straight and narrow

an equally 'leave it behind' concept

and finding peaceful places to camp

in all a journey filled with wonder

the wonder of the ever changing vistas

from the flat to the undulating to the mountainess

and how privileged i am to be in it

to partake in its beauty

and to be continuously surprised by its aahhhh.... factor

"After each big event, take some time off"

NotKnowingWhereYouAreGoing

special seating will be limited

an artist talk, without the talk

a show and not tell.

where artist petrus spronk, shares his art education,

his apprenticeship, his extensive travels

and consequent art career in images 

and some music.

be amazed, be surprised,

(as in, you did not know the above 

was one of his works)

be enchanted, be entertained, 

be excited, be inspired, 

by a visual feast of many intriguing images.

 

there are some beautiful things

which he has seen and experienced

and which are now part of him

and from which he continues to draw

aesthetic considerations  

which make his work special.

where: daylesford neighbourhood house

when: 5th of October

time: 7 pm

cost: members of clayspace, free

non members $ 5.00

theme:

'if you don't know where you are going,

it doesn't matter how you get there'