The recent departure of a friend for one of the far off corners of the earth, somewhere in Russia, brought back for me, once again, the very question of corners. Watching the jet take off in its graceful curve from a corner of the Tullamarine airport into the sky, a place without corners, was an experience of great liberation. Imagine, a place without corners..
Cornered
There are many kind of corners, but the one created by two straight lines and a right angle is probably the most familiar. The arrogance in the naming of this angle as ‘right’, acts as a warning. This is the kind of angle, which, in its very being, threatens. Threatens the organic structure of our existence. I have a thing with these right angles and, in terms of our architecture, the corners they create. What do we use these corners for anyway? Have you really ever seen a good use for a corner? Any corner?
I remember, and who doesn’t, as a child having to stand in the corner, whether in school or at home. This act, in itself, shows the waste of space the adult world thinks a corner is. The corners they so diligently designed. “The corner is a waste of space, go stand in it, and be punished”. Interesting thing happened though, especially in the corners of the various class rooms where I’ve spend time. It is there that I started to dream. It is there that my creative journey started. Stuck in a corner. A place of solitude and silence. The solitude of the imagination, born in the silence of a still space. A space not used. A wasted space.
My creative journey started with the question; “How do I get out of here.” This questioning carried on into my teenage years when I felt cornered in a job I hated, but had to take as the result of one of those discriminating I.Q. tests. “How do I get out of here” I did and it was the most creative act I have ever executed. Besides the one of taking my first breath.
I do wonder what they are actually designed to do, these corners. Even now when I look around other people’s homes, or the various shops and spaces I visit, I wonder what the corners are used for. In the home one corner became useful in the fifties, when we shoved the telly into it, wonder what that says about the telly, and for that matter about speaker boxes. Or. Maybe that is why we developed quadraphonic sound. During more recent times the corners, which once were the domain of the telly and speakers, now have a more sinister role. Many of these useless ‘public’ corner spaces are being taken up by video cameras. Spy Eyes. Cornered while in the middle of a space…. While in the home, more and more, we view the world from the same corner we were once send into for punishment. Sitting in that same corner hour after hour staring into electronic space through a computer screen. Maybe this is the corner’s most positive use yet. Maybe. Or maybe it’s the loo, a place too small for space, just four corners.
There are, of course other types of corners. The type we drive people into, by which we show once again that the corner is an awkward space, a difficult position. A place from which there is no escape.
Some particular corners I have been looking for all of my life, especially during my travels, are the four corners of the earth. Where do they exist? And if they do, what are they used for.
Closer to home in the garden, it is more interesting; there the corner is a place furthest away. The secluded place where poetry tends to be written. While, in the other extreme, corners are used for resting, especially when you are into a bout of boxing. Two people caught within four empty corners. So much negativity, no wonder they start belting each other. Another sport, which uses corners, in this case to turn a disadvantage into an advantage, are the corners of a soccer field. Once these corners are taken most players seem to use, at least for once, their heads to either make or unmake a goal.
One Sunday at the Daylesford railway station I observed someone trying to corner the market, an activity more and more local people seem to be involved in.
Once we turn the corner inside out we seem to change the negative into the positive. The corner becomes useful. The ‘corner shop’ comes to mind, as does ‘turning the corner’ and ‘just around the corner’. Then there is the ‘poets corner’, ‘the speakers corner’ and ‘corner stone’.
As in most cases though, the artists seem to have a creative answer to the problem of the negative corner. He withdraws into it and comes up with a solution.
Understanding the total negativity of the corner, and also understanding that two negatives make a positive, the artist puts two corners together and creates four. He stretches a canvas and further hides these four corners by disguising them as a landscape, a portrait or anything abstract which takes his, or her, fancy. Next time you view a painting, think of it as just another attempt to hide four totally empty corners.
Remembering my art history lessons I recall something Leonard Da Vinci once said. When painters were faced with nature and lacked inspiration he advised them to: ”Contemplate with a reflective eye the cracks in an old wall.” There is a map of the universe in the lines that time draws on an old wall. The poet also knows this. Like finding something in an empty corner. Not confinement, but the endlessness of space. Creative space. And inspiration.
Petrus
art@petrusspronk.com
SlowLooking
Welcome to SlowLooking, the site for Petrus Spronk's thoughts and artwork in a slow more considered way.
Friday, 29 March 2019
autumn
“Important
lessons. Look carefully. Record what you see. Find a way to make
beauty necessary; find a way to make necessity beautiful.” from
'Fugitive Pieces' by Anne Michaels
Art
exist to disturb the sleep of the world.
This
is what the artist and poet do.
They
awaken in us a sense of wonder, which is the driver of a creative
life.
They
take us on a journey, a special journey,
in
a world where we are perishing for want wonder, not for want of
wonders.
AUTUMN
I
first saw the image of a persimmon painted on a Japanese tea bowl. In
a few simple calligraphic brush strokes all the plumpness and
desirability of that fruit was most tenderlyå expressed. Keats poem,
'Ode the Autumn', came to mind. And, having read this poem, who can
forget its rich remembrance of autumns past when a poet took up his
pen and sketched these lines, which became one of the most famous and
loved poems: here is a reminder:
“Season
of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.”
Yesterday
when I saw the very same persimmon, hanging from a low branch of a
leafless tree. A haiku poem came to mind.
AUTUMN
The
Colour is Fading at the edge of the autumn landscape. The intensity
of the green has been robbed of its brilliance. The green has become
impure. The green has become tinged. The green is dissolving. The
green has weakened just enough to have lost its dominance as 'the
prominent colour' in nature. The overwhelming colours of summer
greens are slowly changing.
A
little yellow is edging in. Elbowing its ways through the trees.
Yellow has seen its chance and made the most of it. Yellow, the
vanguard of the autumn incursion, is moving in for the take-over.
Although it has only a relatively short time for its period of
brilliant dominance, this time will be intense, will glow and will
burn bright. The yellows will be closely followed by golds, reds,
various rich browns, oranges and all the other warm reflections of
the autumn colour collection.
During
the following days I noticed a shy slash of scarlet, then a timid
blush of copper, followed be a hesitant line of orange and here and
there somewhat bashful smudges of gold. But, soon after the whole
landscape came alive with a quickly changing colour palette,
transforming the lush green into vermillion, saffron, tangerine,
crimson, ruby red, lutea yellow, magenta and many more. Mother nature
has opened her paintbox and, tentatively, dipped in her brush. A
splash here, a dab there, a little run of colour on this and a
splatter of hue on that. In time she will become bolder until, in the
end, she will blow all caution to the wind. Generously, with abandon,
she will throw about all he colours she has at her disposal. In an
absolute frenzy she will speed-spray-paint everything which was
green.
Here,
before our very eyes, colours are indiscriminately mixing and dancing
together to provide us with a visual feast which seems to know no
bounds. Add to that the fragrances associated with this season and we
are in for a feast. A wonderful sensual feast.
On
the way to winter, nature leaves a colourful wake.
If
this is taken to its natural conclusion we know how this colour
celebration will end. All the colour will drain out of the landscape
and in the end leaves it pure white after the first flurries of snow.
the silent white of snow. The stillness of no colour. Ahhhh.....
autumn
delights Always the same. Always different.
Autumns
now and remembered from the past. A time once again remembered in the
visual splendour of the rich deep red plumpness of a simple persimmon
placed on a white ceramic dish.
Petrus
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
REFUSE REFUGE
Refuse Refuge? Part 1
This is the worst image I saw this year. As you can imagine it was on
Television. A vision from Afghanistan. A small girl child, of about five, was
lying in bed in a makeshift hospital. She had picked up an un-exploded cluster
bomb, a bright yellow plaything compliments of the U.S. While exploring this
newfound toy it exploded, removing in one swift and horrible moment her
beautiful little hand. The image which is staying with me and which is burned
into my brain is that of her mother entering the ward and the confused crying
child placing her good arm around her mother’s neck. I am seeing this image
from behind. The back of the mother and the small vulnerable arm. This gesture
of trust, this hug which places heart to heart, so unnerved me I wept and had
to turn off the TV. I felt like turning it off for good. I had seen too much
misery for one year. But turning off the TV didn’t mean the image went
away.
What was it about this which grieved me so.
Maybe this. I have a small girl child friend of about five. When I visit I
always pick her up and experience the unquestioned trust in that small gesture
of her placing an arm around my neck. I also often watch her being picked up by
her parents and delight in observing the same gesture. The placing of the small
arm around the adults neck in Total Trust of the adult world. Or maybe I was
upset by the following. Going back for a moment to the image of that useless
little dead hand lying somewhere in a small rural Afghanistan village where the
people have no history with those who bomb them. Imagine the aftermath of this
relevantly small event of which there are so many. (All of these brutalities,
for the moment, concentrated in this destroyed small child’s hand). What did
this carelessly dropped raw cluster bomb take away. Many possibilities. Many
possibilities to make, to draw, to paint, to prepare food, to garden, to sew,
many possibilities to touch, many possibilities to caress, many possibilities
to wave, many possibilities to gesture. All possibilities to create the most
simple experiences of a life. There are thousands of these people for which
this constant terror is, and has been, a daily experience for a long time now.
Some of these people can’t take anymore and have decided to leave the land of
their birth (imagine that) and find a somewhat safer place elsewhere. And in so
doing risk everything. We have recently seen some of these displaced people
appear on our TV screens. Crammed onto boats. We label these people illegal
immigrants. These people whom some politicians label ‘Possible Terrorists’.
When you repeat a lie often enough most
people will start to accept it as the truth, especially when the lie is based
on common fear. The fear of not knowing. The fear of not understanding. Blind
fear.
If
what we are now doing with the refugees is right what is there left to be done
that is wrong? What can we, sitting here safely, well fed, well clothed, oon fully
Christmassed, possibly do about this terrible state of affairs. Turn off the TV
when it becomes too much? Why are we, as a nation so afraid of a relative few
people who have only misery to carry with them? Why are we as a nation so
accepting of those continuous lies, cleverly based on our fears? Do we actually
question this, or is it all too difficult.
I
heard an interview with a New Zealand commentator who explained that in New
Zealand the government gives refugees work visas. It has turned out that most
of these people make excellent immigrants. Why? Most probably because they are
resourceful and because they share. Abilities we, in the main, seem to have
lost in the comfort zone of our wellbeing.
Refuse Refuge? Part 2
I
was a refugee once. All non-indigenous people in this country are, or have
been, in their histories. We all looked for ‘refuge’ in a new land, for
whatever reason. I am a boat person and, like many people, arrived in the late fifties
to a land of promise. This land filled with promises was actually pretty empty.
The promises only those which we could create for ourselves. Empty, with many
possibilities to colour in. To fill with ideas, to fill with creativity, to
fill with culture.
But,
you’ll say, there was a culture, a rich Aboriginal culture. However, this was
almost wiped out by the Anglo culture which preceded us newcomers by a mere
couple of centuries. I do not know exactly what this Anglo culture brought to
this land but I remember that it felt empty in the fifties when we arrived from
many other parts of Europe. Since I arrived with a knowledge of the Patisserie
I can only comment on the food aspect of
the culture. I most vividly remember the food consciousness at the time. Little
pastry boxes filled with questionable meat stuffs. Pasty Pasties. Poor quality white
bread. The culinary delight of the Adelaide floater. The refined taste of the
vanilla slices. And the endless stream of mono tasting beer. Wine? Wine, I was
told at the time, was for poofters.
As a
result of the arrival of the post W.W. 2 refugees, then called New Australians,
Ities, Wogs and the like, the culture has changed a great deal. Not only the
food culture but the culture in general has been enriched as a result of what
these refugees brought with them and, additionally, were able to do with their
skills in this country. A big large open space ready for a creative approach,
some resourcefulness, some daring. Some different ideas. Wine? Our wine is now
among the best in the world. This is the result of change. Not the result of
the stagnation of a culture in a fortified place.
Has
anyone, voting for ‘the fear view of the world of refugee acceptance’, considered
for a few moments the possible positive side of the refugee crisis aspect?
Considered this as a possible gift?
Considered the newness which these people would bring with them?
Considered the energy which they would offer us? Consider the gratefulness they
would carry in their hearts? Has anyone maybe tried to think where they came
from. Tried to think what it took them to get here. They must be incredible
human beings. And maybe that’s what makes us so uneasy? Their strength and resourcefulnes.
The
government told us there was a crisis. I have always believed that a crisis
offers many gifts for learning on a
plate. Are we taking note? Or are we allowing this wonderful opportunity to
pass us by? The gift for the possibility of endless compassion. The gift for an
understanding that to take in a few more people who seek refuge would create
the possibility for change, for movement and for a different view. The more
points of view we can bring to our world, the larger it becomes. It involves
taking a risk. Every step taken outside your comfort zone does. Consider the
prize. Ask the many young Australian travellers exploring new lands who, as a
result, are learning and enriching themselves. However, on the other hand not
taking steps outside your comfort zone would result in an even more scary situation,
down the track.
This
brings me to the second worst thing I saw ever. Again on Television. People
jumping from the ‘perceived’ comfort zone of the World Trade Towers. Everything
is connected. That little hand blown off was the indirect result of that event.
But what brought that event about in the first place? Where did this event have
its roots? People who have dared to speculate have been labelled un-American
and most probably un-Australian as well. Think about it. In the end the
ultimate result was a child’s little hand dead to many of the possibilities a
life offers. The least we could do is offer a little more generous point of
view. Happy christmas!
Petrus
art@petrusspronk.com
Friday, 23 September 2016
AChallengingArtProject
the spirit of the broken bowl, restored into a new life
A
challenging art project
At the start of this project, I am guided by Ann Michaels, who wrote in
her book 'fugitive pieces': "Important lessons. Look carefully. Record
what you see. Find a way to make beauty necessary; find a way to make necessity
beautiful."
Being an artist, my life ticks along in a wonderful
way from one creative project to another, be it a commission, an exhibition or
a piece of writing. Each project presents a challenge to make it worthwhile,
because without a challenge it would not provide any learning.
None of my projects have been as challenging, however,
as my most recent one. This project announced itself, to my surprise, with the
diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease eight years ago. I knew
instinctively that I was up for the major challenge of my life. Medication has kept the disease at bay for much of
those years but more recently that has changed.
After some time of contemplation, to come to grips
with this news, I decided to treat this as just another art project. Getting
involved. I also decided to change the name from Parkinson’s disease to Parkinson’s
gift, which has already changed my attitude in a more positive direction. Up
till now I have kept my Parkinson’s quiet but having become more obvious, I
have decided to make it more public.
During a recent words in winter
event I started this with the reading:
“When you are a maker,
listen to your hands”. To which we can add, ‘because the head sometimes gets in
the way’. This is a saying which has always worked for me. That is until
recently when the Parkinson’s I was diagnosed with some years ago, but which
was kept under control by medication, is now snapping at my heels. This means
that my head and hands go into different directions and have a totally
different relationship than I am used to.
“When you are given lined
paper, write the other way”, has been creative
advice I have always followed, but now this is getting too real, my
hands are writing every which way, none of which I want them to.
My gait has changed, so if
you see me in the street and I walk a bit differently I am not under the
influence of alcohol or dope, but that of my Parkinson’s, who insists on
walking with me everywhere I go, and wherever possible trip me up.
My memory is affected to
the point where, at times, I cannot remember the names of people I have known
for years.
The worst of it is that my
ceramic making seems to be almost at an end, because the fine motor skills I
need to employ are the most affected. However such is my life and I will keep
the creative spirit going in one way or another. Because it is, and has always
been, the meaning of my life.
I am not giving in, I will
use the same approach as when I was diagnosed with cancer, the treatment of
which I aided by making it into an art project, which helped me to cope”.
Although with all my previous art projects I have
been in charge, this newest one has taken charge of me. I have very little say
in it. In fact, I know little about it and found out soon enough that this
project, of which I am the subject, is directed mostly by doctors.
In order to get some sort of handle on this new
development of my life, I decided, as part of the gift, to document the process.
And now,
looking at the diagnosis of my Parkinson’s in a different way, there waits the
possibility for these coming experiences to be interpreted through art.
The Parkinson’s diagnosis, like
any challenging art project, has knocked me out of my comfort zone, this one more
so than any.
I am like
a small boat on a rough sea. I do have a paddle and am able to give it some
direction, some meaning. I intend to employ my imagination and by turning the
event into a work of art I, at least, have that control. And since this is the
only control I have, I'll take it.
Learning
is the best healer.
petrus
Monday, 20 June 2016
InDefenceOfPublicSculpture
In defence of public sculpture
Whenever
a writer, an artist, an architect or any practitioner of the arts places his or
her work in the public domain there will always be those who like it and those
who don’t. This can result in controversy. If artists were to respond to every
criticism they would never create anything.
In all
fields of life there is so much more beyond our own
experience. It is the artist’s job to show the way by courageously exploring
the new. In my view, liking an artwork is not really what matters.
It’s more a question of how art challenges us or finds a way to speak to us, to
open up a new awareness.
I remember a public sculpture by Ron Robertson Swan designed for the Town
Square in central Melbourne. The sculpture, accepted by the Council, was vilified
by then City of Melbourne Mayor who, using art as a political football, renamed
it the ‘yellow peril’ from ‘the vault’. This new ‘title’ stuck and shaped the
general public’s response to the art work. Is there, I wonder, a role for our
leaders to guide citizens into an understanding of new artworks?
All this says less about the quality of art and more about people who
stoke the flames of artificially created controversies. They have not done the
work, have not taken the risks, their lives and livelihood are not bound up at
every moment with what they are making, who have given thought to the medium or
the method. Artists take risks by exposing their ideas in the public realm. At
every moment their lives are bound up with whatever they are making, with
exploring new boundaries.
Many years ago I designed a work for Swanston Street Melbourne- a shard
of architecture emerging out of the pavement- may hated the idea, thought it
was inappropriate and expressed these sentiments even before the work was
installed. However, I persevered and the council saw its merit even if not many
amongst the populace did. In time, the work was installed and has since grown to
become one of Melbourne’s icons plus a well loved sculpture.
Over the years the sculpture has gained popularity and received awards
locally and internationally: a Melbourne newspaper poll voted it the most popular
sculpture in town. Recently it was included in an internet survey of the top 25
creative sculptures around the world. The prestigious magazine ‘Architectural
Digest’ included ‘Architectural Fragment’ as one amongst eleven of the most
fascinating sculptures in the world.
I remember the hullabaloo created by citizens of Melbourne when plans
for that huge sculpture, which is Federation Square, were made public. Since
then it has become one of the most loved and popular meeting places in the
land. The new and change are always challenging. But without change and the new
we would still be in the dark ages.
There were similar controversies surrounding the
Sydney opera house, another iconic blend of architecture and sculpture that
now, along with Uluru, is the image representing Australia to many around
world.
Arts advisory panels exist all around the world
promoting creative endeavours within their communities, connecting past,
present and future, opening our eyes to things we may not see, unlocking rooms that
may be closed within us, helping to make meaning of our lives and, in the words
of Anne Michaels ‘to find a way to make beauty necessary and a way to make
necessity beautiful’.
I will leave you with the following thought. During
the Second World War, Winston Churchill’s finance minister said Britain should
cut arts funding to support the war effort. Churchill’s response: “Then what
are we fighting for?”
petrus
Sunday, 19 June 2016
ThoughtsOnAWintersday
a beautiful visual moment to savor
thoughts on an introspective winter’s day
It is interesting that
it takes the experience of the start of the ‘forever sleep’ of one person to awaken
another. Following one such event, this question arrived for me. Am I using the
days I have left well? Like today for instance. A normal everyday day, but with
a difference. It is one of those glorious early winter days. A fresh clear
morning followed by a warm sunny day. How do I spend such a day well. Enjoy it?
Realising that it is happening? Acknowledging it? I decided to take notice of
the seasons and start this exercise by giving these moments of wonder some
attention.
The
Rain has washed the trees dustless, creating in the green a vibrancy which can
be felt. The type of vibrant green just before autumn turns it golden. The sun
shines gently warm and the blue of the sky has a soft edge. A seemingly perfect
background for the grey thrush, with a song so clear, with a sound so clean,
with a melody so charming, with a resonance so wide and overwhelming as to fill
up, to the point of the divine, the whole of the moment. A moment of wonder.
Drink this moment, hold it close to your heart.
Light and death
Each
day contains some magic, all we need to do is open our eyes to it and jump
aboard while it passes by. How could we not take notice, How could we deny
this. Why else are we here. Ride the beauty of the moment so that, when just
before being placed in our own box, we will not feel any ‘regret’. (Regret is
and has always been an absolute waste of time. There are so many better ways of
using the moment.)
As
the other evening a little before sunset. I watched at the edge of a foreign lake
while an empty old wooden boat, on fire, floated slowly on the still water
mirror. A fisherman cremating his past. A moment filled brimful with poetic
content. A sight where, for the moment, nothing else was needed. I hold this
moment close to my heart.
Life and dark
As
the other morning, the sky the colour of slate, clouds so low the tops of the
trees in the forest were invisible. As if the trees were suspended from the
clouds. From this grey space huge colourful flowers dropped onto the ground,
only to rise again a little later to re-enter that same space of nothingness.
Fluttering feeding Rosellas. I held this moment in both hands.
None of this needs any
economic rationale or development to be appreciated, rather, it needs a tiny
shift in attitude, or a smack in the head such as the death of a dear one, when
all of a sudden a few things become clear. As clear as a drop of dew mirroring
our dreams, and the immense size of the world filled with moments of wonder. A
world so much bigger than our concerns.
Light and death
I take notes from one of my teachers. A big fat white goose,
who lives on the pond at the bottom of the garden. After all, when all is said
and done, she finishes up in the same place as we all do. How does she spend her
day. She floats upon the water with the grace of a galleon. Then banks and
performs the most exquisite ballet-like yoga exercises/stretches. While engaged
in this, her shape becomes a living kinetic sculpture. She preens endlessly,
then tucks her head under her wing, pulls one leg up under her feather skirt
and snoozes her inner landscapes into reality. What is its purpose? What is its
meaning?
I also take notice from another one of my teachers. I
remember four year old Lutea, my creative guardian, in my garden, who, after
having struggled to open a long dark dried bean pod, stands there momentarily
wondering unbelievingly at the beauty of a set of six polished purple and black
beans lined up inside. Surprise. I try to keep my heart open for moments such
as these.
Life and dark
I wish not ever to say: “I wish I had…….”.
Petrus
art@petrusspronk.com
Wednesday, 13 April 2016
TheArtIgnorant2
a p.s. to my last blog
with an apology to those
who find it hard to read the red font
just another thought about the work of the panel
and those in creswick who are busy
trying to undermine that work
allow me to comfort you dear creswick citizens
with the thought that when i was in the same position
designing the 'architectural fragment'
many hated the idea of a piece of broken architecture
in the main street of melbourne,
but i persevered and won the council over
although not many of the populace
however, in time, the work got installed
and has grown into one of melbourne's icons
and a very well loved sculpture
which over the years has received a few awards
of being the most popular sculpture in town
and recently was included in
the top 25 creative sculptures in the world.
and more recently the prestigious magazine
architectural digest
surveyed 11 of the world's most fascinating
sculptures and the fragment was one of them
and more recently the prestigious magazine
architectural digest
surveyed 11 of the world's most fascinating
sculptures and the fragment was one of them
so, dear citizens of creswick
please hang in there
don't take any notice of those undermining the work
you'll be surprised what will eventuate
when the work is in place and people,
especially through the eyes of their kids,
will start to enjoy it
and it will be a much visited and photographed work
when the work is in place and people,
especially through the eyes of their kids,
will start to enjoy it
and it will be a much visited and photographed work
just like my fragment
petrus april 2016
Monday, 4 April 2016
TheArtIgnorant
-->
A few
thoughts about art and the ignorant
Whenever
writer or an artist or an architect, or any practitioner of the arts makes his
or her work public there will always be those that like it and those that do
not. This will usually result in some sort of a controversy. Therefore if you
are engaged in one of those cultural fields you better have a thick skin.
Because if you take any notice of these criticisms from the ill informed, you
will never create anything.
A case
in point is the proposal for the public sculpture for Creswick‘s Calembeen park.
With which councillor Henderson is playing childish games, especially since he
sat in when the arts panel was deliberating and had a chance to make remarks,
and the remarks he made during that meeting where encouraging. Then in last
week’s paper the same councillor Henderson who seemed to agree to the choice of
the arts panel, since there was no protest from him, when they met to
deliberate, is now appearing in the local paper with another sculptor and his lump
of cement parading as an alternative sculpture, stating that the locals were
unhappy with ‘dearest’, with the ‘local campaigner’ (and what does that exactly
mean) Kronenberg, getting in his few bob’s worth by starting the rumour to call
the sculpture the wrecking ball and thus undermining the work.
All this
says nothing about the art, but plenty about the people stoking the flames of
this artificially created controversy. The ignorant, the lazy, the plain
confused and ill informed have not done the work, have not taken the risks,
whose live and livelihood are not bound up at every moment with what they are
making, who have given no thought to the medium or the method but will momentarily
glance up from their latte or beer and make their lukewarm statements as if
they know about art.
They
show the Creswick audience that they can absorb in a few moments, and without
any effort the sum total of the artist and his art.
How do
you think the artist feels when he, in good faith, puts his idea forward to the
arts panel whom, in good faith, deliberated and came to their conclusion, which
they then presented to the council. They are only advising and the council makes
the final and in this case, the right decision.
I stated
before that as an artist you need a thick skin, it seems that in Creswick as an
artist you need an extra thick skin.
Life
shrinks and expands in proportion to one’s courage and to be an artist you have
to be courageous
Petrus
spronk. artist
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