This organic social process of creativity and community has resulted in various ideas for writing a play, performing a poem, showing an installation, and other creative inspirations. None of which I shall probably finish. None-the-less, I'm sure something creatively constructive will emanate and evolve out of this new social process of art. It's just a pity winter is now icing in. I may have to wait for next spring for any real creative outputs to escape the confines of my mind, and blossom into reality.
In return for thier creative time, coffee, and energy (I ask far too many questions) in allowing me into thier studios and workplaces, I've been offering myself as a community volunteer to anyone needs an extra pair hands from time to time. My body is crying out for more varied forms of everyday physical exertion, and I get so bored with press ups, sits up, and running about the park. Where are all the people who need things carrying and lifting when you need them!
My creative volunteer offer has been taken up by one person so far, so I'm now in the process of writing up a couple of paragraphs for thier upcoming website. (Just finished the first draft) If it turns out okay and they like it, I may write up a longer and more in-depth piece on thier creative enterprise if they want me to. In return, they have offered me a discount on thier creative products and services.
Art Trail Wanderer
_______________
When all the crowds, have been and gone,
The trail worn cleft and cold,
Reality returns, for everday art,
as stories shared and told.
The reviews are read, the shows are closed,
For yet another year,
Exhultant artists celebrate,
Some shed a tiny tear.
The fun is over, at least for now,
The ghost of Morris recedes,
Joyous, energised, and all aglow
The new art work proceeds.
Out of chaos, new flow and ebb,
Paint, Print, and Sculpture teased,
And lo behold! a new art mag is born
For the creatives of east 17.
The bands gig on, performers play,
In Theatre of Rose and Crown,
The wordsmiths hone their poetry,
And a stranger comes to town.
I used to live in an art squats he says,
but I've had enough of the dirge and drink,
The chaos of underground art events,
and the bands who are much worse than they think.
I'm done with DJ's who cannot spin,
without smoking a massive joint,
and the new age hippies, who dance at the Moon,
Well, I think you see my point.
Don't get me wrong, I had a ball,
The best five years of my life,
But amidst the glitter ball nights of cabaret,
There was also the stress and the strife.
The parties, although legendary,
The art shows magnifique,
I had to leave my hallowed space,
When the Community became a clique.
For any artist, whether Fine,
Outsider, or underground,
A time may come, when spirit is lost somehow,
Your ideas gone from golden to brown.
I left the perfect Blue Room,
I needed a change of scene,
The art was getting to self-obsessed,
The newcomers far too green.
Why don't you try the Art Trail,
Said a stranger, when I felt low,
An Indian spirit path I ventured?
No it's up the road in Walthamstow.
So I set forth, towards the East,
I crossed the road Lea Bridge,
Maybe I'll wander as a poet I mused,
But I'm no Samuel Taylor-Coleridge.
I picked up a new art mag,
I took it as a sign,
To stay awhile in Walthamstow,
By mystic life design.
I browsed through all the charity shops,
The markets, and the pub,
And somehow got distracted,
By the people, and the hub-bub.
So even though its finished,
Your art trail crowd departed,,
My lonesome trek upon your trail,
Has only just got started.
______________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment