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Tag: art

Visions in a tent at Welborne

Posted by Tim Lenton on 13 June 2009 at 18:03 in Journal

Tags: art Poetry welborne

The Voicing Visions marquee at Welborne View image Poet Caroline Gilfillan emerges cautiously from the exhibition View image

The excellent Norwich 20 Group Voicing Visions exhibition, featuring the work of three InPrint poets plus former member Rupert Mallin, moved to Welborne, a village near Dereham in Norfolk, for the Arts Festival there. The festival is organised by Mike Webb, and this week took place on the weekend of June 13 and 14 – a stunning mixture of visual art, literature and music, plus clowns and horses. Caroline Gilfillan and Tim Lenton were there on the Saturday, as our picture proves. Music by Axol Loughrey, Nappertandy and Breton group Taillevent was all compelling, and the sun was out all day.

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Images from the Welborne Arts Festival

Posted by Tim Lenton on 4 July 2007 at 12:28 in Journal

Tags: art PVM welborne Workshop

The poetry vending machine in place View image A view of the InPrint marquee View image A workshop in progress, with Annette and Tonia View image

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Art School

Posted by Rupert Mallin on 4 August 2006 at 00:00 in Poetry

Tags: art school

Chalk and charcoal net these images,
Hard edged or smeared with fingers:
A bottle wrapped by lines laid
Line over line to restrain
My interpretation of the real.

Yours is 'truth to materials.'
You pick up steel and see steel,
Not the stain of a black forest
In a sheet of tarnished aluminium.

Yours is 'truth to morals.'
You handle wood and see wood,
Not the pain of a breach–birth
In the handle of a hammer.

Yours is 'truth to money.'
You model clay and see clay,
Not murder's grey estuary
Or worms going down for air.

There is no denotative tool or bag of tricks
For reality has no measure but the quick
Of gestures marked upon a pane of light.
I scratch and scrape at the sun to escape
But in line upon line I am caged.

Rupert Mallin

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Still Life

Posted by Rupert Mallin on 4 August 2006 at 00:00 in Poetry

Tags: art

I am the black line beside each vein,
Leisurely, luxurious, deep as an ocean,
Thinner than cotton.

I hang from horizons
Behind breeze teased underwear,
Flat and fluttering upon the land.

Or curl up beside bones,
Orchestrating my growth to violins
Within the scaffolding.

I tighten the skin drum,
Lie thick in napkins,
Bleed all corners

Of simple symmetry. I am
Neither fillet nor feather,
Though I am that to which I cling.

Am a cavernous ghost
In a crevice, impossible to fill.
Emptiness is my fuel

In the cold ash of ovens,
In a duct not a tear,
Too small for forensic.

Am beneath all, invisible,
Until lifted from the soil,
Like stories, like holes.

I hog fridges and kilns,
Make a home of a scream
And am paint's illusion.

I am essential.

Rupert Mallin

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