shapes draped

 

 

shapes draped

in silence

freeze-framed

 

 

 

winterscape - poor elizabeth

 

 

poor elizabeth is cold

in a winter's day landscape

with fleeting clouds

and a drizzle

that leaches into your bones 

 

poor elizabeth lies deep beneath the soil

in a churchyard

somewhere in England 

her headstone black with lichen

poor elizabeth is a shadowy glance

in a frosted puddle

of

time

poor elizabeth is a loose ball of hay

or a cast of stickes

stranded in the road

poor elizabeth is cold

in a winter's day landscape

and she is dissolving

before our eyes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

the history of spamelas

 

 

 

Whilst the prodigious artwork of the late Andy Warhol is feted the world over, little is known of his elder sister, Pamela.

 

Unlike her brother, Pamela never left their native Pittsburgh, choosing instead a quiet life as a teacher in a local elementary school. It was during preparations for a second grade art-class that she made a highly significant discovery. Repeated potato prints of her favourite pork-based luncheon meat had smudged and over-lapped, creating a rich kaleidoscope of colour.

As is so often the case, a seemingly random discovery opened the door to a fresh way of seeing the world. Over the years Pamela refined her imagery, adding more and more layers of colour. Each new print was signed off on the back with her 'nom de plume'. She chose 'Spamela' in recognition of the totemic meat-can that had provided her initial source of inspiration.

 

Sadly, after some limited local exposure of her work on the walls of a local Pretzel bar, 'Spamela' faded from sight. Her brother, Andy, however, had taken it all in.

 

After several years languishing in the murky world of commercial advertising, he shot to fame with a stunning exhibition centred on repetitive images of a Campbell's soup can. Pop art had arrived!

That might have been the end of the story, but for a chance discovery of a portfolio of artwork some six months ago during redecoration of an old school-room in Pittsburgh. A dusty and long-neglected portfolio of work was discovered on the top-shelf of the art cupboard!

 

Just three early 'Spamelas' from that portfolio survived in sufficiently good state of repair to merit publication. We are absolutely delighted to have this opportunity to present them to you now.

 

 

The second 'Spamela' in the small collection, a single image of the esteemed luncheon meat-can, is more sombre in appearance. The palette consists a muted green background, a red ring-pull and a barely visible blue cross to the right-hand side.

In many ways this was a harbinger of the 'Electric Chair' editions made famous by brother Andy.

 

 

 

The final 'Spamela' reveals either a surprising presience or an endearing naivety.  For this work, Pamela chose to wrap a tin of luncheon meat in a net she used to clean the aquarium in the school hall where she worked. She entitled this piece, 'Spam Filter'.

 

Whilst the works of Andy Warhol's elder sister will never eclipse those of her world-famous brother they do shed light on one of the most distinctive developments in modern art. As such, these three 'Spamelas' deserve their own place in American cultural history.

 

 

 

we are family

 

 

 

adventures in the underworld

 

 

 

 

The fix is in, the fix is in!

 

The shaman, the black-clad night-tripper smiles and beckons me to follow. We enter the garden together and stand chilling in the winter air. He lets my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and I wait, heart pounding.

 

A lightening flash. A bare-bone skeleton tree sears my retina!  It splits in two, opening the gate to a new world beyond.

 

 

I fall to my knees before a shrunken shrub resting its head on the night soil. I'm captivated by its charms.

 

 

The shaman stands to my left. He claps his hands three times. At the third clap a shaft of light emerges from the ground. It races the length of a far away tree before it disappears into the blackness only to return a moment later to repeat its journey over and over again in a hypnotic tic-toc loop.

 

I'm locked in now. Unable to rise to my feet I crawl slowly on my hands and knees toward the distant tree.

 

My body absorbs the textures of the ground beneath as I edge ever closer. I look up. A spectral pattern of light veins the night sky.

 

I rest for a while, holding my hand to the intermittent pulses of light.  Strange iridescent forms start to course back and forth across the surface of my skin 

 

One final push and I'm there. The tree greets my arrival with a shower of myrrh-scented needles. They prick open my flesh and enter in.

 

The iridescent skin formations crystallise, turning me to bark at the moon. Now the fix kicks.

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing among the death of last year. Strange hues and flash backs. The shaman draws near, in his hand a single preserved flower. 'Look' he commands. 

I look and the flower explodes into tone before reaching forward to bite off my head.  And now things get seriously weird.

 

 

the world spins around me

 

 

  

all colour drains

until there is nothing  left

 

but

 

the smallest spectral trace of my life

 

as it passes

 

from the garden