“Miss Margate-Miss Coventry” two poetry 3D assemblages, currently on display for 2019 at The Window of Curiosities CV37 OAA.
from Wendy Freeman.
Margate visits were immersive and tantalising Turning Points, which unleashed my creativity. They also secured an understanding of the project alongside Team members shared variety of skills, expertise and points of view, driving a very focused and thought provoking project. Being an artist is often very solitary and the shared Wasteland Journey was challenging and beneficial, especially debating curating criteria of images for the Coventry exhibition.
I fell in love with undiscovered Coventry, a revelation of nooks and crannies of surprise, like the Wasteland poem. The X18 bus from Stratford upon Avon became an office of sorts, providing plenty of transit time to consider ideas and reflect on meetings. I developed a strong connection with Coventry Market and a cafe within, very reminiscent of the Old Kent Market in Margate, both inspirational hubs of social and cultural layers, again, as in the poem.
The legacy of the project is a new beginning, of mopping up, sorting through my notes. Alongside the 3 year project I produced Poetry and 2D and 3D visual work and Performance.
2019 has begun with:
1. Display of 3D Poetry assemblage of Miss Coventry and Miss Margate in the window of CV37 OAA.
2. Compiling my Wasteland journey in a collaged book, images and text, a personal treasure to accompany the Margate beach Sand sample of Nov 2016.
3. Continual pursuit of my imagined, Rothko…Violet Quartet. As mentioned in my poem “Recommended Viewing-Ransacked”.
Herewith 3 Poems selected from work I produced during the Journey with the Wasteland Project.
For a nano second
the traffic cone on Eliot’s head amused Epstein,
Vivienne had removed rubber gloves especially
for her photograph.
“Wishing you were here” Kitaj quoted, cutting up his canvas
with a jig saw for commercial purposes
a hoover bag of dust burst, for visitors to inhale.
An A to Z of blotting paper gifted to Sutherland waited
while two thought bubbles were carefully inserted
into the Sickert with tweezers.
Blake missed the bus due to cutting Emin’s head off
to make more negative space, leaving Duchamp a suspect
to play his own games.
A spray can for Shaw was an improvement, thwarting
the local Council housing plans.
A kipper skeleton languished in a Bomb Pond
while Jarman’s Litter Picking weekend breaks, sold out.
Hutton’s angel vase was crammed with expensive flowers
from a hot house in Holland.
Chewing gum strategically placed on the ends
of insects vertical parts.
Frink wrapped a black crow in pink net.
A reassuring presence of a Terry Frost circle smuggled
into the Collins, Quest, my favourite by far.
The recently discovered Violet Quartet by Rothko,
installed alone in a room ankle deep in sand,
no shoes allowed, saved the day.
Thank you to the powers that be, for making everything possible.
JUST THE TICKET – MARGATE BANTER.
Greeted with open arms by a Tattoo Parlour
an artisan pizza of broken images
would I like more coffee?
put the flags out….I had arrived.
Clockwise and ticking the elements saved the day
walking in weather shrouds melting with grey
to shelter in the Old Kent Market
an arcadian lobster two storeys high
image avalanche booths of display
“step right up” arts and crafts, relics and tat
retro vintage, antiques and bread
for Punch and Judy to share
“That’s the way to do it”
trying to make a bob or two
out of season, seaside paraphernalia
and, there is something in the air.
Marigolds in November drizzle
a lace collar, with bullet holes embroidered within
surfed the mind’s eye,
I stare at the sea—the sea stares at me.
a Sand sample collected in the rain
found chalk and a glass treasure rounded by waves
I stared at the sea—the sea stared at me.
The silhouette of a giant man
strides towards Europe.
Shelter, THE Shelter..I am
protection from maritime weather, and
offshore wind…shelter for you.
You.. with your slogans and slang
making marks on my walls
scratched in, sprayed on and worse
with piss and shit.
Despite the small wall plaque
Mr Eliot was not all he
was cranked up to be,
obscure in his fug
expecting nothing with nothing
is not an excuse to sit, staring
eroding in the salting air
ignoring litter, scribbling
and flicking ash.
Ice cream licking trippers long gone
solid as a rock, I stand alone
facing the sea, my view across Margate Sands
which T.S.E. stole from me.
She arrived, with her colour swatches
and mobile phone, scrolling for clues,
waving mauve, lavender, amethyst
up to the light, for a violet match.
Men waved their arms–measuring
she–pointed with her index finger
“Industrial strength fabric for
secure cushion seating,
comfort for all ages–no problem,
two tone violet paint, vandal proof,
for decorative detail–no problem”
The committee dispersed to a pub,
another change blows through
this hollow place–no problem.
Yobs-young obstreperous boys, and
Yogs-young obstreperous girls
may like it, a community revamp
a homely place, to inspire a future.
Remember when we hung-out?
Yeah, when not cautioned or moved on,
ate chips and scratched a heart,
something to do, somewhere to go,
Yeah ..I remember..
something to do with a famous bloke.