Words at the Black Swan – Session 7
Date: Sunday 24th November 2013 15:30 – 17:00
Workshop Leader: Rose Flint
Responding to the exhibition:
‘Charlotte Moore – Off the Wall’
November 23 – December 24 2013
Charlotte’s latest work is painted on wire mesh, and hung up in the gallery space – off the wall! The paintings hover in the space and you can walk round them, yet they are not sculptures. They are re-workings of old master paintings and clues will be available as to what the originals actually are. But they are new beautiful works in their own right and you will enjoy spending some time in their strange unworldly presence.
blurring outside the frame.
Nuggets of gold,
a rarity in plastic lives.
Opinion about opinion
like puffins scratching away
in the dirt.
screened by gauze fences.
gliding by on coconuts,
beads falling off the string.
Reality suggests I prefer
simple but classic
catches me off guard
beneath my hearing, offering muted languages
of form and tone, far-off recollections
of something learned or guessed
so I am collected – taken deep
through x-ray shadows
to a circlet of bright hair around a bone
to ribcage, long bones, rows of skulls –
until that Matisse sky blue lights
on a beckoning horizon and Beauty
shocks me with the blur of her back, her flesh,
her auburn hair – centring into stillness
those terrible eternal cascades
of archived lives.
The window shutters are ajar and through them
can be seen the lights of the city
Once Monsieur Delacroix has done with his sketching
the concubines will peep out
and see below them a cityscape lit with a thousand hopes
and their dreams will collide
with the dreams of those looking up at the high window
In the room the women come and go
talking of Michelangelo.
Naked women swaying, gliding, rippling
their curvaceous shadows along the walls.
The claim to know me, nudging memories ~
classic imagery of delicious, opulent, flesh.
But these unbounded forms are gripped by cage-wire
daubed and hacked, segmented, split apart, volatile,
evasive. Ingres? Lichenstein? They are lost
in time, those warm women who supplied
dreams to the dream-makers, the voyeurs.
Layers of the fantasy survive in our minds
rebirthing here to challenge us: vampire brides of time,
dysmorphic, distorted, revived like Frankenstein.
Visitor, you are whole
so why do you try to mimic me
so silent, facing me flat
peering sideways into slots unsure
of the half light of whether
it is ending or beginning and looking
for strings, reading my shadow
as the room rocks gently as though
waiting for something to touch you
through the haze – a signal
into a nativity, to stand beside
what you may have lost?