Tag Archives: Weekend Showcase

Weekend Showcase: Sonja Seear (Photographer)

15 May

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

.

Sonja Seear

.TimeforTea

Click to make the image bigger

.

Time for Tea

The image is from my project ‘Time for Tea’ focusing on the subject of tea drinking. I chose afternoon tea as a subject, as it is quintessentially an English tradition despite tea drinking being imbibed in many cultures across the world. The project aimed to reflect the social aspects of tea drinking, the intimacy of this experience where increasingly time is more precious, and communication is becoming instant, yet impersonal and superficial. The project aimed to illustrate how the ritual of tea drinking is individual in terms of colours, flavours, and setting.

 

https://twitter.com/Sonja_Seear

https://www.behance.net/Sonja_Seear

For more information about Sonja’s Photographic Services: http://www.sonjamartinphotography.com/contact%20page.html

 

Please do get in touch if you would like to be showcased via the form in the What’s On page, or the reply box. 

Weekend Showcase: Stuart Slater (Artist)

20 Mar

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Stuart Slater

.

Get Carter

Get Carter 

From the RYBG Series

.

Artist’s Statement

Rediscovering Art

Art was always my strongest subject when I was at school. However, after graduating from Aberystwyth University with a degree in Fine Art I sadly lost interest in the subject. All passion for creating art had simply faded.

​In February 2014, some 16 years later, I was persuaded to once again have a go at some simple sketch work. One sketch turned into many and soon the sketches became paintings. I had found my passion once more. Since then I have produced over 70 pieces of work; the most prolific I have ever been.

I have a great love for colour in art and I am currently based Solihull. I produce abstracts and portraiture.

 

stuartslaterart.co.uk

https://twitter.com/Stuart_Slater

.

 .
If you would like a Weekend Showcase please do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On Page , or via the comment box.
>>>>>>>
 

 

>>>>

 

>>>>

Weekend Showcase : Stephen Thom (Writer)

13 Mar

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

______

Stephen Thom

.

Marbles

 

.

IT IS ALL LITTLE MARBLES IN OUR EARS

by Stephen Thom

.

Hugh placed his plastic cup of sparkling wine beside the picnic hamper and pushed the tweezers deep into Lottie’s left ear. She slugged her own cup back violently, wincing as the bubbles surged down her throat and cold metal tongs simultaneously wriggled into her earhole. Selecting a pair of tweezers for herself, she directed them into Hugh’s right ear and tried to focus on her own prodding and poking. And as it was, she succeeded first. A little, smooth, dark round bead was tugged from Hugh’s ear, clenched between the pincers of the metal implement. Swiftly the bead was followed by more and more tiny round balls, connected together by some sinewy, sticky tether. Hugh’s ear bled as the beads were carefully extracted; dribbling, red pearls hanging from the lobe.

‘How does it feel?’ Lottie asked. Hugh’s head was throbbing, but he didn’t want it to show. Instead he tried to change the subject. ‘I can’t seem to get a handle on yours.’ He switched positions, wedging the blanket into the sand beneath it as he shifted onto his knees. Finally he felt his tweezers click around a smooth surface, and with his eyes screwed up in concentration, tugged the first few beads from Lottie’s left ear. They slid out with comparative ease; soon a whole, slick chain of dark little stony spheres was unravelling out of her earhole, and she barely flinched as she focused on yanking and squeezing Hugh’s assorted beads out individually.

‘Ow,’ he muttered, craning his neck against the roving tweezers. ‘Ow.’ His eyes flickered to the trail hanging from his ear. ‘Ah…Jesus.’

‘They look a bit like marbles,’ breathed Lottie, stroking his head to calm him. ‘I thought you’d be able to see…more, or anything. Maybe they’re different on the outside, like, maybe they change?’

‘Maybe,’ choked Hugh, grinding his teeth as water formed in the corners of his eyes.

With a sucking noise, what appeared to be the final bead was wrenched from Hugh’s ear; Lottie laid his collection in a bundle on the blanket beside her own, long since unravelled to the ground. They surveyed the piles of beads in silence for a while, Hugh rubbing his ear. ‘How long do you think we have?’ He murmured.

Lottie looked up at him. His eyes were jet black, but she declined to inform him of this.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, reaching for his hand. Hugh let her caress his palm for a moment, then picked up one of his beads. He rotated it between thumb and forefinger. In the centre of the little ball, a cloud swirled amongst the gloom. As he watched, it gathered texture, accumulating into a structured mass. This mass snaked out to incorporate fleeting glimpses of minuscule limbs, features, stretches of environment – a world condensed into a smooth, sticky marble.

‘No, you were right,’ Hugh concurred, ‘it must have been a type of…camouflage, or cover. Look, this is when I met you.’

He held it up to her glassy eyes, still in ownership of their pupils. A scene danced across the minute circular landscape.

‘It wasn’t, though,’ she replied, averting her gaze. Then, looking back at Hugh, she saw a thick sliver of black liquid ooze from his dark eyeballs. He wiped his cheek in shock. Hastily, he pulled the beads up one by one, scrutinising the pictures the little marbles conveyed.

‘This is Greece!’ He cried. ‘This was our holiday! When I was twelve…I had such bad sunburn. I had to have cold showers. Look, this is when Mum was ill…we were waiting at the station for Dad to pick us up, but he’d got the time wrong, and you just kept talking about how you have to pay to use the toilets there, I guess you didn’t want to talk about anything else-‘

‘Hugh…’ Lottie covered the bead with her left hand, and pulled the arm of her jumper down over her right hand, wiping away some of the black fluid flowing down his cheeks.

‘I don’t know if it was the right thing to do anymore,’ he croaked. He was having trouble kneeling upright now; he seemed to be hunching into himself without realising. ‘Even if they’re not ours, or mine, or whatever, it’s what we knew. It’s all I knew. I should honour that. It doesn’t feel right, or like I thought it would. I still spent my life with these people.’

Lottie kissed him on his smudged cheek. ‘It is right,’ she said, and she felt her own voice flagging as she did so. ‘You did spend your life with them, and you will meet them again, just in the right way this time. These things, here…’ her hands fumbled with the beads, ‘they’re not our own, they’re someone else’s interpretation. But all these…links, they’ll come back to you. You will see them again,’ she finished, trying to sound decisive.

Hugh’s face was a mess of black fluid, and he sunk to the blanket as his knees failed him. The sand that had drifted onto the blanket mingled with the thick oilish substance as cracks and sores opened across his skin, and more of it flooded forth. Lottie held his head tightly, staring straight ahead as her own eyes dulled to black.

‘Hugh, did you hear me? Hugh, it’ll be your own now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed as a black mass converged before him and fractured into a million splinters; splinters that remolded themselves as little black marbles, tumbling in every direction.

He saw his embryonic, shapeless shadow chasing after them, ready, renewed-

‘Don’t ever be sorry,’ Lottie sobbed, somewhere far behind.

.

.

Biography

Stephen Thom is from Carrbridge in the Highlands of Scotland, and enjoys reading and writing fiction with an interpetive element. His pieces have appeared in Firewords Quarterly, Holdfast Magazine, Fur-Lined Ghettos, High Flight, Don’t Do It, Thought Collection Publishing, Thick Jam and Puffin Review amongst others.

http://stephenthom.wordpress.com/​
@StephenThom3

Stephen also plays mandolin in a folk-rock band called ‘Dante’. Their debut album, ‘Wake’, was released in October 2013 to fantastic reviews and features in the Herald’s ‘Top 50 Scottish Albums of the Year’.

http://www.dantemusic.com
@wearedante

 

 

If you would like a Weekend Showcase please do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On Page or via the comment box.

 Image by Barnaby N: http://www.bbc.co.uk/blast/212455

 

 

 

Weekend Showcase : Rebecca Violet White (Poet)

6 Feb

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

______

Rebecca Violet White

 

.

Welcome

.

How is London treating you?
London sticks like a burr
chases me shoulder to shoulder
drags out my elbows

and straight lines are like this
bird feet in the snow
from one to another

*

questions

I have thought about who chose the bus stops
names the streets here after birds
and therefore the bus stops

where are the flies

answers

My bed is always in orange light
the mice under the trains
tread out the map

*

Mice in the snow

would they trace the Piccadilly line
with their soot feet

.

Biography

Rebecca Violet White has lived in Nottingham, Cardiff, Devon, Norwich and now London. Some things of hers have been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears and For Book’s Sake. She likes to write about her places.

realrvwhite.wordpress.com

https://twitter.com/RealRVWhite

.

If you would like a Weekend Showcase please do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On Page or via the comment box.

 

 

 

 

Weekend Showcase: Louise M. Hart (Writer/Poet)

16 Jan

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Louise M. Hart

.

sunrise

 

.

North by West Midlands

by Louise M. Hart

.

I journeyed north in pursuit of happier thoughts
And a deep fried mars bar
But, blind were the eyes, watching me arrive
And burnt was the mars bar

My baggage was heavy with burdens
Beside me, were a loving Mother and my black (and white) dog
It had been a long, exhausting ride
Whose terminus,
Under the conceit of summer sunshine, concealed the cloudy thoughts
That burst inside my mind

Thus, I regressed to a developmentally former time
My awareness of my impending pain
Like the cries of a virgin bride
Hidden from world view

Cradled in the comfort womb of the Scottish landscape
“It’s beautiful,” I cried
I could never distinguish calculated deceit from honest lies
And, thus, unpacked my luggage, as though
I was holidaying in a land of enlightenment and fun

And the sea called to me, “Run”

So, we turned our backs on reality and ran
Billy, my beloved dog before he was taken and I
Hugging feral fingered trees in the name of city slickers
We blamed ourselves for our inability to defeat the bourgeoisie
With our indiscreet charm and our inadvertent attempts at infamy

But, soon the sun was gone

And the trees were as bare as my face
Expressing thoughts as toxically as fumes of human waste

I realised that my end was nigh, when I could no longer cry
My life collapsing, like The State’s self proclaimed fiscal cliff
Into the gluttonous foam of the North Sea’s residential home
In which my austere soul sprayed stingy piss
And fired blanks thoughts with life denying regularity

I became undone

And, then winter’s chill arrived
Articulating its intent in my mind’s shrieking descent

Into gloomy thoughts and conspicuous insanity
I entered a race I was born to lose
Whose other competitors existed as alien forms
So prolific that I believed mine to be the only existing human face
That interpreted the unnatural selection of human rejection
And the death of universal subjectivity

A belief in fate’s omnipotence
Became my faith, my anti-God delusion
Of confinement secured by thought intrusion
And mental institutionalisation

Wintertime thrust me between the thighs
Of a system I summoned, but despised
Whereupon a nurse knocked my gentle door
For I had slept not, the night before
Rising before the portents of a spreading dawn
And staring blankly at the dark and silent screen of my television

There are clubs, up north, especially created for the chemically inferior
Staffed by people who, even before the humiliation of an introduction
Know every member’s name
For in their eyes, we all look the same
Sporting diagnostic labels and medicated shuffles
Our identities socially constructed and acted out in vain regard
For the needs we espouse
And contradicted by the nature of the pills
We consume to reinforce
And legitimate the acute angles of the pain we survive

They wiped my arse, but closed their ears when I spoke
Offering computerised basket weaving and messages of no hope

Ooh, there’s trouble up north
When identity crumbles, like ideological rubble
For I had fallen and been captured by a beast with two faces
One face that soothed my heated brow
The other, functioning as subjectivity’s adversarial sacred cow
Cock, bull and ball breaker of all fleshy nuts of bone and brain
It destroyed meaning, like the presence of a double negative
In a sentence, articulated in the open parenthesis of pseudo-silence
And intellectual non-sense

Eventually, I wrote a book
And defected to the way out west, to try my luck-
The mid land of nowhere

Life had knocked me down
But, creativity lifted me back up

.

You can find more about Louise and her poetry here:
 .
.
If you would like a Weekend Showcase please do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On Page or via the comment box.
>hhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonvhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonhttps://twitter.com/shunterthompsonvttps://twitter.com/shunterthompson>>>>

 

>>>>>>>
 

 

>>>>

 

>>>>

Weekend Showcase : Chris Nugent (Artist)

28 Nov

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

______

Chris Nugent

 

Piece 1 Chris Nugent

Neuropia

 

The white picture [above] with the colourful pattern i call Neuropia. It was created to give of happy vibes and energy. The patterning representing thought processes and the endless possibilities of the mind.

.

Piece 2 Chris Nugent

Biophot

.

The even more colourful picture I call Biopoht [above]. Quite simply a fantasy dreamland and colourful feast for the eyes. As with all my work i like to feel uplifted when i look at it and also hope it has the same effect on other people.

.

Biography

I have always had a creative side to me, but never known how to express it. Often picking up a pencil to sketch something, only to face a mind blank and a complete lack of idea. I left the Royal Navy earlier this year and found i had a little more time on my hands to express some creativity, so i got that pen and paper out and just let my mind wander. What came out of this i thought to myself is pretty good. So there it started, about six months ago, and hopefully i can now start to get my work out there, try bigger pieces and new things. My pictures are my escapism and i now feel i wouldn’t be me without doing them. So here’s to the future, and what creativity it may bring with it.

https://twitter.com/doodleartz

.

 

 

* Weekend Showcase is a simple showcasing opportunity for creatives from any discipline. The opportunity features a creative and the piece they feel best represents them at the moment. If you would like to be showcased do get in  touch via the contact form on the What’s On page or via the comments or reply tab at the bottom of posts. 

 

Thank you for your interest.

Inspired by the Sun. Paintings by artist Tracey Jane Cooper (FreeSpace #2)

10 Nov

Welcome to the second of 3 FreeSpace posts from artist Tracey Jane Cooper reflecting upon another selection of her paintings. 

.

Inspired by the sun….

– Mellow Meadow and Summer Infusion-

Both 40 cm x 40 cm acrylic on canvas

.

A piece, inspired by the sun, it’s light and warmth providing a secure blanket over the land, where the Spring was emerging after the winter, the meadow coming alive minute by minute.

 

Mellow Meadow

 Mellow Meadow

 

Here is Summer Infusion which was on my Weekend Showcase:

.

Summer Infusion by Tracey Cooper

Summer Infusion

.

In this piece I imagined a warm Summer evening, the sun setting and reflecting onto the wild flowers, causing them to look almost alight and alive. I hoped to portray the warmth and the scent that filled the air.

.

Biography

Tracey recently began painting again after many years dreaming about it.

I’m inspired by nature, particularly the sky. The sun and it’s warmth or coolness always feature, sometimes you can feel the heat of the sun in them, often the flowers are blistering in the intensity of it and that’s what I like to portray.
 
I paint mainly with acrylic, sometimes with watercolour for more fluidity, depending on the piece.
.

https://twitter.com/traceyjanesart

 

 

Tracey’s next FreeSpace will be on Thursday 25th November.  Do watch out for it.

And look out for the first batch of The Nine Realms poetry coming out this week….

 

 

FreeSpace is a creative opportunity that offers 3 posts on ArtiPeeps to an individual or group for showcasing or a project. The slots can be taken in a cluster or spread over a period of months. Do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On page or via comments if you’d like to take up this opportunity.

Weekend Showcase : Tracey Jane Cooper (Artist)

10 Oct

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

______

Tracey Jane Cooper

 

Summer Infusion by Tracey Cooper

 Summer Infusion


Biography

Tracey recently began painting again after many years dreaming about it.

I’m inspired by nature, particularly the sky. The sun and it’s warmth or coolness always feature, sometimes you can feel the heat of the sun in them, often the flowers are blistering in the intensity of it and that’s what I like to portray.
 
I paint mainly with acrylic, sometimes with watercolour for more fluidity, depending on the piece.
.

https://twitter.com/traceyjanesart

 

 

Weekend Showcase : Brenna Layne (Writer)

19 Sep

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

______

Brenna Layne

 

The Glass Box

.

Love is the crooked thing.
—William Butler Yeats

 

Prologue

Imagine a village.

Imagine it perching high on a steep slope just above the treeline, clinging to the mountainside like a bird to a branch in the instant before it takes flight.

You have seen such villages before, and you know how the winter wind laces its fingers through the cracks under doors and around windows, crying to be let in. You know that scrabbling a scant living from rocky soil has carved deep lines around the mouths and eyes of the men and women. You know that their children run wild over rock and alpine meadow, driving the goats home just before twilight falls.

You have seen such villages before, and you know their inhabitants. There is always a mayor. He always has a wife who died in childbirth, and an ample waistcoat, and some number of lovely daughters, and the sharpness of his vision always extends just to the borders of his own town.

There is always a healer, an old man or woman whose cottage smells of pungent herbs. The healer always sees a little farther than the mayor, just far enough to see his or her own death as it approaches, padding on soft paws up from the foothills.

There is always a holy man, too, though he goes by different names—prophet, seer, madman, poet, fool. He stands with one foot in this world, and one in another. He sees things that do not exist, and hears voices on the wind.

There are always craftspeople, filling the streets (which are always winding) with the music of their industry, and their forges and kilns and looms and ovens are always attended by wide-eyed and slightly underfed apprentices. The craftspeople and their apprentices squint inward, into the mysteries of fire and clay, the warp and weft of fabric, and the alchemy of rising dough.

There is always a beautiful young woman, and a minimum of two strapping young lads are always in love with her at any given time. Whether one rival kills the other will determine many of the events which will follow.

And there is always another, a stranger blown in by the mountain storms that rage about the peak.

You have seen such villages before, but not this one.

This village backs up like a cornered animal against an impassable mountain peak, which is not unexpected. A thick forest covers the slopes below the village, hemming it in, which is also not surprising. If this were any other village, a path would run through the forest. Few of the villagers would venture down it, of course, but occasionally a small caravan would make its way up the mountain to trade. Perhaps once or twice in a generation, a young woman or man, weary of smoky fires fueled by goat dung and houses huddled together against the wind like old gossips, would venture down the path that wound through the towering firs and aspens, and would embark on a quest for True Love or Adventure.

But there is no path through this forest. There may have been, once, but the trees have grown close together. The forest is expanding, inching slow fingers up the slopes. Every year, the grazing lands grow a little smaller. Every year, the village boundary contracts just a little, almost too little to be worth noticing. The villagers have built a low boundary wall of the grey stone that is their chief natural resource. The wall keeps nothing out or in. A child can step over it. The wall is a reminder only, a way of marking time. Each year, the forest creeps a little closer.

Nothing in the village is wooden, unless it is a hundred years old. The sounds of axes never echo off the mountainside, and there has not been a carpenter in the village for a hundred years. If there were Woodsmen here once, no one now living remembers them. And no one ever, ever ventures beneath the shadow of the trees.

There is something moving in the forest. What it may be, no one can say. The villagers understand one thing about the forest—whoever enters it will die. Because there is always an exception to prove the rule, a boy wandered into the trees once, seven years ago, and sprinted out again with only emptiness behind his eyes. Now he speaks in riddles by day, and screams at night. Now, if a child dares another child to dart between the trunks and back again, both children’s fathers set the rope to their backs, for love of them.

No one comes to the village through the forest. From time to time during the brief summers, when the slopes burst into a patchwork of color, a traveler-mage materializes without warning in the village square. No one else has business with the village. The only enticements it has to offer are copious amounts of goat cheese and the beautiful young woman, and both these things can be found in any other town of its size.

Once upon a time—or somewhere in its general vicinity—a man came to the village. If this was a different story, such an occurrence would hardly be worth mentioning. To this village, however, no one ever came, and so the event proved to be not only noteworthy but very nearly cataclysmic.

The villagers feared the stranger when he first arrived, because he had emerged alive and whole from the forest, and the light of reason still shone in his eyes. They watched him as he set up camp on the slope just above the village, wondering how long he would stay, and if he had brought anything to bargain over. One or two wondered if he had anything worth taking, and calculated whether anyone would notice if he went missing. Then they watched him as he built a house after the manner of their own, lifting and stacking stones and roofing it with sod, and wondered what he could possibly be thinking, to settle there.

This man’s name was not Frost, but he called himself that anyway, and so that was how the villagers came to know him. When he arrived, more than a few of the village maidens sighed and pined and batted their eyelashes, until their fathers asked them if they had something in their eyes, while their mothers wisely asked nothing and silently wondered if they, too, were not too old to be sighing and pining and batting. If this were another story, this would have been due to devastating personal beauty or at least a seductive aura of danger on Frost’s part. However, it was due mainly to the fact that Frost paid no attention to anyone, and did not smell like goats.

At first, he threatened to live up to his name. On closer inspection, everyone found that their first impressions had been correct. Frost was, in fact, as cold as the winter winds that swept down from the peak, freezing the goats’ milk in the pail in the time it took to move between the shed and the kitchen.

The next time the traveller-mage arrived in town, he brought, for some inscrutable reason, a great quantity of window-glass. Frost bought most of it, and fitted his stone cottage with windows looking up toward the peak and out over the treetops below. The villagers shook their heads, but a few of them bought glass, too, when the others weren’t looking, and replaced the goatskin-covered windows in their own houses. The traveller-image returned the next spring with more glass, and by the time he left, most of the windows in the village glinted in the sunlight, though all but the stranger’s looked back toward each other, away from the storm-wreathed mountain and the shadows of the trees.

Time passed. People got married, had children, grew old, and died, hemmed in by the trees that pressed closer each year. Many things happened, but three in particular are worth noting. In order, they are these:

1) The village matchmaker died.

2) The mayor, improvising as mayors must, broke with hundreds of years of tradition that dictated that the matchmaker be an eccentric old woman, and foisted the job off on Frost.

3) The beautiful young woman vanished without a trace.

Because you have known villages like this one, you know that a village has a long memory, but also a prodigious capacity for forgetfulness. By the time three more winters had come and gone, the first and third things had become irrelevant, and only the second mattered. It mattered because of a glass box. Because you have known stories like this one, you have heard about a princess in a glass box, who is awakened by True Love’s Kiss.

This is not that story.

 

nb. the above is the beginning of a larger meta-fairytale which Brenna is currently developing. 

.

Biography

I am a writer, wife, mother, beekeeper, and chicken-wrangler living in rural Virginia. I write YA fantasy, and am currently seeking an agent.

http://brennalayne.com/

https://twitter.com/writerdotmom

Weekend Showcase : Anna Angell (Poet, Singer-Songwriter)

15 Aug

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

.

Anna Angell

.

 

.

 

 

Biography

Anna started off life in the beautiful Peak District and now resides in beautiful North Wales – jammy.  She qualified as a Speech and Language Therapist in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, then working mainly in Chester and Ellesmere Port.  She now spends most of her time laughing, crying and getting loco with her two delightful pre-school children.   She wrote a lot of poetry as a child but has only recently got back into it, thanks to the consistent nagging of her persistent husband.  This has also extended into song-writing with her beloved ukulele.  She tries to write honestly about the normal stuff in her life and is convinced that the things of the everyday are the porthole to eternity.  She hopes that by making the most of the short chances for creativity in between nappy changes and swimming lessons she can encourage other busy people to try this as well – and reap the benefits to mind body and soul.

 

Twitter             @a_a_angell
Bandcamp       http://annaangell.bandcamp.com/releases

…………………….debut EP ‘Love’s Life’

Email………… ..anna_angell@yahoo.co.uk

 

 

 

*If you would like to have a ‘Weekend Showcase’ or take part in one of our collaborations do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On page, or via the comments section. You would be welcome.

%d bloggers like this: