I’m in the run-up to the exhibition now, feeling nervous and daunted, I guess, but also optimistic that it will all come together. And that people will come and give the work some critical appreciation.
I’ve always found exhibiting the hardest part of being artist. It’s like making a journey to the factory where dreams are made.
Outside the Mental Institute
She prays for sparkling rain,
waiting in the earthed place;
no sound or movement
at the end of the moment,
resting on Lethe’s heels.
She picks bones from the dog-tray,
speaks silently to the wedding;
every awakening breath a reminder
of salad days on the empty moon.
She sings of life on unmade weeks;
thinks of love lost in the breathing soup,
whilst looking forward to feeding time
in the factory where dreams are made.
She doesn’t hold on to candles any more;
or conspire flight from Malkuth
during the culling season
when the angels aren’t looking.
She slips in and out of breakfast;
drowses in momentary bursts;
reading slowly to the vacant air
on nights when the jailor sleeps.
She washes her footsteps;
spills seamlessly into far-off intimacies
and treasures each jewel-like drop
those water-skin memories
fragile as a leaf skeleton.
(c) Colin Hambrook 2013