Recently I collaborated with a very talented writer and musician. Over 14 days, I did quick 30min sketches, emailed them to him, and he responded with a poem. We decided to leave them 'as is' without further tweaking or edits - o.k that's a lie, we did a tiny minimal amount of editing, otherwise I would have been tempted to finish the really sketchy ones. Overall I think the result is rather interesting because it shows how I work - pulling collages together first in order to work out my ideas, then the sketchy draft and lastly the finished, polished piece.
I really enjoyed this project as it allowed me to quickly work out some things that had been floating around in my head and loosely scribbled in notebooks. The time limit and the thought that my collaborator was waiting for my drawings added a nice pressure. There are still 4 more that need their accompanying written piece, but they will be updated when that happens. I hope you find the finished result interesting :)
We must get to the slopes, past
The choppy waves, I have a wish
In my bones to arrive, it does not
Matter if I'm asleep or awake.
A howling gale is splashing the waters
And wrinkles grip my skin like ropes,
The mast of my sail is still strong and
My compass gives right direction and scope.
After a cold evening playing outside
Toes licked at the fireplace,
And the eyes and face have felt
The rising chimney stacks
Bricked across suburban
In the sun.
Biscuit crumbs on
I'm not allowed,
But I want to,
The gate is pretty
Hard and it holds
The velvet lake of lips,
The grass seed is still hard,
Too heavy for the wind and
Quiet as monks in a canoe,
Dragonflies move closer
To the time when they will
Be spread out on a tablecloth,
Or drying on a clothes horse
By a fire, upended
And cast aside.
It is not found here,
It is in the valleys and the fields
Under the clouds that rain down
And the leaves that fall.
It is in the train that passes by
mucking the sleet, burning the coals,
Under street lamps upon coastal
Promenades smashed by winds
And in the hedges sheltering the birds.
It is in the trickle running down the bark
And on the spade standing at the shed,
Quietly waiting without a word,
Asking for no more.
Rock has two or three colors, depending
On the season. The north facing wall has
Marks and lichens, put there in cold fronts.
October birch is pale faced as a baby in
A pram spinning a rattle of doves and fishes,
Waiting to leave and be set
Alight with the bulrushes.
They want to be like us, make
Love, but when
They awake they revert
Back to their own ways.
Uploading data and
It would be nice to touch
Skin, or in the right moment be frank.
Shelves of rain on the meadow
As if they were
Ghosts in the wild
Twinkling in swathy complexions
Over the bog,
Horseman's boot upon the peat
And a martyr
For the cause,
For a moment, taking
Never a fear in play, springing
Around in silhouettes, jumping at
Flies and annoying horses
Only when I lie down
Do you come and smell me,
Fast and innocent
Patter paw on dirty floor
Came to see you and say hello.
I just wanted to go there and see
What happens. It's good to get
Away. I'll know when I get there!
Last time on the train I fell asleep
In one town and woke up in another.
Do you still go to the woods every
Morning after breakfast and pick
Flowers. I like that. I should make
More time for my own morning
Strolls. My Mother is asking for you,
'Are you's two stilling palling around
With each other'. I wish She wouldn't
Ask anymore, but mother's are like
That, so its alright. Anyway, I am your
Pal! I'll call next week.