Here’s another fascinating rabbit warren to explore in the writing world. I’ve been to a couple of talks this year that have mentioned ekphrasis and I’m starting to get my head around it. It’s traditionally a poetry term and the Poetry Foundation explains it as:
‘… a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning. A notable example is “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, in which the poet John Keats speculates on the identity of the lovers who appear to dance and play music, simultaneously frozen in time and in perpetual motion.” (Poetry Foundation)
For the latest Live Reading run by the Hunter Writers Centre, we were invited to respond to the artworks of James Drinkwater, showcased by the Newcastle Art Gallery. His vibrant paintings, sculpture and mixed media works prompted 25 writers to read out their ekphrastic responses to an enthusiastic audience. Most readings were poems but I was amongst several people who responded in prose.
The artwork that I responded to was titled ‘Surrender – a self portrait 2019’ and it was listed as a ‘mixed media assemblage’. For copyright reasons, I can’t show you a photo and its picture isn’t shown in the catalogue, but perhaps you’ll be sufficiently intrigued to get along to the exhibition (ends 11 August 2019). On the other hand, the following picture (by Mysticartdesign) is free to use so, while it looks NOTHING like Drinkwater’s artwork, it’ll give you a flavour of where my imagination flew. (Be warned – I may have been reading dystopic fiction!)
The Messenger
Novocastrians, I come with news from the Tableland. I know from your good Leader that I am the first traveller who has made it past the brigands that beset the road over Barrington to reach your coastal commune.
My Leader has sent me to ask — nay, implore — you for your help. He charges me to tell you of our troubles, and seek your aid. He is sure that, once you learn of the situation, you can but send every able-bodied fighter to join the massed army he is raising to fight the Threat.
But I go too fast, forgive me. My need is pressing and, in my agitation, I have failed to undertake those observances as are right and proper for one who stands before the Sacred Offerings. I do so now, in honour of our forebears who fought, man and woman, boy and girl, to drive back those who would try to wrest the last arable land from us. I give thanks to the landmines that guarded our borders; I give thanks to the missiles that sent the planes falling from the sky above; I give thanks to the shells that rained like fire on their ships so that they could not breach our safe harbour. And more than these, I honour the struggle of those who, faced with the choice of the white flag of surrender or the black flag of death, picked up their bloody shields, spears and axes and fought and died so that we, the children of their children, could build anew. I pledge, with all here present, to continue our quest to leave our dying Earth and to look to the stars.
We have all made these observances again and again since we were children and so perhaps we could be forgiven if the words have grown comfortable in the saying. Our forebears’ struggles seem but tales to tell around the fire, now that we have food to roast on the spit and skins to keep the winter chill from our bones. But the threat from the South is real. The ice has reached the shire of Hornsby and the seas themselves start to heave with sludge.
I see you shake your heads. What? You think I exaggerate? Port Macquarie, the last stronghold of the North fell to the Threat barely a Moon span ago. Only the Tableland stands between us and the destruction of all we have fought for.
You keep your eyes fixed between your feet, sir. Perhaps you think that you would do better to defend your own commune rather than risk leaving it undefended? But think of the Sacred Offerings. Think of the lessons it teaches us. Only by uniting will we have sufficient force to successfully hold our ground and complete our quest.
Yes, I swear to you, the Golden Galaxy Voyager is nearing completion. Only one more section is needed. We are nearly to the top of the stairs to the stars. Would you have your children’s children say, as they shiver in their lonely ice caves, ‘if only’?
No. I see it in your eyes. No. A thousand times no. There will be no ‘if only’. We will not wave the white flag of surrender. We will fight, together, for the stars.