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Other Works

Hooked

I am like a greedy fish
swimming upstream.
Against a current, pushing–
I chase a promise, yearning–
follow the flashing lure–
refracted dreams.

I am like a groping fish
submerged in a belief.
Against a tide of counsel–
I chase a premise, turning–
bite the hidden barbs–
practised bleeds.

I am like a flagging fish
struggling to breed.
Against a rapid fire–
I chase a phantom, burning–
through invisible lines,
reel me in.

 © Gillian McConnell – 2011
Picture
Hooked – 33"h x 44"w – 2011
Flying into the Wordless – winner of The Underlying Spirit: an Homage to Emily Carr – 2011
Flying into the Wordless
Flying into the Wordless – 45"h x 35.5"w – 2011 – SOLD
There is something bigger than fact: the underlying spirit, all it stands for, the mood, the vastness, the wildness.
                                         Emily Carr, Journal One, page 14.

I made a small sketch… The woods were in a quiet mood, dreamy and sweet. No great contrasts of light and dark but full of quiet flowing light and fresh from the recent rain, and the growth full, steady and ascending.

Whitman’s Still Midnight — “This is thine hour, O soul, thy free flight into the wordless”—sang in my heart. I've a notion, imagination perhaps, that if you are slightly off focus, you vision the spiritual a little clearer. Perhaps it is that one is striving for something a bit beyond one’s reach, an illusive something that can scarcely bear human handling, that the “material we” scarcely dare touch. It is too bright and vague to look straight at; the brutality of a direct look drives it away half imagined, half seen. It is something that lies, as Whitman says, in that far off inaccessible region, where neither ground is for the feet nor path to follow.                                                                                                                                      Emily Carr
Picture The Arc of Water Falling – 45.25"h x 100"w – 2003

Five

Truly to set in words,
five things are my despair;
the flower of the poinciana,
the scent of a woman’s hair,

the burst of a cigarette-end
flung hard against a stone,
the arc of water falling,
the longing in the bone.

                                    Lex Banning
The Arc of Water Falling  captures the mystery of a tempest—black clouds flooding the landscape into a formless abstraction. Air, light and water set adrift from the sugar cane fields while the sun bathes the mountains behind in liquid gold.