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Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River

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  Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River The Adelaide River Rupture (image to be uploaded - subscribe to be notified) The storm did not break over the Adelaide River plains; rather, reality tore open along the track. To the left, the familiar Top End landscape clung fiercely to its quiet melancholy. A lone gum tree stood sentinel over the charred scrub and dry earth, its leaves catching the last bruised light of a brooding wet-season sky. In the hollow below, the old fictional homestead crouched beside the rutted dirt road, enduring the heavy stillness that always settles before the atmosphere ruptures. Then came the tear. It began not with thunder, but with an overwhelming, luminous heat that shredded the grey overcast into molten ribbons. You could feel the vortex of raw energy sweeping through radiant ambers, searing cadmium oranges, and blinding celestial whites. The vortex descended like a folded dimension brushing against the earth. Where the atmospheric rift touch...
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Celeste Demon Cage

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Sacrificed to celebrate loss
Adoration as the judgement falls
All flaws are exposed
As small and insignificant histories

Where generosity leads demise
Forced, captured and impounded
The ritual once initiated has to be completed
To endure the next cycle
As a lesson learned
To strive from failure
Through strategy of small loss

In time
And in the power of time
Once possessed as property
Reborn and yet returned
You must wait until approved
Until the deception is honoured
Before you can act
before you are human again
To regain your reputation
In adoration of yourself



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Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River

-
Image
  Every stop is a story - Darwin to Adelaide River The Adelaide River Rupture (image to be uploaded - subscribe to be notified) The storm did not break over the Adelaide River plains; rather, reality tore open along the track. To the left, the familiar Top End landscape clung fiercely to its quiet melancholy. A lone gum tree stood sentinel over the charred scrub and dry earth, its leaves catching the last bruised light of a brooding wet-season sky. In the hollow below, the old fictional homestead crouched beside the rutted dirt road, enduring the heavy stillness that always settles before the atmosphere ruptures. Then came the tear. It began not with thunder, but with an overwhelming, luminous heat that shredded the grey overcast into molten ribbons. You could feel the vortex of raw energy sweeping through radiant ambers, searing cadmium oranges, and blinding celestial whites. The vortex descended like a folded dimension brushing against the earth. Where the atmospheric rift touch...
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WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT

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  WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT Does art derive its validity from the skill of the creator's hand, or from the cultural scaffolding that forces our conscious spotlight onto the object? This gallery space has thrown down a direct challenge. Dominating the centre wall, glowing in bright white neon above the shattered glass and the Campbell's Soup Can, is a raw, uncomfortable question: "WHAT CAN MAKE UP FOR LACK OF TALENT?"  This neon sign acts as the ultimate cognitive mirror, forcing us to reconcile the two extremes hanging on either side of the gallery. The Postmodern Answer: Frame and Hype Look at the soup can sitting in the spotlight. Postmodernism, driven by Andy Warhol and Pop Art, gave a cynical, revolutionary answer to this neon question: Context, branding, and institutional framing make up for a lack of talent. Postmodernism declared that you don't need the masterly brushwork of the Renaissance or the sublime emotional intensity of Mark Rothko. An art...
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The infected touching antiquity

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  The infected touching antiquity Do you feel divinity when you touch antiquity? Metamodernist art by JJFBbennett Stand before a marble relic, and you find yourself at the threshold of contact. The museum enforces detachment. Do you feel the decay and contamination your hands carry? But what happens when your flesh touches ancient stone? To reach out is an act of somatic friction. Our mortal residue, sebaceous oils and living warmth, ruptures the sterile illusion of the untainted idol. We drag the pristine monument down into the mess of human mortality. Yet, the instinct to touch is an innate longing for connection. Laying bare skin against ancient form collapses millennia, sparking a euphoric link to what came before. Touch restores, renews, and opens an otherworldly portal beyond everyday perception. Touching antiquity infects its distant divinity with our decay, but in that very transgression, it bridges the void—granting the seeker genuine transport into transcendent awe. Marks...
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