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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 Judgement Flower of Prey

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Like tears in the rain
Knowing all at once
This is not what we wanted
Trapped in this territory
That is deliberately scented to mask the  stench of our failure

So much bloodletting
Even to get even this far

Dancing repetitively across countless seasons
Hiding within one deception before attempting another
In praise of what is willed to become
I don't own my future

Plain and  unadorned and stumbling across timespans
On the surface
Everything recorded for keeping purposes
But acting as tokens that represent so much more
To the effect that
What is hidden is made to appear even more appealing

Hidden as a threat
Hidden for ownership

In secrecy
The promise that those who lie will lead themselves to death
Accepting that the more powerful gain invasive power
Through deceiving the meek
And this populous is frozen
It sits on own hands
In recognition and in horror of those that implement outrageous cunning






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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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