The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett It is always dusk when the cycle resets, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shadows against the masonry as I plunge down the same discrepant corridor, a passage that bends against geometry, narrowing and widening like an inhaling throat. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook...
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The Unseen Shadows
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In The Unseen Shadows, the viewer is presented with a thought-provoking exploration of the psychological inter-relationship of creativity. This artwork delves into the role of subconscious emotional traits as a catalyst for malevolent creativity, shedding light on the unseen shadows that can influence our positioning to enact creativity.
The portrait that emerges from this is both compelling and paradoxical. On the one hand, creativity is often celebrated for its positive impact, but on the other hand, it can also be shrouded in malevolent shadows. The artwork seeks to correlate the inferences between powerful and regressive symbols of harmful creativity with cognitive and motivational facets of the grip fueled by creativity's darker side. The intricate dance of shadows draws on Plato's cave allegory, with oppression acting as a distorted puppeteer that can cast a veil of gloom over our cognitive impulses.
The emotional aspects can cast a unique shadow by continually adding layers of complexity. Although the intention offers insights, they are layered with limitations. Like Plato's chained prisoners, our view of reality can be obscured, and self-reported measures can lead to potential self-restrictions. The complexity of the artwork's surface emphasises the possible inclusion of other puppeteers, their personality traits and imposed environmental factors. At its core, The Unseen Shadows postulates a cyclical relationship that fosters imposition and malevolent creativity, and how each exacerbates the other into a perpetual dance of semi-transparent shadows.
This work aligns with and extends the broader collection of my previous psychological portraits, emphasising the transformative influence of even the subtlest strokes of containing human behaviour. Overall, The Unseen Shadows is a sobering reminder that strategic hooks can profoundly impact our creative impulses, casting a gloomy veil over others and restricting our ability to see the world outside of our fabricated cave. Breaking free from this cycle of shadows is crucial to unlocking the full potential of our creativity and leading fulfilling lives.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
The Terminal Horizon Highway The Terminal Horizon Tourist Bus Would you catch the Terminal Horizon bus? Travel sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The Long Highway Out here, the world ends not in silence, but in fire. The asphalt bleeds into cracked red earth, stretching toward a bruised horizon where the sky refuses to cool. Behind the glass, you drive chasing ghosts through a desert that forgot rain a lifetime ago. Beneath the Scorch Every road leads deeper into the furnace. Even below the surface, the rock fissures and weeps, hot steam rising through subterranean fractures where molten veins pulse in the dark, feeding an ancient, unforgiving heat. Broken Arteries What we built couldn’t hold. Rails twist into the dunes, swallowed by iron sand and wind. Bridges split down the seam, concrete splintered into raw bone, tangled rebar, and dying wires crackling into the smoke. The machines stopped; the wasteland stayed. The Last Horizon And when the road finally runs out, the...
From Adelaide River to Daly Waters Somewhere south of the Adelaide River "South of the Adelaide River" explores the haunting intersection of modern progress and forgotten history in the vast stretches of the Northern Territory. At the center of the composition stands the specter of a lone soldier, a poignant symbol of profound loss and of abandoned souls swallowed by the unforgiving outback. Stripped of a specific name, era, or mission, the figure represents all those left behind by the relentless march of time—individuals whose sacrifices and stories faded into the scrubland while the world simply moved on. The striking juxtaposition of this spectral wanderer beside a towering, contemporary road train underscores a profound sense of isolation. The heavy machinery of the modern world inches forward down the isolated track, entirely oblivious to the lingering ghosts of the past tethered to the roadside. The brilliant, atmospheric lighting that breaks through the forest canopy ...
Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier The sky is bleeding into the dirt again, and the old hunger crawls up through my boots. It no longer matters. Time does not march out here. It pools beneath a dry creek bed, stagnant and unseen. But when the moon swells, heavy and bruised with copper rust, the cold in my ribs becomes a scald. The scrub does not burn with heat. It burns with memory. Through the tangled mallee, I see the flash of artillery, the orange-red roar of a barrage that never stopped falling, trapped forever inside the rib cages of these dead gums. I taste copper on my tongue, sharp as rifle oil and dried blood. The black heavens press down, bending the whole world inward until I am trapped inside a glass bead of fire. I pace the boundary where red light cuts into deep shadow, waiting for a relief column that lost its heading eighty years ago. Everything here is parched. I am so thirsty. But I do not want water. I want your nourishment. I want your dawn, your warm pulse, as yo...
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