Most recent post

LOGS FROM THE VOID

-

 LOGS FROM THE VOID

To access the journals, consider subscribing to JJFBbennett via:

The Highway and the Lost Soldier


What began in Journal 001 as "The Whisper of the Rust", a haunting, ancient frequency in the desert static that lured travellers into the spinifex, soon became a physical threat in Journal 002 "The Salt and the Sinew", as a crawling, unnatural drought began parching the land and its people, reclaiming their very moisture as an ancient debt. 


Now, in Journal 003: The Tithe of the Living, this relentless hunger has materialised on the Stuart Highway as "The Thirst That Walks." Even the sealed, air-conditioned sanctuary of a tourist bus cannot protect the living, as a single open door is all it takes for this towering, desert-born apparition to demand its devastating, liquid toll.





My YouTube Music Station: 
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrxQKZRnAka3dliF7lp1-Ow






John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 


To support my art, feel free to 
  • become a subscribed member via Patreon
  • donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal  


Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Artist statement - AI ART and Meaning

-
Image
  AI ART and Meaning What role does an artist play when employing AI? Artist statement by JJFBbennett If we accept that AI can generate vast quantities of statistically “meaningful” content from data and algorithms, then meaningful art may lie not in the output itself, but in its selection and framing. AI functions as a kind of unconscious, producing raw material at scale. The artist’s role shifts from maker to curator: deciding what to extract from the data’s noise, what to present as art, the context in which it appears, and the conversation it enters. The artist as the muddler and meddler in the centre of it all. This shift has an art-historical precedent. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain* made a decisive claim: the artist had not sculpted the urinal but selected it, titled it, and placed it in a gallery. Meaning arose from the gesture of choice rather than the act of making. Walter Benjamin, too, anticipated this logic in his reflections on montage and editing: meaning can e...
Read more

Blood Moon Scrub - Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier

-
Image
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...
Read more

The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching

-
Image
  The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Pine Creek Storm Front Torn black filaments of wind and shadow seemed to claw straight out of the atmosphere, dripping down like hot tar, twisting through the spindly ironwo...
Read more