Dana Bubulj: Sculpture, Film, Shadows, Art

Their work, words and wonder

Category: In-Progress

Charity centurion

Well, we’re doing it -The Charity Centurion for Macmillan. And it’s quite different to last year.
First impressions after a full first day is that we’ve grown as creators. Knowing the drill, as it were, the room was set up in due time, the tea made. We also had  a benchmark of last year to base our output on. And remembered how hectic the second day was. The second day that’s ahead of us now!
But enough of that, what you want to see are finished pieces. I think both James and myself can say we’re more satisfied with a greater majority of our sides in execution – (to the expense of time taken!) Clearer themes less distracted, more coherent images.
We will be selling these to fundraise further, and go back to the Shelter ones too.
They’ll all be put up later, but 2 of my favourites so far have been:-

“It is 100 years since our children left.”

image

We have counted the days
We have clung to life through hope
And stubbornness
We have kept their rooms exactly as they left them
But for the stains of tears
And the scratches where we clawed at the walls.

When they came back they had not aged a day
But our eyes
So wide with love
Saw the subtle differences
The beady eyes
The jagged nails
Their teeth like tiny knives
We had thought the rats which plagued our village were just that
But now we know better.

And they looked at us like we were monsters
Perhaps we were
The years had not been kind
Sun and worry had worn our skin to leather
But we knew
Despite their pleadings
That when we tore them apart
It was for love.

After so long waiting
We would not allow our children to do this to another town.

Excalibur

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They really were supposed to be a pair
The scabbard that shielded from all harm
The sword that won all battles
Since losing one, I have become more wound than man
I have forgotten what it was to live without pain
I wonder sometimes what I looked like when I had skin
The days before I carried this hunched agony around
I assume now I must have imagined.
And still Excalibur will not let me die.
But my battle is never done
And I am so tired.
Perhaps I will have a short rest
And when I wake
They will have forgotten who I am
And that I was ever king
That sounds nice.

If you like these and want to support us, please do at our just giving page

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Shelter Centurion Rides Again

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Day Two of the shelter centurion is about to commence! Will concentrate on completing pieces rather than interweb for the moment. We’re at  practically fifty and James will be, due to the inexorable nature of geography, heading out of the dark metropolis in the eve.
Last (night) we crashed out at fiveish after about 13-15 hours. That’s a going rate of roughly (too long)!

See you on the flipside, and if you haven’t but can, so consider donating!

Shelter Centurion Pt 2

Well, we are 27 in. This is not necessarily the schedule we were planning, but what’s a fundraising challenge without any challenge?

The Fantastic James Webster has been posting quick shots of the finished cards, which you can find at his blog, so I thought I’d take a different tac and comment on the ones I find the most successful as pairs. (also my favourite images/text).

Obligatory Poem About Writing A Poem

I’m sorry.
I’m really sorry.
This process just isn’t that interesting,
like, I write down words on paper.
It’s hardly rocket science is it.
This was a really poorly conceived idea
and I’m absolutely not sure why I tried
it and oh gods I hate myself right now
I’m a fucking failure oh gods why why why
why why why why why why
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHYYYY!?!?!!!!!
Ahem, here is a story about a dragon.
Once upon a time, there was a little dragon.
Their name was the same as your name.
This is to engender sympathy from you, the reader.
A lot of their interests were the same as a lot of your interests. This is also to encourage you to identify with the dragon.
Like you, the dragon was totally alone.
Like you, the dragon had wings.
The dragon stretched his wings and laid waste to the kingdom cos kingdoms are for losers and neither you nor the dragon are a loser.
The dragon made the world what they wanted it to be: which is ‘on fire’.
There is a moral here.

Obligatory Poem About Writing Poetry

Second Star to the Left

“Second star on the left” he said
But the sky was so full of stars
And I’ve always been dyspraxic
(he didn’t understand the word)

I carried straight on til morning
I carried on longer still
I sank my teeth into my happy thoughts
And flew far beyond the stars.

I learnt to sail using Pyxis
I learnt to hunt from Orion
I lost my hand to a crocked star gone nova
I replaced it with a grappling hook.

I made a map of the heavens
And bombed Never Neverland from orbit

I am the girl the Lost Boys lost
But you can call me Captain Wendy

Second Star to the Right [Dana Bubulj James Webster]

Bees

He collects the honey from the bees
Just like he always does

He wears no mask
He wants them to see his face

He uses no smoke
He wants them cogent and clear

He is naked
He wants them to see their target

They sting him
They sting him everywhere
He is a cloud of buzzing, stripy pain

When they disperse
He wakes clutching a small jar of honey
His skin swelling up in swirled scripts

He spends the day reading the poems
The bees wrote in venom across his cells
A lot of the words begin with B.

He doesn’t mind.

Bees [Dana Bubulj James Webster]

I choose you

I burnt the village to the ground when I left
That’s why they call me Ash.

I don’t miss it much, my home was always the smell of sulphur
The flicker, drip and splutter of thick wax candles
The belch of flame from impish throats
And the pentagram fields of battle.

After the auguries, they tattooed my body with protective runes at birth
I summoned my first imp when I was three
My tongue bloody from the inhuman verbs
I murdered my father on my 8th birthday – it was easy.

And once my demons and I have claimed all 8 of the badges of hell
From the hunched overlords and their fattened incubi
I shall open up this earth
And drink it dry.

I choose you [Dana Bubulj James Webster]

 

Favourite poems/images that aren’t necessarily matched by other side in greatness:

Black Dog [Dana Bubulj James Webster]

Things That Are Orange

The fingerprints of god
Left in juice on a tree

The hatchet, just after
When it catches the light just right

The kraken when it rises
And the hysteria tears at our eyes

Rabbits caught by their own lust
And turned to furious, fucking, orange stone.

Your own face.

Everything that burns brightly
But never knows why.

Everything.
Everything.

Everything is orange now.
You hate orange.

Go on, call him,
Sob down the phone.
He too is orange.

 

And ever onwards!

 

 

 

Shelter Centurion Pt 1

Well, the Poetry Art Centurion has started (Donation link here)

Below’s a picture of the first ten/eleven completed pieces, with both images and poems.

People have been fabulous thusfar, providing prompts and donations – we’ve already hit £300, which is absolutely fantastic.

20150516_181116

This is going to be a long day, but definitely one that’s inspiring us – words are getting more surreal, pictures looser. It’s definitely a project we can be proud of. I’ll post a collection of the full images/ text later, though I believe we’re updating the Facebook event page quite frequently.

Right, back to the drawing board!

Poetry-Art Charity Centurion

In lieu of dusting this blog off, I’ve instead got some news to paraphrase from the lovely James Webster:-

With Britain in the grips of a housing crisis (not enough homes being built, ever-increasing numbers of homeless households, both house and rent prices spiralling up out of reach) and with a government promising further cuts to vital services, we wanted to do something to help.

As an artist and writer who’ve collaborated before on projects (including a work published in Issue 1 of Verse Kraken), we knew we wanted that help to involve putting our creative output to some concrete use.

So, inspired by the efforts of previous poets who’ve completed the ‘100 poems in a day challenge’, we are setting ourselves the task of creating 100 pieces of poetry/prose infused art in the space of a single day: Saturday 16 May.

If you’re able to spare anything at all to sponsor our efforts, we would be incredibly grateful. If not, then tweeting us some support during what promises to be a very long day would also be fantastic.

1. Sponsor us! The Justgiving page is here. All support would go to Shelter.

2. Share us! The more people you tell, the more support we get and the more people will see the creations on the day.

3. Inspire us! That is a lot to create, so we need prompts and things to base the pieces off! We can be contacted both on our blogs and elsewhere on the wires (@websterpoet and@pinstripeowl).

We’ll most likely be blogging about the work as well, so do keep an eye out for developments.

Sunrise from the other side

There’s a certain something to watching the world wake up: the slow creep of sun through the blinds making the lamplight look strangely hollow; outside waking and making the alarms seem so much harsher without the dampeners of sleep.

I often wonder where time went, when it got so late as to be early, whether I’d been busying myself with anything useful. I also notice, at times like these, if a date has snuck up on me, stealth mostly through my inattention.

Time to put the kettle on.

The Lightbulbs were hatching, light spilling from their centres like poached eggs.

Update: Knight Errant – Text draft (silent)

Put together a (mute) version of the story.
Are intertitle stories engaging? Is it simply TL;DR?
Did you lose interest half way through, did you sit at the end, wishing I had continued?
Are llamas red?
Inquiring minds must know! (Not about the llamas, I’m ok on that).

Knight at the Circus – Mute Text version (Work in Progress) from Pinstripeowl on Vimeo.

Feet in the Sky (status update)

feet in a playground

Playground: lounging in the air

Just a quick status update to say things are happening. Experimenting with multiple screens and simultaneous narratives. Will update soon, particularly with a post about London that I’ve been planning.

Night Owls and Music Halls

Oh I do seem to work best when the world is silent ‘cept for skitters and the odd animal yowl. It’s at that time that my brain lets loose the energy it needed distractions to help build up, like going into gear from an enforced neutral.

Today I am going to make a quiet film: using the story as narrative over waves and footage I shot in Leigh. I was thinking about Derek Jarman’s Blue the other day and want to see if that would work for something less contemplative and with dialogue.

If all else fails, it might just turn into a narration from Bagpuss.

On Saturday I was at Wilton’s Music Hall for the Hammer and Tongue Poetry Slam Final (will link to review once it’s up). The building is beautiful, all the more so for its unassuming façade hidden away in a back alley off Whitechapel. It’s the oldest music hall in the world, apparently, and the last functioning one. I’d like to see other events there and bask in the life the place has yet.

Fabulous columns

Wilton's Music Hall, taken from the side of the main hall, facing away from the stage.

Looking to the Sea

I forget, sometimes, that I should look to the sea itself.

This weekend I went to Leigh-on-Sea with a group of friends. We participated in an Abbey Night, turning off all our electrics (barring the fridge) and stocking up on candles. It was a great night, although I’d argue that with great company it was easier to break the bond with technology than were I alone. I may attempt to institute one of those for myself; if nothing else it’ll help me get more reading done.

But I digress.

What I wanted to talk about was the view. I borrowed someone’s phone to take photos, near blind by the sun so that I only had the vaguest notion of where I was aiming, and how they turned out. Predictably, the framing could be better.

At around four in the morning, we decided to visit the sea-front. Walking down to the shore past the empty boat-yard, laughing all the while at horror-film tropes. But when there, faced with the cold lapping of the water, we grew silent, staring out into the distance.

We were surrounded by sparse sounds of faded boats, their ropes swaying, knocking, against their masts and hulls. Vestiges of sea ghosts lingered on the sand, lending their translucence to the speckled debris.

It was quite a thing.

Leigh-on-sea: vast expanse of sky with boats on the water

Photograph taken in Leigh-on-Sea of boats under a vast expanse of sky