Snake and Octopus: drawing by Trevor Cunnington

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From my sketchbook. I like a balance between abstraction and figurativity. I'm not a fan of Abstract Expressionism at all because of its extreme arbitrariness. I do like geometric-based abstraction that veers towards OpArt. In most arts, when we talk about value, I think there are two general poles of evaluation: vision and technical skill. Movements like hyperrealism value the latter over the former. I tend to value the former over the latter. For instance, Henri Rousseau was often considered a "naive" artist because his technical skill was somewhat underdeveloped. However, the quality of his vision was very powerful and remains impactful. I tend to be somewhat critical of the popularity of hyperrealism because of its overdependence on technical skill. However, some of its representatives, such as the work of Richard Estes, combines a powerful vision with advanced technical skill, culminating in masterpieces. My technical skill is low, but I think I have better-than-average artistic vision.

Joy, a poem by myself (Trevor Cunnington)

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Joy

It churns smokelike out from the belly

in waves and gurgling noises, accompanying 

drink, festivals, dance, and song

gains momentum once let off the leash

spreads through a cluster of humanity

as if contagious, as if necessary for survival;

it can be found on a beloved’s face at 

airports, train stations, and bus terminals;

it swallows long absences,

in bellies with room enough for loneliness

and its disappearance, slowly, dry ice clouding 

the room and simulating blindness.

Survival

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Raffled, these ruffled feathers

of a trumpeter swan, not the mute leathery

texture of a turtle, taken in a touch

written by a referee, only a dry basin

short barks followed by a full minute

of observation; what does she see?

Castle, up on the promontory flowers bloom

in the desert, apricots, smaller fruits, dates, olives

Who knows when of the earth's powers soon

in-un-depleted, in hope what? Water, water. . .

nowhere, but drops to drink in the form of fog

that moistens the lips during the arduous hunts

Margarine taunts, migraine haunts, desert rat

barbecue we haven't been hardened to anything

but surviving as a primary aim. . .

it was just the future in an image

if fie! you build it, otherwise cometh

an uncertain lineage, as if liberation

was in that image repeated in an otherwise

identitarian crisis.

Natural Rock Climbing Wall

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Our Respite in Mouths.

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From here to there is not so far a distance
lines short of breadth, easier to read instants
coming one upon the other, as in a capillary
My mother upon the ocean, where is the distillery?
 
A long line or a short, a harpoon and some water
that weary hath the coastline travelled, with father
After another, it is disaster averted
to an amoeba with lines fishing, ship refurbished
on the distant shore, a choir started to sing
and called forth from the air, a munificent ring
of sub-tones, timbres spare and pure, tear
ducts were primed, stuck writing and not throwing spears

A long last line, that’s the ticket; it will sell
partially from a wicket, perhaps at a game of cricket
dancing down the lane until all hell breaks out
tell-no-one because of its inarticulateness

Ring the Death Knell, or a heart, smartly quelled
to hand a rivet, in all proportion, heart swelled
Can you think of nowhere to stick it?

The Heart it smarts, how lapidary is that?
Rocks charted in their promontories, exact
Tit for tat now, medical kits stowed in the apse
of the boat’s prow, sedulous pap for the penny press

If you’ve got vertigo, I’ll go down with impetigo
lord have mercy, where do we go, sit down
collect sequoia dust, reel in the nets, sea gulls
have their impresarios, their petty thefts, but deftly
done in the summer-wet air, a torso with heft
ok, that was a bit of a stretch, go big, sea gulls to eagles

Don Juan leans the other way
like a pasta drenched in sauce bearnaise.
Rocks, citronella candled,
jazz cradled in my lap, nice place for a vaycay.

Jonah in the belly,
oysters on the counter,
water’s rising, Jelly
sperm whale lantern.

Stars to guide. The Gill Guild.
A rickety chair at the end
of the journey. A sturdy
chair for the boat. A dusty
anchor on the rust-top
boat seats.

Fire. It all ends in fire. Tweet

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I've been having fun photographing drawings, and them digital manipulating them to make interesting patterns. Here are a couple I made recently. 

 

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I'd just like to thank the wonderful folks @openartsforum, especially Raymond Huffman, for supporting my poetry by publishing it on their site. Currently, I have one poem that was featured on the main page, and soon I will have another. I've included a link below. They also feature some stellar visual artists. They have a bunch of themed forums, so if you're a writer, you can workshop pieces in the workshop section. Currently, it's slow, but the more people visit, the more active it will become. 

I've added a link in the sidebar to their site. 

Open Arts Forum | Underwaterworld This is the latest poem they've published of mine. There are other wonderful poets associated with the site. Have a look!

www.openartsforum.com

 

Flowers: Drawing by Trevor Cunnington

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This is a drawing by Cecile Carriere, an artist from Paris, who I collaborated with in 2007. I wrote poems in response to her drawings, mostly in English, but I tried a few clumsy ones in French that she gracefully edited as well. I showed someone in the arts scene here in Toronto her drawings, and they dismissed her as an Egon Schiele wannabe. That hurt my feelings on her behalf, to be honest. Her drawings really speak to me. Perhaps it's because she has a knack for fluid lines, whereas in my drawings, lines are either straight or rounded. I often admire what is beyond my reach as an artist the most. 

This particular drawing never ceases to astonish me. At first glance, all you see is a strange figure in different phases of movement simultaneously. But as you glance at it, there emerge four distinct postures, that seem static in themselves, but when combined give a pleasing sense of movement, almost of dance. You see a person jumping, with knees slightly bent; you see a person standing on one foot (although no ground is indicated), and leaning slightly backward, as if they are losing their balance and about to fall. The combination of implied clumsiness of this figure, and the graceful dance aspect create a wonderful sense of tension and contrast that impels you to fasten your eyes on it for longer. Also, you see a person in the upper left quadrant kneeling and crouched over, and looking curiously at . . . the figures that are jumping, or leaning backward. This suggests the bare bones of narrative. Finally, if you focus on the upper right quadrant, the jumping figure becomes a kneeling figure, but unbent over, again suggesting a different set of movements than the lower half of the drawing, from kneeling crouched over to kneeling and upright. This figure has their arm bent over their head, as if they are scratching their back. The decision to leave out a "ground" creates this ambiguity that lends itself to different movements, and ultimately to narrative. A wonderful complexity emerges from the deceptive simplicity of this drawing that demands more than a glance. Bravo Cecile!!!!

 

Dogs Enjoying Themselves in the Heat

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