S U S A N A C H R I S T I E
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COMING EVENTS
SUSAN A CHRISTIE
When you Walk Among the Stars
The Center Gallery Fine Art
201 South Foch Street
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
(505) 428-8418
For More Information Email Susan
The Center Fine Art Gallery is Opening a second location in T or C.
Stay Tuned for More Information.
I have an ongoing relationship with the Gallery.
Enquire for New Work.
Gallery Website Under Construction.
For Full Screen Below - Click on the Symbol on the Bottom Right
When you Walk Among the Stars
The Center Gallery Fine Art
201 South Foch Street
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
(505) 428-8418
For More Information Email Susan
The Center Fine Art Gallery is Opening a second location in T or C.
Stay Tuned for More Information.
I have an ongoing relationship with the Gallery.
Enquire for New Work.
Gallery Website Under Construction.
For Full Screen Below - Click on the Symbol on the Bottom Right
Botanical Magic Boxes
Small - Left Below, Japanese "Shikishi" or Paper Covered Board with Gold Foil Edging.
Painted background with an added three dimensional Collagé of Dried Flowers grown in my Garden.
The Collagé is fixed with a non toxic spray. Packaged in a box with instructions.
3" x 3" dimension - $79 each
Large - Right Below, Japanese Circle Shikishi with Gold Foil Surround.
Painted background with an added three dimensional Collagé of Dried Flowers grown in my Garden.
The Collagé is fixed with a non toxic spray. Packaged in a box with instructions.
5" x 5" - $89
(Apologies from the artist as these are imperfect Studio Photographs)
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Botanical Magic Boxes
Installation at the Center Gallery Fine Art
A generation after Virginia Woolf rasped in the only surviving recording of her voice that “words belong to each other,” Pablo Neruda writes:
… You can say anything you want, yessir, but it’s the words that sing, they soar and descend … I bow to them … I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down … I love words so much … The unexpected ones … The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop … Vowels I love … They glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew … I run after certain words … They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem … I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives … And then I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go … I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves … Everything exists in the word … An idea goes through a complete change because one word shifted its place, or because another settled down like a spoiled little thing inside a phrase that was not expecting her but obeys her … They have shadow, transparence, weight, feathers, hair, and everything they gathered from so much rolling down the river, from so much wandering from country to country, from being roots so long … They are very ancient and very new … They live in the bier, hidden away, and in the budding flower.
… You can say anything you want, yessir, but it’s the words that sing, they soar and descend … I bow to them … I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down … I love words so much … The unexpected ones … The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop … Vowels I love … They glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew … I run after certain words … They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem … I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives … And then I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go … I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves … Everything exists in the word … An idea goes through a complete change because one word shifted its place, or because another settled down like a spoiled little thing inside a phrase that was not expecting her but obeys her … They have shadow, transparence, weight, feathers, hair, and everything they gathered from so much rolling down the river, from so much wandering from country to country, from being roots so long … They are very ancient and very new … They live in the bier, hidden away, and in the budding flower.
