THE MAGIC OF ART: Canterbury classes.

Blodeuwedd, transferred image and mixed media

I used to be a professional storyteller, going to schools and events and sharing the myths & legends of times past, as well as co-creating stories in the moment. It was exhilarating! Certain tales have stayed with me, their themes resonating with my own inner life. One such is the Welsh legend of Blodeuwedd, made from 9 flowers (mainly tree flowers) who later turns into an owl. Here is some of my art work inspired by this story:

Blodeuwedd II, pastels on paper

Thinking of starting a private art class in Canterbury:
The Magic of Art 

I would offer inspiration in the form of story/poem/images and some technical guidance, if wanted. You bring along whatever materials you'd like to work with  and have fun creating.
Tuesday mornings
8 weeks : 2 and half hours: £100
INTERESTED?
jacquelinesummer@ymail.com
07939 06810

Elder Traces: a poem from the Metafour plus One exhibition coming soon! 3 -9 April, The Horsebridge Arts and Community Centre CT5 1AF www.horsebridge-centre.org.uk/

I am the tree 

  

All this time I have been outside

looking at a distance : separate.

Today I touch, press its yielding

flesh, leave my finger marks

on its grooved bark,          

so surprisingly soft.

If I tucked my digits into a fissure

could I prise open, lay bare

the inner flesh? Could I step in

be enwombed in an interior elder

held, subsumed, like Daphne, grow

into treeness, arms branching,

hair like twigs? My life blood sacrificed

 to the sweet mystery of earth water light

streaming, streaming

19.3.2012

Join us for Private View Wed. 3rd April 6 -8
Exhibition continues daily 9-5, final day 9-1

Poems inspired by an elder tree in my garden. I have watched it's cycle through one year.

Harvest

I waited

for a fanfare of fruiting

I imagined huge glossy bundles

of purple goodness dangling

instead you offered gradual sprigs

of ready berries

never a whole treeful,

some black-ripe while others

wait greenly.

Passing birds feed

leaving sprigs half empty

depositing wine stains below.

Your quiet ripening is a giving,

a relinquishing-

not a feast for the eyes; but

a dispersal of seeds

to ensure future generations

survive.

Late afternoon

The world washed into newness

a sparkling of late sun brings

this brief bright moment;

a droplet of light,

perched on a leaf tip,

beads of green shading to wine purple

lifted like offerings to the sky gods.

Jacqueline Summer 5.8.12

Transformation

In place of foamy flowers

come stark bracts

tipped with sparse green beads

coalescing into would-be berries

curiously few;

May’s abundance replaced by

austere June. Rocked by high winds,

the heavens in turmoil,

your sacrificial wound gashes

against the fence, groaning

while I long for the slow heat, the haze of

never-ending childhood summers.

22.6.12

Poetry

June Elder

Seven days of rain seem biblical,

how many kinds can there be?

Drizzle, mizzle, patter, sprinkle,

easing up, pouring down......

Squalling wind has scattered confetti across the lawn

discarding your tiny flowers with abandon.

Now for the anticipation of fruitfulness,

the burgeoning of pulpy purple clusters,

intoxicating abundance ripening,

if only the clouds would release the sun.

13.06.12