Crime Scene

click to enlarge

… of course it’s not — we stalked across the field … not sure what we could see — if it was a bird on a post; it was huge, vast, fright­ening … but it didn’t move … at all.
Perhaps it was just a dead, twisted remnant of gorse.

And then it did, of course, as we got too near.

It was a buzzard.

When it took flight and dipped and swooped to the nearest but safe vantage point, it dimin­ished — it was still large … but quanti­fiable, conforming, believable.

And it left behind its shit. Accumu­lated crap. An archival ossuary.
And a beautiful still life.


click to enlarge

Depressed and distressed but disen­chanted and disen­fran­chised by politics and the reporting thereof … and then, in one of of those strange serendip­itous moments, I’d just seen Cézanne’s Onions in a book and moments later was captivated by the flick­ering, raking winter sunlight setting the onions in the kitchen aglow, like jewels … and thought: why not? Or even: how could you not?

Hmmm … but something must have gone wrong somewhere.

I was after simplicity, beauty, serenity, honesty, even a sort of Van Gogh, onions and red cabbage, earth­iness … and N saw something menacing, threat­ening.

Back to the drawing board … or not — maybe we’re both right.


click to enlarge

Three of the Nine Maidens at Boskednan … Carn Galva in the background.

There are actually eleven stones, two are fallen. Their even spacing suggests that the site was originally laid out as a perfect circle, about 22 metres in diameter, made up of 22 or 23 stones with smooth inner faces.

Just exper­i­menting … hmmm …