Do you feel compelled to write about… something? Are you an artist who can write about the motivation and process for a piece of your work? Are you moved by the sights and sounds of nature and want to put a picture into words?
You should. We are all artists. Can Slowist.org help share your voice?
Such a sparsely populated environment as the Mojave desert has clearly been a huge influence on Harold Budd’s style, which contains classical and jazz elements, though probably hews more closely to the modern ambient template (Budd prefers the term ‘soft pedal’).
It is truly fascinating and an incredible privilege to witness the creation of art, to see the work offer itself to the artist, to see how the artist gives the work to the world, and how the work shapes the artist.
Jessica Mallock has entrusted us to view this journey in the development of her ‘Outbreaths’ series.
The third and final piece in this series of mindful poems from Debbie Lewis – ‘Stop’.
Six months ago, I was sat in my bedroom at my University in a deep depression. However, this felt completely different than the suffocating feeling I’d ever felt before, it felt peaceful. Like I was one with the universe, reality felt so slow. So, while blasting ‘K.’ By Cigarettes After Sex’, tears streaming down my face, I wrote the following…
As a child, I roamed a landscape I realise now I very much took for granted. Nestled in a village on the Kent/Sussex border, we had little money but an immense amount of physical freedom; fields and forests stretched for miles, and the uniquely invigorating breathlessness found in the wind atop the crumbling cliffs of Birling Gap was only a short drive away.
The second in a series of three mindful poems from Debbie Lewis. More of the wonderful observation that we saw in ‘Down by the water’.
A plane flies overhead. I notice because it is unusual with so few flights scheduled these days. At the same time, the shower head starts dripping then stops as suddenly as it began, as the sound of the passing plane fades away.
It was the early days of March and the UK had yet to go into lockdown as the coronavirus pandemic loomed ever larger.
This was the era of panic buying and supermarket shelves being stripped bare of goods including hand sanitiser and dried pasta. The streets of Manchester were tinged with a sense of impending doom, but no-one was quite sure what was coming…
Around 18 months ago I started journaling, something I’d often thought about but never fully committed to. My strange love affair with stationery meant I’d collected a stack of journals over the years but struggled to put pen to paper. Each New Year I’d make it my resolution to keep my journal only to find my musings drifting within a week or two.