right through the silver dust
Right Through the Silver Dust (2022) is a digital poetry archive by Anna May, inspired by visual artworks. It aimed to celebrate and showcase contemporary artists from around the globe and expand the worlds that their works inhabit. The project is a testament to the ever-evolving nature of creativity: from the original artist to the poet who writes in response, to the audience who will re-interpret and respond again with the invitation to share and become yet another part of the dialogue. It demonstates the power of art to start conversations and prompt us to explore intimate questions and themes in relation to the experiences of ourselves and others.
The project started as an exercise to help with creative flow - twenty minutes writing freely in response to a visual stimulus, without any frame of reference, except perhaps the name of the piece. This prompts us to reflect on whether the meaning of an artwork is fixed, based on its context and the intent of the artist, or if it is changeable, relying more on what it inspires in those receiving it.
Below are some example poems and screenshots from the original site:
The project started as an exercise to help with creative flow - twenty minutes writing freely in response to a visual stimulus, without any frame of reference, except perhaps the name of the piece. This prompts us to reflect on whether the meaning of an artwork is fixed, based on its context and the intent of the artist, or if it is changeable, relying more on what it inspires in those receiving it.
Below are some example poems and screenshots from the original site:
Refusal
Inspired by Charles Ray’s
“Plank Piece II”
It does not matter how you hang my photograph. It will shrink behind the glass in protest. See, even my past selves do not want to be seen like this. It does not matter if you frame my face with gold. I will use the heavy edges as a hiding place, or break them down for firewood. I know. I know you want me hanging here. Like a souvenir or a trophy. Shiny and small and inanimate. And I know you hate that I refuse to be anything but myself, soft and sturdy and breathing still as you pin me to the wall.
Inspired by Charles Ray’s
“Plank Piece II”
It does not matter how you hang my photograph. It will shrink behind the glass in protest. See, even my past selves do not want to be seen like this. It does not matter if you frame my face with gold. I will use the heavy edges as a hiding place, or break them down for firewood. I know. I know you want me hanging here. Like a souvenir or a trophy. Shiny and small and inanimate. And I know you hate that I refuse to be anything but myself, soft and sturdy and breathing still as you pin me to the wall.
Nothing But Mass
Inspired by Ida Ekblad’s
“Worthy of the Moon’s Regard”
There are lines in the blue, here, where it feels there should be nothing but mass. Like the ocean that carries us home, great big canvas of love, huge and empty, made up of tiny drops. Even the things that threaten to swallow us up have edges to hold on to. Normally, when we pause and look, unsure of our lives, we will find a thousand tiny brushstrokes.
Inspired by Ida Ekblad’s
“Worthy of the Moon’s Regard”
There are lines in the blue, here, where it feels there should be nothing but mass. Like the ocean that carries us home, great big canvas of love, huge and empty, made up of tiny drops. Even the things that threaten to swallow us up have edges to hold on to. Normally, when we pause and look, unsure of our lives, we will find a thousand tiny brushstrokes.
Constellations of Longing
Inspired by Jonas Kamm’s
“Parametric Archaeology”
They sent me to this place, I suppose, as a sort of safe house for people in between. A waiting ground for those who are not sinners but have surely fallen from the tracks too many times. By accident or mischance. Victims of coincidence, or so we think.
I like it here. I can sit against the pink and breathe. And if I lie with my back straight I can see a constellation of dreams. Maps of longing behind my lids that let me live there. Rock cold on my skin. Somehow easy like the crevice of a mother’s arms. There is promise here, short lived and sweet, like chocolate melting on my tongue.
Inspired by Jonas Kamm’s
“Parametric Archaeology”
They sent me to this place, I suppose, as a sort of safe house for people in between. A waiting ground for those who are not sinners but have surely fallen from the tracks too many times. By accident or mischance. Victims of coincidence, or so we think.
I like it here. I can sit against the pink and breathe. And if I lie with my back straight I can see a constellation of dreams. Maps of longing behind my lids that let me live there. Rock cold on my skin. Somehow easy like the crevice of a mother’s arms. There is promise here, short lived and sweet, like chocolate melting on my tongue.