Zapatismo

The land belongs to the tiller. a-dv3-a-ta-dv11-tAny hand that moves earth drives a perpetual spiritual companion. Through action with nature one has an honest relationship. A to-and-fro that nourishes each. To own above this is a power that leads to a material death.  a-dv2-t

Tamely Framed

FD4 tSome much Art I see in galleries is Tamely Framed. All energy is lost and the fight has moved from aesthetics to money. From the gallery to the work all is lost in simple transactions. Do not give in to your being tamed in this way. Let it be free. Let it soar as you intended.me know

Folk Art

Divine Devon Art is from an indigenous culture and from modern peasants or other laboring peoples. In contrast to’Art’ folk art is primarily utilitarian and decorative and majorly aesthetic.Devon Folk Art is characterized by a naive style, in which traditional  rules of proportion and perspective are defied.

Addiction to a Dream

Alcohol, cocaine, sex, soaps, lottery, all are an addictive dream.SP1 t

Debt

All money is debt Madoma1

Judged by Money

So the poor are judged by the rich. 12 of us against the money of the pastme know http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/08/27/elitist-britain-cabinet-mps-oxbridge-private-independent-schools_n_5723662.html

Stardust 2 Stardust

From stardust to stardust each of of us makes an evolutionary step. 

girl 3

Going, Going

I must admit this poem by Philip Larkin cuts to the core of my feelings here in deepest Devon.Cot1 t I can not express in words like him so I paint both him and the land I love so much as it disappears before my eyes.

Churchyard blurb res

Under Norman yoke transformed into Capitalist smoke I, a simple Saxon, hang with memories and dreams.

Larkin in the Landscape tGOING, GOING by Philip Larkin. (January 1972)

I thought it would last my time –
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and farms,
Where the village louts could climb
Such trees as were not cut down;
I knew there’d be false alarms

In the papers about old streets
And split level shopping, but some
Have always been left so far;
And when the old part retreats
As the bleak high-risers come
We can always escape in the car.

Things are tougher than we are, just
As earth will always respond
However we mess it about;
Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:
The tides will be clean beyond.
– But what do I feel now? Doubt?

Or age, simply? The crowd
Is young in the M1 cafe;
Their kids are screaming for more –
More houses, more parking allowed,
More caravan sites, more pay.
On the Business Page, a score

Of spectacled grins approve
Some takeover bid that entails
Five per cent profit (and ten
Per cent more in the estuaries): move
Your works to the unspoilt dales
(Grey area grants)! And when

You try to get near the sea
In summer . . .
It seems, just now,
To be happening so very fast;
Despite all the land left free
For the first time I feel somehow
That it isn’t going to last,

That before I snuff it, the whole
Boiling will be bricked in
Except for the tourist parts –
First slum of Europe: a role
It won’t be hard to win,
With a cast of crooks and tarts.

And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,
The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There’ll be books; it will linger on
In galleries; but all that remains
For us will be concrete and tyres.

Most things are never meant.
This won’t be, most likely; but greeds
And garbage are too thick-strewn
To be swept up now, or invent
Excuses that make them all needs.
I just think it will happen, soon.Hills

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