The lovely David Hill set and adjudicated for our January competition:
Brief: Point of view of a painting – 300 word story told from the point of view of a non human? Eg, Plant, animal or inanimate object.
And the winners were…
First place: ‘The Pew’ by Sam Christie
What I can tell you is that I’m pitch pine, solid, austere, all of which I believe to have been the plan. Other than this, I cannot speak more on my provenance, which is part of the wonder of creation; to simply arrive, unknowing.
I am both a comfort and a reminder.
Various backsides have graced my now polished seat and I think I have learnt to identify, through the shifting movements, those who are here filled with burning faith and those who are dreaming of roasted meats, afternoon slumbers and the pulsing warmth of fires. For, well, about two hundred years, the black suited crows came on Sundays, yet each decade the weight of them has diminished.
My sisters and bothers, lined up in lonely rows, from back to front become redundant; eventually our surface so cold to the touch that we will never be warm again in the lofty space of our home. The windows rattle at night, when the biting south Westerlies rush up the hill and collide with a wump. Broken panes are now boarded. A key in the door lock echoes, with nothing to absorb the sound.
‘This would make a lovely home,’ said someone from the dry font, near the moth-eaten sally and greying bellrope. I could hear their trainers squeak on the stone floor and their nylon jackets rustle in the silence.
A finger glided along my back.
‘Good stuff this. Brilliant for panelling. Too good for burning, but there’s so much of it.’ They buried the priest in a pine coffin among the sunken stones and uncut grass. The vestry smelt of damp books and extinguished candles.
Soon, I will have my own pallbearers who will take me past his fresh grave and carry me to my metamorphosis.
Second Place: ‘‘Still’’ by Janey L Foster
You know I want you to touch me, feel the thinness of my petals, the way they feel in your hand. I want you to come up close, peer into my face and trace the arcs of my seeds with your eyes, tell me how marvelous I am, how I lift you from your gloom.
You know I want you to carry me, to lift me into your arms and place me on your windowsill in daylight. I’m so tired of the artificial, although I know it keeps me safe, it stops me peeling. But please swaddle me in your strong arms, take me to your window, to your sun. I want to feel my leaves reach out, releasing, want to move.
And in your heat, in your care I will heal beyond the brushstrokes I leave behind. They did their best to protect me but it was you I needed all along. You, with your hands and eyes, with your sunshine and shadows, with the rush of tap water to soak thankful stems.
Will you feed me; will you trim me if I curl a little after time? I think about time when I can. Do you know how unnerving it is to sit outside its rate of change, to be still?
But you’ll love me more, I can feel it, you’ll let me flourish, let me wilt. I will wilt in time. Don’t fret though. It doesn’t worry me at all. In fact, I seek it, that sense of movement, the joy of change. And when my leaves crumble to your floor let it be a blessing, because for some time I was there. I was inside time with sunshine on me. I bloomed beyond expression, beyond oil.
Free these petals, make me whole.
Third Place: ‘I Am The Balance’ Geraldine Bolam
I am the Balance; I am the equilibrium at the centre of Vermeer’s painting in 1664. A woman strikes a pensive, quiet attitude dressed in her blue jacket and fir trim. Soft light comes through the window and illuminates the scene and while she is pensive, I suspect that the viewer hesitates to intrude on this still moment of contemplation. I am the key to this art work despite what the painting on the wall might say because I serve to stop time. This scene before you is a moment frozen in time. I am the dead centre of the
composition that carefully balances vertical and horizontal lines. I command attention, your focus is on me never mind what the painting on the wall might say.
He says he matters more because he is displaying The Last Judgement and thus through allegory urges us to conduct our lives with temperance and moderation. I say in response, ah but the faithful must first examine their conscience and weigh their sins. My master, the painter is a genius and although not readily esteemed in his life time will be applauded in later ages. I am the painter’s mouthpiece; his voice and I am placed at the centre to teach you that to judge is to weigh.
I am assisting the woman as she prepares to weigh the gold coins and poised as she is between her earthly treasures of gold and pearls I serve as a warning against the temptation of earthly riches. The woman’s careful gesture and calm features conforms to the ideal of moderation and perfect harmony but I can tell you that the artist is not always so peaceful. As the painting is created voices are in uproar, mirror against cascading light in heated refrain and gold coins in energetic chat with a pearl necklace. I remain the voice of calm and restraint.
A huge congratulations to this month’s winners!!
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