trudie.wilson08@gmail.com – Islesolation gallery

Lanes End Monet

Claude Monet

Claude Monet was a French painter (1840- 1926) he is known as a founding member of the Impressionist movement. The term Impressionism is derived from his painting “Impression Soleil Levant” (which was exhibited in the 1874 Salon de Paris exhibition. Monet documented French countryside en plein air (painting outside). This was made possible due to advances in artist materials, notably oil paint being available in tubes for the first time, which allowed for portability.

Monet’s work evolved as he became interested in the changing of light and seasons. He often re painted the same landscapes, each time capturing the differing light, weather and palette of the scenery. This re capturing of a landscape and its atmosphere is shown well in Monet’s series “Haystacks” which consisted of 25 paintings.

Rick Bartow

Rick Bartow (1946-2016) was a contemporary Native American artist, musician and Vietnam war veteran. Bartow lived and worked in Oregon and belonged to the Wiyot Indians, a small tribe indigenous to California. Bartow graduated from the Western Oregon State College with a BA in secondary art education in 1969 before being drafted into the army until 1971. Bartow’s first solo exhibition was in 1985, his work can now be found both in public and private collections. Although much of his work is painting Bartow also produced many sculptures including “The Cedar Mill Poll” which was displayed in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden at the White House.

Works by year 4 Pupils Of Lanesend Primary School

Exhibitions Archive

Islesolation Poetry Gallery

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Jot Shortlist

In the 12-17 category…

In the 18-100+ category…

In the 5-11 category…

“The Friendless Jellyfish” by Anneke Henning

Once in the Atlantic Ocean there lived a rather unusual jellyfish. She was a wonderful pink colour with long flowing tentacles but a little too small for her age therefore she found it hard to make friends.

One day she plucked up the courage to go and find some friends, as she left her home, she took a deep breath and was on her way. She swam along, determined in her quest. Casually she glanced to her left and saw a larger fish with long razor-sharp teeth. Her eyes widened as she saw the teeth. She knew that this would not be a good friend but before she could think anything else the shark said “stay calm, I prefer calm jellyfish for my tea.” She panicked and hid in a gap in the coral and watched him speed of.

But just as she thought she was safe she looked down and saw a long scaly green back. Near to the end of it she saw two white eyes and 100 spiky white teeth. She realised this was not coral this was Mr Crocodile. Then the crocodile started to slither around the jellyfish. He said “stay calm I prefer calm jellyfish for tea.” She darted off and anxiously hid in the sand and watched him disappointedly walk off.

When she was sure she was safe she gave a sigh of relief and came out of her hiding place. She turned round for one last look and saw the sand move. She touched it just to make sure it was sand but as soon as she did, she bounced off it and said “ouch! What was that?” She realised it was a sting ray. The sting ray said “stay calm I prefer calm jellyfish for tea”. She slipped out of sight and hid between two rocks. She watched him disappear back into his hiding place.

She turned around and looked at the rock and noticed it had been decorated with driftwood. Then she came across a door with a note on it which said ‘come in’ so she did. Inside she saw a glowing light and a warm dinner on the table of seaweed sandwiches and pink pate. There was a bright orange starfish, it was almost like the starfish knew the jellyfish was coming. She welcomed her in for tea.

As the jellyfish tucked in, she said to herself “now she’s a good friend!”
They chatted all afternoon and became best of friends. Over the years they had lots of sleepovers and midnight feasts. They shared Christmas and birthday celebrations and never (well almost never) fell out.

“The Printing Error” by Claudia Summers

It was a busy night in the Stormie District Maternity Hospital. By the time the morning light stabbed through the blinds, seven hundred baby bugs had hatched.

They squirmed and made little chub chub noises, softly opening and closing their clam like mouths. Their enormous crusty eyes were still shut tight and would remain so until day five.

The old hospital was painted brown, the smell was a curious a mix of blood and custard. An old boxy computer perched at the front desk. Behind the computer slumped an ancient nurse called a Gubgrub, they were like friendly slugs with eyes on stalks. The lack of spine made any sudden movements impossible. It was slowly typing backwards, whilst referring to a steel trolley piled high with egg cases. The once perfect spherical amber jewels now resembled cold apple crumble.

Each baby was placed into a wooden crib. At the far end of the room, a few golden cribs stood waiting, these sparkled in the churning dusty air and were the only clean items in the hospital. Armies of Gubgrubs patrolled the rows of babies and made notes on clipboards whilst groaning every time they had to bend or twist.

All infants received glibber juice by the bottle, they snatched at it with their flappy webbed fingers and you could hear the scratch of their jaggy nails on the plastic as they gulped at the brown fluid.

After feeding, their elastic little tongues would flick out feverishly to explore and whatever it landed on was examined carefully. Sometimes the tongues would slap onto the bars of the crib and wrap around, but mainly they would make contact with their nasal area where they stayed content for many hours just lapping gently in the continual ooze of green opaque slime.

Day five was approaching with great anticipation. This was the day the infants were declared Egnaro or Neerg as the bulging eyes domes crack open like walnuts to reveal glistening globes of green or orange.

The Gubgrubs were busy printing and sorting labels to fix onto the cribs. Everyone knew, Egnaro had orange eyes and Neerg had green. From this day forwards if you were lucky enough to be an Egnaro then you were considered a leader, if however, you were a Neerg you had to fit into the ways of life dictated by the Egnaro. It had it been like this for as long as anyone could remember.

But on day five, there was a terrible shock. The Gubgrub were ready with their labels flapping, everyone could hear the eyeballs creaking. But when the eyes suddenly snapped open, everybody gasped in confusion. They weren’t green or orange, they were RAINBOW! All the eyes were so beautiful, like translucent gems, shimmering gently through the stench.

After a long ten minutes of bewilderment, a Gubgrub rustling through the paperwork, whispered “Wobniar” and slowly turned their jelly body towards the computer to type up more labels.

Then a very old Gubgrub said “STOP that’s enough, no more stupid labels! Each and everyone is amazing!”

“The Truth” by Lyra Ayachi

One sunny morning at six a.m two sisters, Sydney and Zuri, went running out to their farm to see their favourite animals; Zuri went to the horses, and Sydney went to the sheep. For an hour, Zuri would ride her personal horse she named Mia, and then sit and write a story, meanwhile Sydney would make origami and draw, cuddled in to her sheep she named Kile. At seven a.m they would run back inside to eat breakfast, their mum made them toast with jam, they finished their food and went to school. Zuri was in P6 and Sydney was in P7, when Zuri got there she only hung out with one person named Layla, she was funny and adventurous, but not as adventurous as Zuri. She loved exploring and she did great at school, especialy English, while Sydney hung out with a big group of friends and loved Art. Their dad past away a year ago, he was really ill for a long time. After school, Zuri invited Layla over to write their school project, which was to write a factfile about your pet, but Layla doesn’t have a pet so Mr Jiles said they could do it together, so they both wrote a factfile about Mia. When Layla went home, Sydney and Zuri went to bed, in the middle of the night Zuri woke up and went downstairs to get water but she heard the front door close behind her. She went to go tell her mum, but she was gone, she thought her mum left so she woke up Sydney to tell her, ‘let’s go follow her’ said Sydney as she woke up. Zuri said it was too late ‘she’ll be long gone now, we should follow her tomorrow if she goes again.’

The next night they set an alarm for midnight, when it beeped they ran downstairs, they couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing, so they followed their mum into the forest. She ended up at a dead end, she checked if anyone was there; Sydney and Zuri were hiding behind a tree but the mum couldn’t see, she walked through the wall as if she were a ghost. They followed through and saw a whole new world, and their mum ran up to talk to somone, they couldn’t see clearly, but when they saw who she was talking to they gasped as they saw their dad before their eyes. Zuri said ‘he must of faked his death just to come here’,‘let’s go see’ mumbled Zuri, as they ran up and hugged him. Their dad said it was so much nicer there and you live forever, but that he was getting really ill, plus his grandmother made this place and his mom and dad live here too, ‘maybe one day you will come live here, there is even a school’. The girls both said they wanted to stay there with their family; they both brought the animals, and bought a new farm and took their belongings to take with them. Then they entered a new world and had lots of fun doing the things they love. They even made new friends and Zuri saw her best friend in P3 who apparently passed away, but turns out she was there all along. It was amazing, finally seeing their dad again and their mum came too, what they didn’t understand is why their parents didn’t tell them; the girls asked them and they said it was to keep them safe incase people come and destroy their home and a young witch, cursed this place for whenever this place gets destroyed, our family will be miserable for the rest of our lives. The truth is, they were going to tell the girls when they were 18 and 19 years old, the girls didn’t mind because they were just keeping them safe, they were a bit worried about the whole witch part, but they trusted that everyone will look after this world and we will be happy for as long as we know, so all together, they lived happily ever after.

In the 12-17 category…

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“Perfect Minds” by Mary Broadsmith

Mai hated Law. With every inch of her soul. Hate might have been a strong word, but he deserved it.

It wasn’t his fault. His responsibility was to obey rules – he had to – but she wished that for once he’d listen to her.

“This is the best day of my life, this is the best day of my life,” she muttered again and again to herself. It’s going to be fine. She was so easily convinced by that lie, as much as she wished she wasn’t. She knew it would only shatter her more when reality hit. Looking out of the car window, she sighed, casting a mist against the glass.

The urban cityscape flooded past her unfocused, dark gold eyes like watercolours streaming across a page. If only Law said, “O.K, you can stay home this one time,” she thought, Just once. But she knew he would see through her desperate pleas. Her ability to lie was, honestly, tragically sad. But it was always worth a try.

Still, he knows what’s happening today. And now, when she wanted – she needed – his evasions and excuses and explanations for not taking her to school, he had said he would. Normally, she would’ve been happy he finally took some notice of her. This time was different though.

She suddenly came out of her daydreaming. He’s still talking about what’s going to happen today, she realised, feeling queasy as he spoke. Dad – Law – was saying how proud he was of her; how she was about to undergo the most important disaster of her life. Disaster…

She huffed again. She glanced at him; his dull brown hair ruffled by the air that came rushing in through the partially open window as he talked. She tucked a strand of her long black hair behind her ear, resting her chin on her hand and staring out of the window.

He hadn’t said disaster of course, he’d said something like occasion – she hadn’t been listening properly – but she thought, she hoped, they both acknowledged that she would be a failure. Disappointment was the worst expression Law could use on her. He’d prepared her for this event; even from when she was little. So long as there’s a chance I can pass, I’ll stay positive, she thought, I must make him proud. But to do that, she had to pass the Choosing. She clutched tightly to the few shards of hope she had left. Her mood deflated as she continued to think about the possibilities.

She paused in her trail of thought and studied all the sights she saw every single day on the way to school; things she should be bored of seeing. Things I might never see again.

The massive headquarters of the government – the Pyramid – in the middle of the city, the local park with the cherry tree coming into flower and posters of Love – the head of the government – splayed on every building. The nausea in her gut grew as they neared their destination.

She shifted in her black, leather seat and watched the shops drift past her window. Light danced off the skyscrapers onto people. People who were laughing and chatting in cafes, gripping their morning cups of coffee in both hands. All she could see were smiles from them – the Chosen.

“The Fall of Everdale” by Katie Murray-Smith

Ira awoke to the ear-piercing sounds of bloodcurdling screams. The room was black. She couldn’t breathe. The stench of sulphur dioxide overwhelmed her senses. Thick dark smoke ambushed her. Blinded and confused, she stumbled out of bed to the window. Looking on in horror, what she saw, felt like a nightmare.

Fire devoured everything in front of her. People were running like frightened mice in the streets below. Running, for their lives. Nowhere was safe. Soldiers filled the streets, but not ones she recognised, marching through the city with sword and torch in hand. They were set in heartless rows, upon rows, upon rows, stretching as far as the eye could see from an endless red horizon. All stamped to the same cold rhythm. All had the same destination. All converged to the same location, the palace. These weren’t humans. These were juggernauts. They had a shared purpose, destruction. And that, they were good at…it rained supreme wherever she looked, a swirling storm of bone chilling devastation ‘surely this couldn’t be real?’…

Suddenly, catching her by surprise something sharp and fast grabbed her from behind pulling her back. Ira let out a cry of alarm.

“Shhh!” hissed a voice “don’t worry its me.”
Ira recognise the voice, it belonged to her mother.

Of course, nothing about this situation was comforting, but it paid to know at the hand behind her wasn’t about to kill her.

“Now come on, before he finds you!” whispered her mum as she dragged Ira by her by the arm out of the room.

“Before, who finds me?” asked Ira with no clue what she was talking about. “I can’t explain now, we’ve got to hurry…”

And with that the pair bolted out of the door. Once in the corridor it became apparent that the horrific cries of innocent victims weren’t just coming from outside… who ever these people were, they had breached the castle walls!

Uderania must have noticed it too because for a split second she hesitated. Ira didn’t know what was more terrifying the inferno that surround them or the expression on her mother’s face. Ira had never seen her do it before, but she knew what it was it none the less. Terror. Her mother’s face had always been a as stock as a stone statue but now it was cracking like a china doll. The moment passed as quickly as it came and Uderania sprung back into life.

“We have to get you out of here! Now!”

The two hurtled through the pitch-black smoke in complete darkness, made worst by the ever-increasing onslaught of embers which buried themselves into Ira eyes, stinging like dagger wounds and causing them to bleed salty tears. Turning a corner, they descended a spiral staircase, two steps at a time. Then out into the main hallway, and across towards the castle’s north stables. All the while Ira was clinging to her mother’s hand, her only lifeline in the deadly labyrinth that had once been called her home. Above the roar of the raging fire and

crash of weapons against weapons, Ira could hear voices, orders “spread out and find her! We have to draw her out! She can’t last much longer in here…” Needless to say, Ira already new who they were talking about.

“Stay close to me.”

This was easier said than done, Ira could already feel her grip slipping and if she wasn’t careful, she’d lose hold entirely…

Suddenly a strong blast of hot air shot through a narrow passageway adjacent to their own, ripping Ira’s hair over her eyes for a split second. ‘What in the-’ Ira had no time to react, within milliseconds the flames were upon them. The tight limestone tunnels which connected the castle had become the perfect shafts to channel the blaze, they were activated cannon barrels. the world’s best inferno death-trap and Ira was in the centre of it. With nowhere to go the loaded fire smashed into the stone corridor, a curling mass of insatiable crimson. The colour of blood. One step closer and Ira would have been fried alive.

Flooding their escape route, the broth of swirling hell rattled of the walls. Ira felt the destructive tendrils of boiling heat tearing at her unprotected skin. The shock of the impact caused Ira to topple over. Fear set in. Desperate, she tried to scramble to her feet and run the other way but before she could do so there was a deafening sound of cracking timbers. The wooden rafters which held up the roof collapsed bringing the entire ceiling behind Ira down with them. She was trapped…

“Stars Are Different in that Valley” by Emily Davies

They said it would be impossible to fall in love with such monstrous beast, forever lingering, forever haunting. The drop of a pen falling through the presence of time drowning in my tears, oh please let me understand this world I have drifted out of.

It all starts with me, my name is Adelais. I am currently in class staring into the depths of a wall. Everyone’s voices feel so far away and quiet. I guess I have gone into a trance. When this happens, I normally enter non-existent cities and fields. I sense clips of my past all around me, sounds from when I was a child wondering a forest. A piano playing from another room whilst the rain taps on the roof. I have lost the place I stood, and I now feel free. Visions swirl every which way. Memories.

Until I hear the shot of a gun.

I suddenly gain my focus and the people around me seem to be in distress. I look around and see a girl who has collapsed onto her table. She has blonde hair and green eyes and stares right at me, I see blood pour from her table. Something about her felt strange. And everyone is heading for the door. I somewhat panic, I am not quite sure if now is the right time for me to die. I dislike how trapped I feel but love to wonder the endless possibilities of my imagination. I then consider that maybe there is some sort of chance that if I let the gun point at me maybe in the afterlife, I will feel freedom awake or asleep.

So, I stand and locate who holds the gun. There was no one. There was a closet which had been left half open. It seems I am stuck in this world for now. The walls of this classroom suddenly look so grey, the breeze from the open large glass windows goes through my hair and makes me feel calm in such an unnatural situation. I notice each individual poster on the wall.

I look at an old one which has the alphabet on it in rainbow letters even though this is now a year 11 maths class. It had the name Jack O Powell in the right corner. I felt as if I knew the name. It seemed as if it was the teacher’s son. But the surnames were different. There were flowers on the windowsill, two of them were gifts by a classmate of mine who always remembered the teacher’s birthdate. The white board had the explanation of quadratics on it. I could spend days just thinking about each item in this room. I look at the girl again, her name was Marie. She and I had never spoke to one another but there was a time where we glanced at each other in a French lesson and she smiled. “Why would someone shoot someone so beautiful and innocent?” I spoke to myself. And I remember one day I was sitting out on a bench and I could hear her voice coming from the music room. I heard footsteps and someone had entered the room. And then suddenly a dark voice came from behind me, “Because the most beautiful beings have the evillest souls”. I assumed right away this was the person who shot her. “Who are you?” I asked. “Just a shadow from peoples’ bad dreams” Then they left. I stood there, wondering if I should have turned around. Some part of me stopped me.

I put away all my school supplies into my bag, took my phone out and took a photo of Marie. I then left the classroom.

Everyone runs past me. I have been left behind. The light from the hallway shines around me, the echoing of birds throughout it. Why do I feel so at peace and isolated? I wish I could only live this one moment, so I take my steps slowly. I get to the exit and it begins to rain.

In the 18-100+ category…

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“The Four Lords” by Toby Holmes

The Four Lords was one of the hundreds of Victorian-style hotels, you find in shitty, English seaside towns. The kind of hotel where half the staff are immigrants (mostly Polish) and paid a pittance. The kind of hotel where chambermaids come to work hungover, after spending their wages on drugs and alcohol the previous night. The kind of hotel where the waiters dress smartly in shirts and waistcoats – the former they had to buy themselves. The kind of hotel where only the elderly middle-class, who come to Smallchapel every year, still stay. The kind of hotel where an eighteen-year-old with no ambition ends up.

As I turned into the staff carpark, I knew I had just enough time to get ready for the shift. My mind went to autopilot: park the scooter, open the top box, gloves off, helmet off, lock the top box. Enter the hotel, say hi to Amy, down the corridor to the men’s locker room, key in the code, enter the locker roo— damn it, key in the correct code, enter the locker room. Bike gear off, old school shoes on, check my watch, yay time to piss. Empty my bladder, wash my hands, sort out my helmet hair, leave the locker room, remember to use the check-in machine (17:59 cutting it fine) and enter the kitchen.

The industrial kitchen is a furnace. It is designed to produce food and money. Money ignites the fire, but the catalysts, anger, excitement and fear, expedite the reaction. Stress and self-loathing are by-products.

I was hit with the smell of a dozen unfinished dishes. Service wasn’t for another hour, but there was always something happening. The chefs were preparing food, front of house were making coffee. If there was one thing I liked about my job it was the energy. I looked for a manager or supervisor, to whom I could make my timeliness known. Ahmed, the Restaurant Manager, was talking to a nervous looking boy of about sixteen, I hadn’t seen before.

‘Evening Ahmed.’

‘Ah, Michael, how are you?’

‘Not bad…’ When you work with the same people, doing the same tasks each day, you get into a monotonous yet safe routine. Sometimes this routine is so predictable that the slightest deviation is cause for alarm. In this case it was the “Ah”.

‘Michael, this is James. He’s having a trial period in the restaurant and I’d like to start him off on mains-running.’ It was clear where this was going. I’d been a mains-runner since I’d started at The Four Lords, nearly a year ago. A mains-runner’s role was to carry the food from the kitchen to the station, and depending on the number of patrons, serve. It was rockbottom for a waiter and I doubted I’d be getting promoted anytime soon.

‘You want me to show him the ropes?’ It wasn’t really a question.

‘If it’s no trouble.’

I turned to James and offered my hand. He shook it tentatively, not meeting my eyes. I’ve never cared for polite smalltalk or any of the social niceties. The handshake was another matter entirely. It revealed a man’s substance, his strength of character. James wouldn’t last as a waiter – he had no grit.

If you’ve never been a waiter, it’s difficult to understand the resilience it takes. You have to be fast enough that you don’t fall behind, while taking enough care that you don’t drop something. You carry out personal tasks as well as assisting colleagues and helping customers. A supervisor may ask you to do something a certain way, only to be told to do it differently by a manager the next day. And on top of all that, you’re an emotional punchbag to all your superiors. In my case, practically everyone.

“The Dust That Clings to Our Feet” by Hillard Morley

Mine’s the spot nearest the boot scraper. Ah, this one ‘ere. Not a bad spot, this. As good as they come round ‘ere at any road. ‘Ard on the bum, maybe, but show me one that isn’t. Sit on this bag if yer like, a sort of cushion. Yer’ll sit next to me today and I’ll show yer the ropes. Then, when yer settled in, yer’ll move down the bottom next to Farkas. That’s how we operate, see. Yer work yer way up. I’m this end ‘cos I’ve been ‘ere the longest. I’m the Alpha.

In a tick the suits’ll start to cross the park, then they’ll stop and scrape the mud from off their shoes. They always do that, ‘specially at this time of year. That’s why it’s pretty good this end. Oh ah, they look after their shoes, do this lot. Always nice leather and ‘and-stitched. Yer can see the quality a mile off. ‘Ere, let me ‘elp yer out a bit, give yer a tip or two, so to speak. Keep a tin of polish with yer, that way yer can offer ‘em a shoeshine. They’ll more likely stop and give yer summat if they’re getting summat in return. Got that off the old Alpha, I did. “Share experience,” ‘e used to say, “a little goes a long way in this game.” Very wise, ‘e was, that man. I learnt a lot off ‘im.

No, I never ask for money. Folk round ‘ere don’t like it if yer ask outright, so we offer services for free. A gesture, sort of thing, to make ‘em feel important. Sometimes they’ll throw down a coin or two, and once in a blue moon maybe a note. If yer lucky.

Stop or not, I always make a point of saying, “Morning”. It never ‘urts to be polite to my way of thinking, though don’t be surprised if they act like they’ve never ‘eard yer. ‘Ere, let me show yer. This one coming, ‘im in blue, ‘e never says ‘ello. Mean-faced bugger, isn’t ‘e? “Good morning, Sir. Nice morning. Glad that wind’s dropped, eh?”

See? Nothing. Not a flicker. Not a second glance. It’s like I’m see through, in’t it? Well, you’ll get that quite a lot, so be prepared.

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Lamina- Trudie Wilson

Lamina

Noun, plural lam·i·nae [lam–uh-nee], lam·i·nas.

a thin plate, scale, or layer.

a layer or coat lying over another, as the plates of minerals or bones.

Botany. the blade or expanded portion of a leaf.

Geology. a layer of sediment or sedimentary rock only a small fraction of an inch (less than a centimeter) in thickness.

This exhibition explores the act of drawing and is influenced by the confinement of lockdown, this is symbolised through edges and blurred contours which in turn create layered “landscapes”. The exploration into materiality was a key part of this process, here I have researched using both traditional and digital media. This is the beginning of a new area of my practice which I will continue to develop further.

Find more at www.trudiewilson.co.uk

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Lamina Experiment 01 Audio

Phosphorescence- Digital Drawing in motion, Music by Hayden Calnin.

Precious Moments

This journey we are all on evokes a constantly changing set of emotions. It is a series of moments, new situations, challenges and experiences that test our strength. I’ve sketched my way through it, capturing these moments in a digital art form. These drawings also form exploratory work for a series of paintings I’m creating. In my work I focus on capturing feeling and atmosphere using minimal strokes and bold contrasting colours. The overwhelmingly positive outcome from the physical and social upheaval lockdown and Covid has brought is the change of pace. Slowing down allowed me time to reflect, truly appreciate the beautiful coastline all around me and connect with my family. Whatever stage you are at in the process or however it has been for you, I hope you can find a connection or solace in one of the pieces.

Vicky Wilson is an artist and designer living on the Isle of Wight. Vicky creates beautiful compositions and artwork, writes and illustrates children’s stories and designs websites. See more of Vicky’s work Here.

Antiquity- Donna-Jones

Antiquity

The excitement of found ancient scroll, papyrus, sculpture, pot, & coin etc must be incredible as well as adding to our knowledge of ancient history. By ‘Writing’ my own original poems into island clay, ceramics, and hand-made paper, some stamped into sheets of lead, rolled and placed into jars, pots and handmade containers, I open the discussion of new ideas.

Find more of Donna’s work Here

Alien Life- J Ong

Alien Life – J Ong

Watercolour and Acrylic

I imagine that most of the alien life that is yet to be discovered by humans are not the sentient, bipedal extra-terrestrials of popular culture. Far more abundant in the innumerable worlds across our universe, as here on Earth, may be simpler life forms; flora, fungi, bacteria, archaea.

I wondered what this undiscovered life might look like, how it would grow and reproduce, how “alien” or similar they may be to life forms with which we are familiar, having grown from and adapted to different atmospheres, or even being composed of different elements.

To create this collection, I explored the process and physical act of growth by allowing my paint to move, and shapes to grow and form and multiply, in ways that felt organic. Using gravity and unusual instruments (something I touched on in a previous virtual workshop for Independent Arts) to not so much create an image, but imitate the growth processes of living organisms. I took inspiration from mitosis and meiosis, the spread and growth of bacteria and viruses, and familiar Earthly life forms. I explored systems such as roots and spores, and above all tried to imagine new possibilities and forms for Life, all with the universal desire to grow, multiply and pass on genetic material.

Nurture Through Nature

A little bit about me.

I have struggled with anxiety, depression and poor mental health since my early teens and spent 15 years of my life not being able to leave the house without a family member due to such severe anxiety.

Infact it was only a few years ago that I managed to leave the house by myself for the first time.

Step by step i’m getting my independence back and going through lots of ups and downs along the way.

I share my experiences on my blog and social media to start more conversations about mental health, to encourage others to know that it’s ok to speak up if we are struggling and to document my journey to help myself and hopefully others.

I am passionate about fighting the stigmas and misconceptions around mental health.

You will often find me baking cupcakes, singing or exploring our beautiful Island taking pictures.

Visit:

My Blog

My Shop

Kerry Weston – Cupcakes & Anxiety

Temporary Exhibitions Archive – Marie Delisle Holmberg

The De Fortibus Gallery Archive

In this gallery we open the festival of islesolation with a series of exhibitions by guest curators. visit a new exhibition every fortnight. If you would like to be guest curator please get in touch

This exhibition has been curated by Marie Delisle Holmberg, a local international artist.

“The paintings shown above reflect my passion for colours and intimate atmospheres. Artistic endeavours that embellish life and bring you to an inspiring space… My fascination for nature or floral elements, textures and motifs transpires in these masterpieces that resonate profoundly with my spirit” – Marie.