Edition 5 — Growth
It's the start of a new year, a chance to revamp and adjust our patterns and the ways we nurture our lives. In line with this outlook, this edition we cultivate a need for growth.
Edition 5 — Growth
Our conversations around coronavirus have evolved in recent months. We have moved on from discussing what we will 'take with us' into the 'new normal' and are instead talking about how we will rebuild. In 2021 we will collectively restructure the foundations we live in; how and where we work, live, and play. Although this is a daunting concept, it is refreshing, too.
Through our collective grief and struggle, we have a chance to reflect on what worked before, what needs revamping, and what we can ditch altogether. In line with this outlook, this edition we cultivate a need for growth. A life well lived takes nurturing, patience, and nourishment. What do you do that leaves you feeling nourished? And how do you nurture yourself, or others? We have lined up some inspo to help you on your journey.
This month we look at paper cuttings by artist Rogan Brown whose creations are inspired by the hidden beauty of science and nature. From growing bacteria formations to plant structures, his works are captivating and intricate. Guest contributor Louise Wark poetically illustrates life in her garden. Her evocative writing reminds us to take heed of the growth that happens throughout the seasons, not just in the summertime when fruits and flowers bloom. Inspired by my mother and sister, I tried my hand at a classic French favourite: tarte tartin. It was an ambitious attempt to grow my cooking skills and tricks.
Finally, my newsletter needs room to grow, too. If you like what you read, please invite your friends, colleagues, and family to subscribe. With a little nurturing and a place to lay roots, the art.writing.projects brand will have a chance to bud!
Lead image by Catarina Rossato via The Jealous Curator
Artist profile: Rogan Brown
When I first came across Rogan Brown's exquisite paper sculptures online, they simply took my breath away. The level of detail and sheer scale of the works are captivating and have a transformative effect.
Brown's works are heavily influenced by science. Specifically, the tradition of scientific model-making as well as the many shapes, forms, and colours the scientific world yields. Think microbes, fossils, growing bacteria, expanding plant cells, and large cloud formations, to name a few of his sources.
Extensively detailed observational drawings form the basis of his sculptures. From here, patterns and motifs come to life through layers of hand- or laser-cut paper. For Brown, paper is a conscious choice as it reflects the durability and fragility of the natural world. This dichotomy is something of an undercurrent in his works. It is a relationship that Brown describes as a 'poetic balance'. After spending some time looking at his work you get the feeling that although the worlds he recreates are robust, they might dissolve at any moment.
Brown's creative process is very labour-intensive. After cutting individual shapes, each is then mounted on to a foam board, which is then layered upon further. Due to the nature (!) of this process, sculptures can take up to 5 and sometimes 7 months to complete.
Through his sculptural works, Brown hopes to make everyday, complex scientific structures accessible through art so that we may relish its beauty. Brown's sculptures remind us of the wild and vibrant beauty of the world that is often hidden to us or far from our minds as we move throughout our days. It is often easy to forget: from little things, big things grow.
You can explore more of Rogan Brown's work online via his website or socials.
All images by Rogan Brown via artists own website
Sun, soil, seeds
It makes my head spin when I think of the growth happening in my garden right now. Sunflowers and neighbouring tomatoes, coaxing each other along in a race to reach the sky. Cucumbers that escape early detection, leaving you wondering how you missed seeing something the size of a rolling pin hanging from your vine. Pumpkin leaves like heavy curtains that you need to pull aside with two hands to peek at their growing orbs underneath.
I learn something every day in my garden. And generally, it is my ego that takes the lessons. The seeds I thought would be giving me armfuls of blooms by now, failed to germinate. The tomato plants that I never stake nor water nor give a sideways glance, self-seeded from last year’s compost, are the biggest producers. The plants I leave the most room for end up being tiddlers and the ones I cram in at the last minute try to take over the world.
It is this surprise, the delight at seeing a living thing thrive before your very eyes, that is the seductive nature of gardening. I sow seeds and hope, dreaming but never imagining, the scale of growth. It is literally like throwing ideas into the universe and seeing what Mother Nature sends back.
Just as exciting as seeing the pace and rate of summer growth, is the thought of the enjoyment that comes when it stops. There will be a day soon when the sunshine seems quieter, the heat dissipates, and the garden slows. The growth still goes on, just underground this time. It’s not the flashiness of summer, no peach-juice-down-the-arm delight, but more a time to stretch roots and let the soil organisms do their work.
I will have the equally pleasurable task of cutting down the summer foliage, hauling it to the compost heap. We will pretend to use the pumpkin leaves as umbrellas, see who can whack the unripened tiny tomatoes the furthest with a cricket bat, pluck seeds from fat flower heads and use corn plants as duelling weapons.
All the while we will dream of the seeds we will sow, the living things we will leave space for, and the growth that might possibly happen next summer.
Words by Louise Wark, writer and play advocate at Days of Play
Image by Shannon Taylor via The Jealous Curator
Winter Song for One Who Suffers
By Brenda Hillman via The New Yorker
The stars stand up
behind the day. A known dove balances
on its claw
at the window. A cosmic incident
of darkness has begun
& a mild excess of beauty
will be offered to the dead,
which they will eat. On a hill
the wise man serves the people,
your thought splits
in half when he speaks of the old
revolts, the return
of apocalypse, motive & advancement.
A soul can crouch
a long time while the heart
expands to reach its edges.
What is missing past the glitter
of the harvest?
Friend, you chose
to live. How? You did. So many
choices, not just two, encrypted
behind the mystery of the sun,
then the hurt was set aside,
indeterminate chaos
called in by love.
Image by Samantha Fields via The Jealous Curator
Recipe: Tarte Tartin
My sister inherited my father's green thumb. She grows fruits, vegetables, and flowers at her home in Orange NSW. Last year, Orange had an abundance of apples. What to do?! She generously filled a laundry basket with fruit and gifted it to my mother, who in turn decided to make tarte tartin. A bold and adventurous choice. Making the perfect tarte tartin became somewhat of an obsession for her. She has since made 5 and has notes on each.
Inspired by my mother's tenacity, I used her notes to try making a tarte of my own in dreary locked-down London. This recipe serves 6 and makes an excellent doorstep gift for very, very lucky friends.
You will need
85g of butter
85g of granulated sugar
1.4kg dessert apples
Grated zest of 1 lemon
Puff or shortcrust pastry to cover a 25cm skillet or baking tin. Ambitious cooks can make this themselves. On this occasion, I chose the easy route and used store-bought pastry.
Pre-heat the over to 190 degrees celsius.
If you are making your own pastry, now is the time to make it and refrigerate it while you prepare the rest.
Melt the butter in your skillet* then add the sugar. When the combination begins to brown, remove from the heat.
Peel, core, and quarter your apples. Ideally, listen to a podcast while doing so.
Once the apples are peeled, arrange them round-side down over the melted butter and sugar, filling the base of the skillet (or tin). Zest this layer with lemon.
Chop remaining apples into smaller pieces and fill any remaining gaps of the base layer. Heap what leftover apples you have on top, to create a second layer.
Return the skillet to medium heat and cook until the sugar is a deep caramel hue and the apples begin to brown, which should take between 15-20 minutes.
Lay your pastry on top of the apples and press lightly to keep it in place, taking care not to burn yourself in the process.
Bake in the oven for 25-30 minutes.
Allow to cool for no more than five minutes. Everything has been leading up to this point. Place a plate on top of your skillet or tin and flip your tarte over — voilá!
Serve with your vice of choice and enjoy it with a vibrant image of orchards and sunshine in the back of your mind.
*If you do not have a skillet, continue with a regular frying pan. Transition the butter and sugar mixture to a baking tin when your butter and sugar have caramelized. Then, arrange the apples and cover with the pastry. Bake in the oven, preferably on a hot baking sheet.
Image via Great British Chefs online
Learn with me!
The next session of 'New Approaches to Curating Collections' starts on 15 February. I designed this course for arts professionals and collectors alike who are looking to sharpen their curatorial tool-kit. Each week, we meet for 2-hours to explore real-world case studies and discover fresh perspectives on how to curate, interpret, conserve, develop, and fund collections. I have filled this course with all the juicy content curators need to rejuvenate collections and keep their perspectives fresh.
Having taught this course for 2 years I am proud to say it's lessons are more relevant now than ever before. Covid-19 has disrupted the blockbuster exhibition model. As such, museums and galleries alike are turning to their collections to search for new ways to tell stories and share ideas.
Now is the perfect time to revise your strategy and learn how to curate collections in the most engaging way possible that leaves an impression long after the exhibition closes. Book your place by heading to Node Centre School for Curatorial Studies and enrol before 10 February to secure your place.
Collaborate with us!
The art.writing.projects team are on the hunt for content creators! If you are a writer with a story to share or an illustrator/designer with skills you want to flaunt, please reach out. If this sounds like you or someone in your network, we'd love to hear from you and talk about how we can collaborate. You can find us on socials via the links below.
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