Common Ground

The writers spent their morning writing reaction pieces to the work of textile artist, Pat Loucks. While sitting with the art in the gallery at Ross Creek, they were invited to "enter into a narrative" with one or more of the artist's works. Their pieces include personal observations, descriptions, and freeform fiction.

This is the artist's statement for the installation, Common Ground.
"the works in this exhibition are intended to address my response to the landscape around me as I encounter it on my daily walks through the changing seasons of the year. I am interested in exploring the marks, patterns and forms that remain visible on the surface of the landscape as a result of human activity as well as natural forces."

"In my work I try to suggest a remembered mood of feeling, to communicate something visceral I have experienced while spending time in these locations, rather than create a literal representation of a particular place."

Wild Barley, Wild Poppies

I see the storm. Raindrops are blown like strips of fabric. Lightning lights the blackened skies on fire. Thunder cracks the windows.
As the storm drops lower, it releases its hold on rage. The rain claps are suddenly just a tap. The thunder is no longer directly overhead. Lightning sheets the skies behind my back. The absence of fury sends me into the deepest trance. I'm floating. I'm myself again.
Suddenly the wind gets stronger and the rain gets louder and the light show dooms me blind. The windows shatter and my eardrums tumble and i can't feel my toes anymore. The monster inside takes over. Until the storm passes, I'm here no longer.

-Becca

Old Stones, New Vines

I see the hayfields, the center garden, and the pasture where the cows they graze. I feel my footprints in the sand, and know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. My husband, my daughter, and me. We live by the glistening sea.

-Becca



Wild Poppies (Portugal series)

The red reminds me of sadness, of people hurt, of broken hearts that are shattered like mine. Sometimes I forget but the pain is always still there. I attack myself, saying I must be strong, but I will tell you this deep dark secret, I'm not tough at all and being sensitive hurts.

The piece I saw seemed dark and sad. Blood red as a bleeding heart like mine, scattered into pieces - forever hurt, broken, full of fear and pain. Sometimes it feels healed but it is not (and might never be.) Only a few people and things tie you to this earth so you do not die, or run.

It speaks of people who run, people who get hurt easily, people who need space yet someone to cling to, and people who are scared.

Scared of making friends and having them leave, scared of being hurt, scared of friends turning out to be false, scared of letting people down, and most of all, being scared of myself.
- Kit