Gristle Mountain: 2008

Tuesday 23 September 2008

FORGET ME

Curated by Gristle Mountain, a group exhibition of drawings.
11:00 am - 3:00 pm on 13th-14th September 2008
Fort Brockhurst, Gunners Way, Gosport, Hampshire PO12 4DS

Jane Archer, Mike Bartlett, Vanessa Bird, Arturo Casciaro, Rachel Cattle, Nina Clough, Matthew Corbin Bishop, Annabel Dover, Natalie Dowse, Kier Eyles, Patrick Galway, Rebecca Gould, John Green, Paul Harber, Nicole Ingham, Sanam Khatibi, Liz Kent, Noemi Lakmaier, Cathy Lomax, Kate Marshall, Alex Michon, Matthew Parsons, Rachel Potts, Harry Pye, Iain Rayner, Fran Richardson, Keara Stewart, Margaret Sturton, Annabel Tilley, Jo Tindal, and Sam Treadaway.

Forget me revolves around the theme of memory, how drawing can provoke and stimulate the imagination with regard to personal delusion and the possible narratives found in architecture. Each artist has contributed a drawing depicting a story or situation from their past. These stories are either based on completely real events or are a total fabrication. Drawing is a highly personal activity; it generally requires an intimate and immediate response. The work included in the exhibition deals predominantly within the realms of the handmade and heartfelt.

Gristle Mountain founder and artist/curator Patrick Galway said: ‘Fort Brockhurst has an intense psychological atmosphere, with the space lending itself well to framing the artwork. A cloying nostalgia, a teenage overreaction, a retired hobbyist aesthetic, and a complacent misery, this and much more will be found at Forget me.’

The drawings will be exhibited in the central keep and visitors will also have the chance to see a Dada-South GO MAKE! artist residency Hidden Battles lead by Artist Caroline Cardus.

Sunday. Exercise two – Art Therapy.

Saturday. Exercise one - Atrophy.

Wednesday 17 September 2008

Fort Brockhurst

Every second Saturday of the summer

Inside Fort Brockhurst

Iain Rayner

9 Sebastian’s.

M. Parfait talks about Iain Rayners Drawing

Before I was born, the world was turning. And when I am gone the sun will continue to rise. The meaning of this is minimal. I am too tired to care. We can’t all count the days, the trauma of futility is manifest in our culture. We can’t stop it, we can’t throw an anchor into the sun, but we will continue to die trying.

Many are ready, though few are chosen. Elected by a council of chance, no stentorian pin-cushion can take the prize. That day when on your way to work, a gear shears and force prevails. Objects settle to the lowest point, water finds its level, mixed with blood and oil. You are risen, you bare witness. In your two arms that have lain commonly in view for all to see, you cradle innocence and try to empathise with something slipping away. A something that will not look back and will not judge. A something that cannot follow the rules. Something that is dying.

You can shout these facts that float around the events. You can shout them out to the largest sea, you can hear them echo back to you from the corners of the deepest cave. But the sea won’t understand you and the cave won’t pity your darkest fear. You have shared a moment the lasted only in the present and was without fear, containing only regret and hope.

The Sebastian’s didn’t die that way, they aren’t dead. The arrows were pulled from them by Irene and he came back to health to die again at the boot.

That man, five hundred years of my past, memories I conjure with. The rock of my faith in man. We can all find wonder and inhabit a moment looking thru the same gilded window. My fragile flesh can be pierced, my life can seep away, all our visions will eventually fade and all will be at peace. Sebastian was ready, and he was chosen, only to be robbed of his exultant snuff, later to fall undignified at the boot in a latrine.