Dorota Mytych

SONNETS FROM THE CRIMEA (2014)

HALF OF THE DEER LIVE ON THE MOUNTAIN, HALF OF THE DEER LIVE ON THE PLAIN WHEN THEY MEET IN THE FOOTHILLS, IT IS ONLY TO TALK, THEY ARE DEER AFTER ALL, NOT HUMANS. (2007)

CROWD: MOSTLY IN CHARCOAL, ON PAPER (2005)

Charcoal and Pastel on Paper

This is a work in constant transformation. It maps actual events occurring through time. It carries three titles (to date), each serves as an interlude for reflection. The first title Crowd: Mostly In Charcoal, On Paper (2005) marks the beginning stages of the work (2005—6), depicted by Marianne Boruch in her poem with the same title (2005). The second title Half of the deer live on the mountain, half of the deer live on the plain when they meet in the foothills, it is only to talk, they are deer after all, not humans. (2007) is borrowed from a poem by Betsy Andrews (2007) pointing to the relationship of crowds to animals. The third title Crimea Sonnets 2014 (2014), marks the seizing of the Crimean Peninsula by the Russian Federation (2014).

As time passes the work will evolve with its next stopover and pick up a new title along the way.

National Works on Paper, Mornington Peninsula, Australia, 2014

 

CROWD: MOSTLY IN CHARCOAL, ON PAPER
—after the drawings of Dorota Mytych

I get it. A species. We’re
that huge net from which only
the smallest or most wily escape to be
the last blurred thing
someone amazing was thinking.
First definition: crowd, a verb: to press
Or drive on.
Origin: of a ship,
off whose deck one might view, say,
the waters of life, a 19th century
sort of depth. Where one deepens
and drowns. As for crowd,
I like to think it got features, and resembled
the flight if certain birds south
between whole continents (the effort!
to press on for berries and insects
past winter, down
where even the language
is different). Back to
verbs, part of crowding –
and still nouns! (this double
creature thing must be
nothing to words meaning
many, this being
and doing.) Throng and to
throng, mob and to mob,
horde and to horde,
to crush finally. Crush
can’t help scaring me.
                              In the drawing,
in that distance, all
these littles, shrunken
and human, merging and
separate, glomming on
to be big, hundreds, maybe
thousands, and each
meticulous smudge multiplies to snake
to gather to circle
the white paper (I’m dreaming, I’m fixed
to be strange) and what?
And stop. A shock
low in corner where a stain
barely touches, sudden, gone red.
And they’re running. Quick.
Oh, tiny some of them
Who saw.

—Marianne Boruch
14 Dec. 2005
MacDowell—