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Goldilocks And The Bed Of Roses

Goldilocks In The Bed Of Roses


I have been working on a series of shark paintings and creating poems to go with them. Here are just a few of these paintings, mostly in progress.  I decided to pair them with some inspirational footage I made while visiting the Atlantic last summer. I had a little mishap with a Cinderella dress and shifting sands, but everything turned out all right thanks to my non-detachable hoop skirt, which propelled me back to land. (Dress code Not advisable)


Every morning's birth is an ode to chaos, the relentless sea thundering against the fragile shore. Goldilocks, egressing from the known womb of her cottage, is greeted by an inconceivable jumble. The day's first light falls not on bear or chair or untouched porridge, but the sleek, alien form of thresher sharks entwined in the thicket of her once-tamed rose beds.


The earth, her earth, is unrecognizable, a tapestry of the benthos risen. Here the feral aquatic tails weave through the flora in an expanse that fails to distinguish between the saline fury of the ocean and the crafted quietude of the garden.


There is no semblance of rhythm in this daily discovery, only the stark realization that sharks root where roses should. Each petal, once a cradle for dew and the kiss of the sun, now lies battered and submerged under the indifferent canopy of the waves. The sea, in its vast unknowing, sends emissaries to recline amid the thorns.


Above, a castle hangs, cloud-borne, surreally detached from the saline incursion below. Safe in the air's embrace, it stands aloof, untouchable, a mute witness to the anomaly unfolding beneath. It mocks the intimacy of land and sea with its lofty indifference.


Goldilocks stands at the confluence of disbelief and acceptance. The narrative of her life, once neatly inscribed within the confines of clean pages and fairy-tale endings, now blur in this salty air. She peers into the pools in her garden, a dichotomy growing wilder, stranger with each tidal withdrawal.


The convergence of the land's bounty with the ocean's depth is a tapestry, unasked for and unbidden. It is here that Goldilocks finds her world suspended between the soil's steadfast grasp and the ceaseless drift of the tides. What once bore the straightforwardness of a child's tale is layered in complexities as intricate as the sea's own heart.


This is no longer a morning of mere beginnings but revelations—the unspeakable enormity of the ocean reaching into her domain of fragrant blooms. The boundary has been breached, and each new dawn is not a repeat but a continuation of the incursion.


The rosarium, a gallery of the absurd, where the languor of sharks playing out a silent ballet is a masterpiece no one wished for. Here, Goldilocks discovers not the comfortable constants but the terrifying endlessness of the world's deeper truths, each day washing over her, a perpetual tide of wonder and dismay.




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