Liz-Ann Vincent-Merry
“I dreamt of afternoons in the forest” is a portrait of a tree, documenting its existence over the last eight months. I first stumbled across her during the harsh winter of 2017 in the southwest of England whilst walking through a local cemetery and returned to visit many times. During my absences, I arrive to find an assortment of inanimate objects appearing and disappearing around her. The tree is a female, a friend now whom I came to know through the seasons, extreme this year where I live. Although I think I understand her, there is something more, something deeper and something much more intangible to her that I cannot grasp nor understand.
I talk to my tree. I tell her my life, my thoughts, my troubles, my passions and the enduring love for my daughters. She listens. I sense she hears me but she stands there silent and peaceful, occasionally a gentle breeze will rustle her tender branches, surviving, almost flourishing, despite her displacement, unfamiliar environment and circumstances. Maybe she is me, I am her or perhaps she is a divine being. I feel comforted, at peace here in her presence and connected to this little corner in the graveyard.
Liz-Ann Vincent-Merry
“I dreamt of afternoons in the forest” is a portrait of a tree, documenting its existence over the last eight months. I first stumbled across her during the harsh winter of 2017 in the southwest of England whilst walking through a local cemetery and returned to visit many times. During my absences, I arrive to find an assortment of inanimate objects appearing and disappearing around her. The tree is a female, a friend now whom I came to know through the seasons, extreme this year where I live. Although I think I understand her, there is something more, something deeper and something much more intangible to her that I cannot grasp nor understand.
I talk to my tree. I tell her my life, my thoughts, my troubles, my passions and the enduring love for my daughters. She listens. I sense she hears me but she stands there silent and peaceful, occasionally a gentle breeze will rustle her tender branches, surviving, almost flourishing, despite her displacement, unfamiliar environment and circumstances. Maybe she is me, I am her or perhaps she is a divine being. I feel comforted, at peace here in her presence and connected to this little corner in the graveyard.
BLURRING THE LINES
FOSTERING TALENT AND NETWORKING IN VISUAL CULTURE
Program Leader
Partners
BLURRING THE LINES
FOSTERING TALENT AND NETWORKING IN VISUAL CULTURE
Program Leader
Partners
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