This body here, in the house and landscape built, which it can inhabit and share, and the history of its making, transcends aspects of life and art work, with the perception from outside making it tangible.Recording bits of history, poetry and shapes of reality into various acts
Este cuerpo aquí, en la casa y el paisaje construido, que puede habitar y compartir, y la historia de su creación, trasciende aspectos de la vida y la obra de arte, con la percepción desde el exterior haciéndolo tangible.
Grabando fragmentos de historia, poesía y formas de realidad en varios actos
with Bruno Atkinson, Emily Reed, Guaya Milán, Onofre Montenegro, Patrick Germanier, Emeline Beroud
and Salvador Hernández López, Laura Rivero González, Blanca Martín Secades, Katya Croddy, Katie Friedli Walton, Lucrecia Reisova, Jigyasa Anand, René Germanier, Simone Rüssli, Mencey Peña, El Pato Martin, Al & others
‘In dreaming, / The clouds methought would open, and show riches / Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, / I cried to dream again.’
Caliban in The Tempest
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Pick the tulsi and amaranth;
Cut the aloe for your skin;
Chop the parsley and the rocket
For your lunchtime soup;
Chillies and padrons
All on the kitchen table;
Cactus fruit cut open with a spine,
Red pulp beneath, dye our teeth and tongues
As we suck the juices.
River bed runs rain into the concrete tank
And the water travels through the irrigation systems
Pumping to the plant beds and gives life
To the dry soil.
Volcanoes sleep over there
And the sea glimmers in the east
A distant mirror,
Where Virgo peaks over a dusky horizon.
In darkness, look for Mars and a new comet,
Green like the eucalyptus tree emerging,
Fine leaves deep in chiaroscuro,
Instances of light catch the edges,
Sharp and bright like succulents’ outline
Distinctly round, thick velvety leaves.
Glimmer of a meteorite.
We burrow through the blue noise of night
And lie in the full moon, a place to rest,
Listen to the sounds of the late-evening
Dogs, traffic, crackles of vines breaking.
A hooded figure works the dried husk,
An embrace, arm and plant entwined.
Breath caught between movement and stillness,
The distance between the moment and the witness.
Snap behind the pine as
A man shuffles in the cosy undergrowth,
He appears behind the spray of needles
And retracts slowly, a hedgehog-bear
Showing his face for just a moment
Before retreating away from our lenses,
We will revisit this place.
A new-old garden:
Pathways of rock, pebble-ash,
Dry palms, wire and concrete
Shelter cacti, birds, chickens, cats and
Bees occupy huts on stilts.
By there, a pond too, a covered oasis,
Sun-kissed fountain trickling
For our blessings.
I imagine little frogs, the colour of algea
Hopping from rock to stem,
Before sinking in again.
Makers of all kinds convene in the garden,
It means much to them –
Rest, serenity, breath, tranquility,
Loose themselves and their unknowns,
Embracing an essential way of being, sensed here.
Life away from the cities, supermarkets
And sterile encounters;
The work: the dormant, ongoing growing
And strengthening of the soil, rootwork,
The hunt for water
And health and healing,
Day-in-day-out waiting, for the rain, for inspiration,
For systems to fall into place
And breathe.
The tools and containers,
Rest in wait for strong hands and tiny seeds,
For new ways they can craft the land they’ve been lent.
These are metal, plastic and wood.
We feel the work as we are only passing through.
Surrounded by nature’s sculptures -
Rows of dancing aloes,
Fanning palms caress the clouds,
Synchronised birds dive for their young,
The pinprick of a flower that is blue,
Compost mushroom-dreams.
I roam, and dance and wonder
Sink my hands in the mulch
By the rock wall of white, red and black.
Collecting, piling up,
Turning, drying,
Planting the good stuff,
Sweating in the sun,
Battered by the winds.
Feeding and being fed.
A legacy, a mark on your earth,
A span of new life and charged youth,
Gentle ripening and vigorous death.
Go back 60 years
To the old man and his donkey.
Who sold the land to a young man and his family.
A mere exchange as the place remains itself
Neutral and free.
Come back to the now.
Now as it happens to be –
Three makers opening their mouths, and eyes and hearts,
To themselves, to one another
To the garden – night & day –
To the house that nestles in the hills,
To its hearth and its gatherings.
Meeting in their stalactite kitchen.
Three moments of arrival - 30 years, 11 years, 5 days -
From afar we’ve come to the island,
To make a home from the past,
For the present and the future.
Discovery asks afresh
for new stories and retelling old tales.
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Written by Emeline Beroud, Feb, Lanzarote, 2023
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Pick the tulsi and amaranth;
Cut the aloe for your skin;
Chop the parsley and the rocket
For your lunchtime soup;
Chillies and padrons
All on the kitchen table;
Cactus fruit cut open with a spine,
Red pulp beneath, dye our teeth and tongues
As we suck the juices.
River bed runs rain into the concrete tank
And the water travels through the irrigation systems
Pumping to the plant beds and gives life
To the dry soil.
Volcanoes sleep over there
And the sea glimmers in the east
A distant mirror,
Where Virgo peaks over a dusky horizon.
In darkness, look for Mars and a new comet,
Green like the eucalyptus tree emerging,
Fine leaves deep in chiaroscuro,
Instances of light catch the edges,
Sharp and bright like succulents’ outline
Distinctly round, thick velvety leaves.
Glimmer of a meteorite.
Come back to the now.
Now as it happens to be –
Three makers opening their mouths, and eyes and hearts,
To themselves, to one another
To the garden – night & day –
To the house that nestles in the hills,
To its hearth and its gatherings.
Meeting in their stalactite kitchen.
Three moments of arrival - 30 years, 11 years, 5 days -
From afar we’ve come to the island,
To make a home from the past,
For the present and the future.
Discovery asks afresh
for new stories and retelling old tales.
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Written by emeline beroud, Feb, Lanzarote, 2023
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Pick the tulsi and amaranth;
Cut the aloe for your skin;
Chop the parsley and the rocket
For your lunchtime soup;
Chillies and padrons
All on the kitchen table;
Cactus fruit cut open with a spine,
Red pulp beneath, dye our teeth and tongues
As we suck the juices.
River bed runs rain into the concrete tank
And the water travels through the irrigation systems
Pumping to the plant beds and gives life
To the dry soil.
Volcanoes sleep over there
And the sea glimmers in the east
A distant mirror,
Where Virgo peaks over a dusky horizon.
In darkness, look for Mars and a new comet,
Green like the eucalyptus tree emerging,
Fine leaves deep in chiaroscuro,
Instances of light catch the edges,
Sharp and bright like succulents’ outline
Distinctly round, thick velvety leaves.
Glimmer of a meteorite.
We burrow through the blue noise of night
And lie in the full moon, a place to rest,
Listen to the sounds of the late-evening
Dogs, traffic, crackles of vines breaking.
A hooded figure works the dried husk,
An embrace, arm and plant entwined.
Breath caught between movement and stillness,
The distance between the moment and the witness.
Snap behind the pine as
A man shuffles in the cosy undergrowth,
He appears behind the spray of needles
And retracts slowly, a hedgehog-bear
Showing his face for just a moment
Before retreating away from our lenses,
We will revisit this place.
A new-old garden:
Pathways of rock, pebble-ash,
Dry palms, wire and concrete
Shelter cacti, birds, chickens, cats and
Bees occupy huts on stilts.
By there, a pond too, a covered oasis,
Sun-kissed fountain trickling
For our blessings.
I imagine little frogs, the colour of algea
Hopping from rock to stem,
Before sinking in again.
Makers of all kinds convene in the garden,
It means much to them –
Rest, serenity, breath, tranquility,
Loose themselves and their unknowns,
Embracing an essential way of being, sensed here.
Life away from the cities, supermarkets
And sterile encounters;
The work: the dormant, ongoing growing
And strengthening of the soil, rootwork,
The hunt for water
And health and healing,
Day-in-day-out waiting, for the rain, for inspiration,
For systems to fall into place
And breathe.
The tools and containers,
Rest in wait for strong hands and tiny seeds,
For new ways they can craft the land they’ve been lent.
These are metal, plastic and wood.
We feel the work as we are only passing through.
Surrounded by nature’s sculptures -
Rows of dancing aloes,
Fanning palms caress the clouds,
Synchronised birds dive for their young,
The pinprick of a flower that is blue,
Compost mushroom-dreams.
I roam, and dance and wonder
Sink my hands in the mulch
By the rock wall of white, red and black.
Collecting, piling up,
Turning, drying,
Planting the good stuff,
Sweating in the sun,
Battered by the winds.
Feeding and being fed.
A legacy, a mark on your earth,
A span of new life and charged youth,
Gentle ripening and vigorous death.
Go back 60 years
To the old man and his donkey.
Who sold the land to a young man and his family.
A mere exchange as the place remains itself
Neutral and free.
Come back to the now.
Now as it happens to be –
Three makers opening their mouths, and eyes and hearts,
To themselves, to one another
To the garden – night & day –
To the house that nestles in the hills,
To its hearth and its gatherings.
Meeting in their stalactite kitchen.
Three moments of arrival - 30 years, 11 years, 5 days -
From afar we’ve come to the island,
To make a home from the past,
For the present and the future.
Discovery asks afresh
for new stories and retelling old tales.
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Written by emeline beroud, Feb, Lanzarote, 2023
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Pick the tulsi and amaranth;
Cut the aloe for your skin;
Chop the parsley and the rocket
For your lunchtime soup;
Chillies and padrons
All on the kitchen table;
Cactus fruit cut open with a spine,
Red pulp beneath, dye our teeth and tongues
As we suck the juices.
River bed runs rain into the concrete tank
And the water travels through the irrigation systems
Pumping to the plant beds and gives life
To the dry soil.
Volcanoes sleep over there
And the sea glimmers in the east
A distant mirror,
Where Virgo peaks over a dusky horizon.
In darkness, look for Mars and a new comet,
Green like the eucalyptus tree emerging,
Fine leaves deep in chiaroscuro,
Instances of light catch the edges,
Sharp and bright like succulents’ outline
Distinctly round, thick velvety leaves.
Glimmer of a meteorite.
We burrow through the blue noise of night
And lie in the full moon, a place to rest,
Listen to the sounds of the late-evening
Dogs, traffic, crackles of vines breaking.
A hooded figure works the dried husk,
An embrace, arm and plant entwined.
Breath caught between movement and stillness,
The distance between the moment and the witness.
Snap behind the pine as
A man shuffles in the cosy undergrowth,
He appears behind the spray of needles
And retracts slowly, a hedgehog-bear
Showing his face for just a moment
Before retreating away from our lenses,
We will revisit this place.
A new-old garden:
Pathways of rock, pebble-ash,
Dry palms, wire and concrete
Shelter cacti, birds, chickens, cats and
Bees occupy huts on stilts.
By there, a pond too, a covered oasis,
Sun-kissed fountain trickling
For our blessings.
I imagine little frogs, the colour of algea
Hopping from rock to stem,
Before sinking in again.
Makers of all kinds convene in the garden,
It means much to them –
Rest, serenity, breath, tranquility,
Loose themselves and their unknowns,
Embracing an essential way of being, sensed here.
Life away from the cities, supermarkets
And sterile encounters;
The work: the dormant, ongoing growing
And strengthening of the soil, rootwork,
The hunt for water
And health and healing,
Day-in-day-out waiting, for the rain, for inspiration,
For systems to fall into place
And breathe.
The tools and containers,
Rest in wait for strong hands and tiny seeds,
For new ways they can craft the land they’ve been lent.
These are metal, plastic and wood.
We feel the work as we are only passing through.
Surrounded by nature’s sculptures -
Rows of dancing aloes,
Fanning palms caress the clouds,
Synchronised birds dive for their young,
The pinprick of a flower that is blue,
Compost mushroom-dreams.
I roam, and dance and wonder
Sink my hands in the mulch
By the rock wall of white, red and black.
Collecting, piling up,
Turning, drying,
Planting the good stuff,
Sweating in the sun,
Battered by the winds.
Feeding and being fed.
A legacy, a mark on your earth,
A span of new life and charged youth,
Gentle ripening and vigorous death.
Go back 60 years
To the old man and his donkey.
Who sold the land to a young man and his family.
A mere exchange as the place remains itself
Neutral and free.
Come back to the now.
Now as it happens to be –
Three makers opening their mouths, and eyes and hearts,
To themselves, to one another
To the garden – night & day –
To the house that nestles in the hills,
To its hearth and its gatherings.
Meeting in their stalactite kitchen.
Three moments of arrival - 30 years, 11 years, 5 days -
From afar we’ve come to the island,
To make a home from the past,
For the present and the future.
Discovery asks afresh
for new stories and retelling old tales.
Sweet cacti, oh svelte bracelets of spikey green,
Witness our innocent-grand endeavours.
As all these parts
Shiver in the breeze.
Written by emeline beroud, Feb, Lanzarote, 2023
