Graham Hall
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Turned Ash
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During the past few years Graham has developed techniques for producing very large, thin walled, natural edged and translucent wooden vessels that celebrate the complexities of the grain, the changes in tone and hue because of its fine, opaque structure. The irregularity of the natural outer edges forms a line, a distinct boundary, where the life of the tree ended along with its ability to record the passage of time within its growth rings. This piece includes three natural edged, large, hollow forms or bowls from sections of felled trees. The outer edges of the bowls are formed by the outer skin or bark of the trees and creates a distinct timeline between the time when the tree was felled and the annual rings inside the trees that store detailed historical records over a huge time-span in its ever-changing growing environment. Once formed and after allowing the natural drying processes to influence the final textures and shapes, the outer surfaces of the vessels are engraved with an outline of the bare tree from which the wood was harvested paying homage to its once mighty past. By counting back from the edge, it is possible to identify and mark salient points in history. Our history to which these trees have stood in silent witness.
Although we may see beauty in the wood we should remind ourselves of joy of the living trees and
where possible protect and venerate them.
Although we may see beauty in the wood we should remind ourselves of joy of the living trees and
where possible protect and venerate them.
In the exhibition space, Graham's bowls are displayed with an audio recording of Annie Kissack's 'Remember' as a backdrop.
Remember by Annie Kissack
We are the barometers of your petty time,
the markers of each flitting spring.
We are the excavators of the high earth corridors,
the loamy, just-below-the-surface haunts of
citied ants and myriad mushroom life.
We are the borderers of your wavering imagination.
Follow us through the pages of the forest glade,
the disappearing path, the raging wolf, the fairy ring.
The rag ends of your prayers and stories
hang from our branches.
We are the shadows looking down on lonely places
where lives were lost and on bright spots where poets rested,
gazing at the sky through emerald-dotted canopies.
We bear the flittering of tiny birds busy in a sunshine
far too bright for the sustenance of single souls.
Remember then, even in the felling season,
that the time of trees is not so slow
nor is it hollow of meaning.
A bowl is proffered, a libation of the air you breathe,
an offering so drink deep while you can.
We are the barometers of your petty time,
the markers of each flitting spring.
We are the excavators of the high earth corridors,
the loamy, just-below-the-surface haunts of
citied ants and myriad mushroom life.
We are the borderers of your wavering imagination.
Follow us through the pages of the forest glade,
the disappearing path, the raging wolf, the fairy ring.
The rag ends of your prayers and stories
hang from our branches.
We are the shadows looking down on lonely places
where lives were lost and on bright spots where poets rested,
gazing at the sky through emerald-dotted canopies.
We bear the flittering of tiny birds busy in a sunshine
far too bright for the sustenance of single souls.
Remember then, even in the felling season,
that the time of trees is not so slow
nor is it hollow of meaning.
A bowl is proffered, a libation of the air you breathe,
an offering so drink deep while you can.
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