Art Climate

Sculpture © Khalil Chishtee

Artist Khalil Chishtee creates work from discarded plastic bags, expressing feelings of sorrow, dejection and even victimhood. He creates art from used plastic bags and he believes that art needs to lead to self-discovery and to a deeper understanding of ourselves and others.

Before the climate change entered the public debate, Chishtee (2010) reflected on the notion of recycling in some cultures which was not directly linked to environmental awareness, but with human greed. He referred to his experience and life in Pakistan, before moving his studio to the US.

Here is an interview with Khalil Chishtee, published in Art Now: Contemporary Art of Pakistan.  He currently lives and works in both US and Pakistan.

© Maria Stadnicka, 2020


More information about Khalil Chishtee’s work and major biennales participation is available here.

 

Kafka

© JStadnicki, 2019. London.

 

The other day, during an afternoon nap,

a tramp came to my door with a letter

for the man in apartment three, ground floor.

 

The knock made me jump, then I thought

I could give out some change in return,

but the beggar refused; he was holding

a bunch of keys and left saying ‘till tomorrow.

 

When I opened the envelope, lying flat

in my bunk, a pair of handcuffs and

steel neck chains dropped on my chest.

 

(From Somnia, collection out now at Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2020.)

© Maria Stadnicka 2020


 

Somnia is available here.

Reviews available in International Times and Stride Magazine.

In queue for ice

The poem ‘City’ from Imperfect, 2017, Yew Tree Press, UK.

Music © Katie McCue 2017

Images © World War One Archive

© Maria Stadnicka 2020

Duende

© JStadnicki, 2020

It looks like a lorry’s parked outside, just by a flower pot. I am arguing with online friends about class differences, ideologies, lack of revolutionary zeal, young-black versus white-old. Reversing over the pot, the lorry crashes into my neighbour’s house. I pause the argument to look for a quote from On Disobedience in the pile of books due to go to charity shops. Police and fire brigade should be on their way. There might be questions needing answers about circumstance, and whether anybody tried changing the course of events. My neighbour and I, maybe the driver, would have. The writer of this account would have too, by swiftly changing the lorry’s position from here, to somewhere at the far back of the landscape. Yet some would argue that for centuries barbarism solved all our problems by force and violence, proving to be such a success.

© Maria Stadnicka 2020

CRASH #2 CARDIFF

Saturday, 15 February 2020 at 19:30 / @ The Flute and Tankard, 4 Windsor Place, CF10 3BX.

This is the second night of CRASH – Cardiff’s brand new poetry night with a passion for the weird, funny, imaginative, dark, experimental and dreamy.

A fantastic lineup of poets awaits – Luke Kennard, Jess Mookherjee, Thomas Stewart, Peter Daniels, David Turner and Maria Stadnicka.

There will also be open mic slots.

The event is entirely FREE and there will be open mic slots.

Come, drink, bring friends, enjoy!

Hierarchies

 

Artwork © Mark Mawer, 2017

 

I inherit a house at the edge

of wild forests where I rarely go.

 

There will come a time when lost,

walking the back streets of memory,

 

I check every gate for a way out.

Only one door handle fits my palm.

 

A found story I never thought

I was missing; my home, dark

 

monument recognises my hand.

God forbid this mistake of certainty,

 

for it brings familiarity of place,

it reduces everything to beginnings

 

until I admit that what is gone is taller

than me, louder, and always right.

 

Ask Jonah. He would say the same:

People see monuments as lessons of hierarchy.

 

They decide the order of things

according to confining walls.

 

© Maria Stadnicka, 2020

Seeds of Melancholia

2020 catches me off guard. I finish a glass of red wine and start my list of New Year resolutions brushing my teeth. My dentist suggested it, to prevent staining. Spitting paste foam in the sink I notice my second watch shows one past midnight. British time. On the other wrist, my first watch shows one past two. The time in the country I grew up. Youngsters already pissed pints on street corners, on the way home after celebratory fireworks. The end of a decade and all I’m thinking about is how lonely must have been for Ian Seed to share a hotel room with a woman he’d never met. And all due to a booking error.

© Maria Stadnicka 2020


! Recommended reading: Seed, I. (2018) New York Hotel, Bristol: Shearsman Books.  [TSL Book of the Year 2018]