When Thor went to Mugello in a rented car, he was delayed because of a nail.
The nail pierced the front tyre, making it flap slurpily into the Autogrill car park.
Incensed, Thor roared for answers, paced the forecourt, shouted at Avis down the phone. Told them what they could do with their tinpot cars.
To no avail.
The bone was broken, the car immobile. Nothing to do but feast on coffee and foccaccia in the slicing heat and wait for somebody to do something.
Which they did, eventually – and finally, Thor hit the autostrada as though eagles were following him – blood and caffiene roaring around his eyes as he fixed his gaze on the white line and made up for lost time.
Later, having greeted his hosts and apologised for the lateness of the hour, he sat in the cool of the loggia, musing.
Nails don’t just land in tyres for no reason.
(Thanks Niel Gaiman)
The fourth poem observing summer on the Cote d’Azur:
I sat down on the blue chair to eat a red apple by the azur sea.
The wind blew the plaintive sax-sound through the sun and time slowed And slowed.
Moving on, I dropped the gold coin into the black box in thanks.
Later, I found a pink and yellow perfect dress – and because it was there I bought it, put it on, and returned to the blue chair to pay homage, in colour, to the sound of something half remembered:
The third poem celebrating a week in the heat on the Cote d’Azur.
Full of Prosecco I watch, dull,
As a young girl with long hair held down by Princess Leah headphones, does TaiChi on the sand in front of me.
She is thin, dressed in black and absorbed in the nature that surrounds her.
She thanks the warmth, the weight and the movement of life autour as she
Extends and contracts out to it and back into herself.
She is alive. She is alone.
I raise my glass.
The second on a week of poems celebrating life in the heat of the cote d’Azur.
50 minutes power walk to La Garoupe after the storm gave us all the will to live.
Greenery smashed, pots broken and shutters torn off their hinges. All destruction.
Before the new day.
Now the beach hums with noise and activity at 7.30 – and the sun has put my hat on.
Even the dull rap thump fits into this creation of luxurious leasure which will be served up to stupefied tourists for the rest of the day.
The first of a poem a day for a week, capturing life in the heat on the Cote d’Azur.
The number 8 bus up the hill to Vallauris.
Air conditioned luxury.
The driver belts around the zigzag road throwing the group of carefully posed teens into each others space, ungainly.
This is not cool.
They casually hold tighter to the rails whilst continuing to text – only the odd glance from underneath lashes betraying how un-Instagram they feel right now.
Jardin des Plantes. 2018 240cm x 140cm
High and Dry
Super content d’exposer au Villa Thuret, Antibes avec No-Made.
J’ai creer un cut-out (pochoir) sur un ancient pannel de publicite a partir d’un photo des Pins Parasols dans le jardin.
L’idee c’est que l’oeuvre se degrade pendant les mois de l’expo!
Tous les details se trouve (en anglais pour l’instant!) en cliquant sur le lien “High and Dry” au dessous.
Nicola Powys 2018
There is a cruise ship squatting in the bay. I saw it this morning framed by an impossible radiant light over -arched by lowering grey clouds. It is the Cannes Film Festival so it will rain😀
It made me think of a painting I made recently – one of many with the theme of migrants. I always return to the plight of the migrants. Where are they now? The “swarm” of desperate, displaced people who filled our news time not so long ago?
This is a mixed media piece – approx 150 x150 cm. It is oil on canvas with a moving blanket and a porpoise bone. The rafts are oyster shells, balanced precariously on a sea marked with coffin shaped holes where hope fell through.
I won’t be showing this one to the sedated cruise masses as they flood past my studio later looking for a reason.
I won’t be showing them anything.