Perspectives and reactions. Visual Perceptions by Nellie Vin Reactionsin Writing byt Peter Heydon

1. My pieces are just that – responses from my mind to your pictures. There is no great meaning
in the words, just expressions that people can absorb and respond to as they wish
My pieces are neither designed to conflict or compliment as such, they are merely there as
reflections of your photographs and shadows cast by their observation. They are my personal
and immediate response to each one and serve no purpose as such
Peter Heydon

2. Perspectives and reactions

3. Winter’s Road

4. How harsh the cold road. The trees shiver like naked inmates at Belsen, divested of all dignity,
bereft of consciousness. Every atom vibrates with the sheer determination to stay alive, let
alone celebrate life. The air itself is thick with indignation. Once upon a time these branches
danced a tarantella of brilliant leaves that spangled and sparkled in the sun. Today there are
no skirts or scarves, just the unclothed torsos left in vulgar abandonment by the turning earth.
Whatever cavalcades or fanfares once paraded down this path and turned the corner in a
blaze of trumpets and human mirth have long gone on their way. The mad dogs and
Englishmen are home in bed. The stray dogs and ghosts now find the place to themselves. This
season offers no greetings, just an admonition. Tread the road at your peril. Hear the snow
crunch, like bone. Fear the prospect of skin, stiff enough to write upon.
Resurrection

6. Battered boards splattered with peeling paint and flaking neglect. Through the decay a portal
offers opportunity, the chance of release from the remorseless entropy that consumes human
endeavor. Everything tends to the center, the black hole of immortality from which even light
cannot escape, the unknown that shall never be known. And yet there is always a glimmer of
hope. It is optimism that overcomes the inevitably of the human condition, the unequivocal
certainty of decay. Despite the unavoidable dark veil that pulls us all to its magnetic core we
see a shaft of light shining through a window and it becomes an engine that fires our resolve
with the power of a billion stars. We look past the bones and skulls and see the purity of
sunshine piercing our hearts and in the shimmering haze there is life ascending, rising above,
swimming to the surface and determined not to drown. Every second is reincarnated, every
minute is born again, and again, and again, and each time we breathe deeply the sustenance
of time and feel it’s buoyancy lifting us towards the skies.

7. Towanda golf course

8. Do the tracks lead to the little hut, or away from it? Departure or arrival? Either way the
shadow of wheels, without any vehicle to be seen, only serves to delineate its absence. This is
the smoking barrel of humanity, a trail of tribulation prostate in the grass, an echo of someone
passing by that lingers on the retina and breeds a thousand questions. What life is this? What
dawn and dusk were bookends to this frozen moment that lies immortalized in the frosty rime.
If those trees could speak would they whisper a name? Such secrets they keep – a conspiracy
of nature engorged with knowledge yet resistant to any inquiry. A million years of human
evolution are visible in the signature on the ground and yet the author has gone. We know
nothing of who it was, only the certainty that he has been, only the uncertainty of where he
has gone. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go
before I sleep!

9. Memory of trees

10. The branches undulate like the static on a phrenic heart monitor. They spread across the line
of sight in menacing formation, like the advance guard of some cohort of dryads marching
through the mists on a grim course of action. Perhaps they seek reparation for centuries of
suffering at human hands. Maybe they fear total annihilation and in an act of uncustomary
rebellion they have torn their roots from the earth and set out to confront their tormentors.
Like giants of rage they boil with the dark brimstone of revenge. From the peaceful lungs of
the planet they have discarded their chlorophyll and goodwill and bear down on the intruders
wearing the war paint of burnt timber. The dark woods no longer parley in hissing conspiracy,
they have taken up arms and have set out to avenge the recollection of all the matchsticks and
newsprint and boats and boxes and bags that have borne witness to their decimation. Pause
when you go outside, and listen to the leaves rustling!

11. Stopping by woods on a snowy evening

12. A milky way of snowflakes descends like an alien invasion while simultaneously the trees rise
up in a conflagration of black flames. The universe has descended into insanity. The natural
order has absorbed unnatural practices and the world has turned topsy-turvy. As if through a
chink in a curtain some semblance of normality can be seen in the shape of an inviting home,
sheltered and shuttered from the whirling incandescence that billows and blusters outside.
Behind the porticoes façade both hearts and hearths glow with embers. Here, within the focal
point of salvation, lies the cradle and womb. Safety from the maelstrom awaits any wanderer
who chooses to step off the precipice and tumble through the wormhole. These are not just
woods; they are supernovae stretching across aeons of time. They are nebulae extending from
before the dawn to beyond the dusk of mankind. This is not just a stopping place, it is a blink
of the eye in the endless diorama - Interminable moments that coalesce into infinity.

13. Dandelion people

14. They live amongst our feet, starkly staring us in the face, brazen, these little monsters standing
with their thin bodies and punk hair. Small as secrets they beguile us with innocence and yet
they are watching, imperceptible, with a sinister sway in the slight air. What are their
intentions? What other-worldly fairy tales have been told on distant Earths? Are these the
beings that have been foretold? Outside the wreckage - what weeds covered the ground at
Roswell? The discovery of bodies was always denied by the authorities and championed by the
conspiracy theorists, and yet perchance they were there all the while, motionless, invisible,
camouflaged by their familiarity. They are already here, anthropomorphic spacemen removing
their helmets and exploding their brains in visceral domination. Only gardeners know the
truth.

15. Pain

16. A symbiosis of shapes. A fusion of flora and fauna. This is the alchemy of life, the birth cry of a
new species, emerging from the imagination in the dark storm-tossed dawn among mist and
mystery. It is the cross-breeding of torso and tree in some strange genetic twilight where
human suffering echoes across the landscape and is absorbed by all living things. It is the rape
of human sanctity that allows the purity of form to be entered by another. The trunk
penetrates his back like a parasite, impaling him. It impregnates him, infusing him with
chlorophyll and antiquity, and every ancient atrocity that sears through his arched physique
and torments him into a perpetual anguish. The air trembles with outrage. The branches
writhe in invisible winds as the invasion of the body snatcher evicts his humanity with all the
furious strength of his enormity and leaves the victim gasping for breath, fallen to his knees,
clutching his head, absorbed into some cult like the agony in the garden of Gethsemane.

17. The Fall

18. Desire and lust weep like tears and obscure my vision. My cheeks are stained with immoral
thoughts and impurities sweat from my pores. The eternal temptations are on parade and the
inevitable tumble that intoxicates every warm blooded man. The lure of heels looking bright
red even in black and white and the ankle straps that somehow put in mind cheap jewelry and
cats in collars. Ascending the dark mesh of stocking leaves a seductive rasping noise in the
eardrums, even when simply looked at, and one’s gaze then climbs the gauze to the black lacy
icing-on-the-cake stocking tops that hint at suspender straps and buckles.Coy knees are
clasped in token resistance but waiting to part in eager reception. Legs like these need nobody
to walk upon them. They need no personality. They need no mother or wife to smile and cook
supper and change nappeis. They are simply there to extol the pleasure principle and annotate
the perennial fall of man, cut down by the razor sharp axe of their own susceptibilities.

19. The hands of time

20. Innocence held in the hands of experience. Hands that can speak volumes in silent gesture.
Each one wearing the expression of a life lived - knuckle dusted and woven with the cares and
joys of all the years. Folded in supplication, quietly resting from the business of chores and
pleasures. Hushed hands that hold so many secrets and have carried so much baggage and yet
briefly paused, resting, showered and cleansed and unburdened for a short while from their
tasks. Soaped skin and freshly scented fingers, each one crowned by a dark nail of beguiling
paint. Whose hands are these? What tales can they tell? What crimes have they committed
and what souls have they saved? Human hands captured in a moment that open a window on
eternity. Like hands upon a crucifix they proclaim their purity but whisper tantalising thoughts
of hidden pleasures. They have knowledge and wisdom etched in each little flaw and vein, and
they hang in mute custodianship, like a tollgate before a bridge of sighs.

21. Scream

22. What castle or fortress is this? Perhaps it is a prison, deep in some woodland and far from
prying eyes. Perhaps it is some abandoned lunatic asylum that still reverberates with the
disturbed minds and maltreatment of long dead inmates. The menace of anguish still grips the
place. Discordant shadows and the empty eye sockets of blind windows haunt the atmosphere
with sinister shapes and Godless thoughts. Ghosts stare from every corner and lost souls
wander aimlessly in search of purpose, seeking an explanation, bereft with confusion.
Distorted vision sees things appear and disappear, tricks of the light, malevolent spirits
pouring salt into open wounds and dancing a slow waltz to some underworld orchestra of
tuneless violins. An expression of fear is frozen into the stone, open mouthed, trapped in a
nightmare, running but not moving, pleading for help yet no-one can hear. The cry is strangled
in the throat and left unanswered. The troubled mind remains riddled with the searing heat of
electrodes smoking like guns on the operating table
Photography
Nellie Vin
Text
Peter Heydon
2012