Rain. A tribute to Terrygold by Kristine Blackadder

Rain by Terrygold. Machinima

I already told you here something about this Terry’s beautiful and moving work.

There, I already tried to say something about a so nice Kristine’s machinima about “Rain”, the last art installation built shared by Terrygold into Second Life.
Well, this beautiful friend, Kristine, was not satisfied by her machinima, and felt her need to make more and better: thus, another video was born: “Rain by Terrygold”.
These so dear and clever two friends, Kristine and Terry, go on to grow better and better as artists.

This time Kristine gives space and dignity to the words used by Terry in her work. Kristine makes a beautiful machinima where Terry’s words are in great evidence, while into the original art installation our eyes and our minds are so captured by pics and landscapes that words are subordinate and for instance I self really did not give them their real importance and beauty.
The translation into English from the original Italian text was made by another dear friend, Annalisa Mulialina, while a fourth friend, Shyla, enhanced those words with her so pleasant voice.

Four clever and gentle and dear friend, four women from both the sides of Atlantic Ocean made this wonderful work.

I enjoy their work so much; I enjoy more and more their friendship with Judy.

This machinima was accepted into that so great SL event that is FantasyFaire 2022: it will be presented during the event scheduled on Saturday, April 30th, as showed below here.

Rain FF schedule

And this is the event SLURL

Sangu miu (My blood)

sangu miu

As I told in my main Italian blog, Terry built a very interesting and moving art installation in Second Life: Rain. It is dedicated to her mom and shows us something about Terry’s memories and thoughts about her and her death.
If you are interested to know more about Rain, see this post by Inara Pey. Here I underline only that a previous Terry’s similar work, Empty chairs, started considering the death of Terry’s dad yet after it went on applying feelings and extending considerations, emotions and sensations more widely, on the theme of the absence itself.

Well… another dear friend, Kristine Blackadder, liked Rain so much that she shot one of her beautiful machinimas in the garden made by Terry, after it was modified: also Kristine’s work shares her feelings about the absence theme.

This machinima is much more complex than it seems. It is beautiful, up to make shiver.
Kristine perverted the white or coloured Terry’s flowers to crimson, blood ones, and turns on herself in a tiny space drawn by a column of light. Nothing around it.
She shook up those pale yet somehow gentle flowers made by Terry, those flowers that after their so pale and cold beginning in Terry’s work get beautiful colours, as hopes have. Here those flowers are too much big, too much red, too much upsetting.
Here those flowers aren’t a landscape but only a narrow scene in which Kristine and only Kristine dances her pain. She’s alone, even without memories: that’s the absence.
This is a strong and hard reflection about herself, filled with that obsessive crimson: blood and rose, rose petals becoming blood, her bloodlike coloured dress (she always is black dressed in her machinimas) and those so upsetting blood flowers. There’s a bad red scar on her face.
Terry with her work told us something about her blood: her mother. Kristine keeps her eyes on her pain due to the absence, as a monster detail and everything becomes a real blood flow.
If you pay attention, at time 2:47, there is a voice citation from Mulholland Drive, where the anchor-man (a terrifying one) on the stage of a theatre says “It is an illusion”. Of course, this consideration could change definitively the meaning of the whole machinima, as to say “Well, I’m only joking”. Really, in my opinion, it is not so: Kristine tells us that also pain can be something like play, acting, a recital: in such cases we live in a so little and perverted space and we can only feel pain.

Yes: this is pain. Yet, please, we must not be defined only by it.

Another prompt: if that absence were truly absence of sense for our way, work, moving, living?

February, 5th 2022

Wish

wish

JB, Elven Forest, today

When the night quickly comes like a ghost,
a dark velvet or silence, old veil
often bringing us pain memories …
I wish to be your wish and desire

When the moon rises so large and white
like a girl in love yet pure and chaste
and we feel to be such a poor thing …
I too wish to be wish and desire

When my purple spreads through all my neck
and my cheeks and elsewhere too
there where you want to touch my shy skin …
I must be your wish and your desire

When the fog deletes trees and each thing
in this world and we are like blind cats
without home, with no sense and no hope …
I want to be your wish and desire

When the death strikes so hard just near us
stealing from us what we need so much
and I shiver with fear and with cold …
I need to be your wish and desire

January, 1st 2022

My dear friend Terry made this beautiful photo after she read my words:

wish_terry

Terry’s Empty chairs

Terry empty chairs Cover

My friend Terry made into Second Life this art installation, where as usual she is her model. It moved me, especially for the sweet sadness and the melancholy of all the installation, that looks at something no more (or not yet?) there.

After I wrote my text, I knew that Terry dedicated her installation to her dad.

(to Terry with affection)

White smooth skin, baked clay,                    1 Terry empty chairs Terry
modest and statuesque, you wear
only crimson nail polish.
A mask always occludes your mouth

No words and no caresses,
no kiss can warm your lips
sealed in stunned stasis.
Each thing is only silence of absence

You’re alone, wandering empty rooms,
with no friends, mates, companions around.
Antique pink on the walls contrasts with
your so pale, delicate, marble flower

2 Terry empty chairs Frames

Black frames say deep dark space:
they tell it as thick, worrying
empty sockets that lost any memories
about who lived there, into their picture

3 Terry empty chairs Garden

You do live a green dream, colours and
gentle birds hovering in the air
like a breeze thickening nice presences,
chirps that are given to joyful love

4 Terry empty chairs prospects 3

Then a spectrum of empty prospects,
lifeless too, follows the garden where
there are colours and light and birds, joy:
follows it, closes it with stress, anguish

Benches sit down inside a dark park
and so many chairs stacked or spread
through the empty night streets, waiting for,
without one who enjoys or lives them

5 Terry empty chairs Vespa

Like those chairs, an alone empty Vespa.
You watch it, maybe thinking of someone
dead, not here, maybe a friend that taught you
to fish,
when you were only a child

A strange feeling makes turgid my breasts
as I look at your so gorgeous body
I’m lame and very small and I feel
your skin close to me and it’s ice cold

SL, Osta Nimosa, August, 24th 2021

Italian version

Winter dream

(Photo by Melania)

Silly words born while I was chatting with a friend about a landscape built by Terrygold.
Maybe not silly at all.

What’s a winter dream? It’s as a scream
made by shadows that cover as cream
my frost skin; shivers’ stream
runs like hopeless bad sin
 

What’s a winter dream? It’s a flash, gleam
that moves me to be silly and write reams
clinging to thoughts rerunning same scheme.
Winter dream is too much my own theme
 
 
 
SL, Casvian Caye, January, 12th 2019

A sphere

Judy is entering a sphere

My friend Terry built a new art expo based on ten spheres in which several artists made their works. Each sphere is as little world and it is possible enter them. The opening of this expo will be on next September, 14th 2018.

In my worse silly mode I wrote this stuff about it.

What’s a sphere? an austere
cry to show we are alive,
a small box, often block
trapping smiles in this rock

What’s your sphere? A mystère
you don’t know, when sincere
look at your bloody heart
waiting for a restart

In my sphere I’m asleep
sad and bad and I creep
toward black hole that eats
what I want in my deep

Into a sphere we all live
without sky, love and light
as poor things that deprive
themselves of any fire

SL, Casvian Caye, September, 8th 2018

Italian version

Rustinsects

Photo by Terrygold

I’m lost in wonder: my friend Terry continues to improve her building and artistic abilities; her last work is this wonderful Rusted Farm so filled with strange and worrying insects, made with a full original style.

Here are my poor words for her work.

Rustinsects dusty and reddish of earth
burnt and dirty with iron’s dry blood,
nightmares monsters and maybe ourselves
walking slowly across far lost paths

 

Skinny spectres and tainted with dumb
sensitivity, corroded image
of us, the soft ones, with our feet
on the ground squeaky into blue hopes

 

SL, Casvian Caye, August 25th, 2018

Italian version

Puppet

As soon as possible I’ll post here the Terry’s photo that (together with Glitter) caused this stuff

 

 

Nude girl puppet is waiting for love
as I do and you do. As each wants.
If we dream into nonsense bad hopes
all is lost in a weak dead regret

I curl up and I seem feel you skin
here to touch. I would be silk for you,
kiss and cover your body everywhere.
My heart needs cuddles, home: it’s so poor

 

SL, Eternal Possession
April, 3rd 2016

 

Italian version

Ceramic doll

Terry doll

This is an original Terry work from her EXPO “Ceramic dolls”.

To know better the whole Terry work, see this interesting and well done review; about that review, please, note that I do not consider in the pics I like more the erotic pulsion as important; I do not like a lot art works in which the female body shows its details or sexually explicit photos.

 

(a Terry picture)

 

Pale doll down on her knees she seems waiting
for the show that asks for herself there.
To begin, to be height and alive
something needs both her body and her soul

Purple stripes on her legs, on her arms,
signs of whips: hate of the time and days
gone without colours. Signs of her flesh
still yet rarely, sometimes, like alive

Past lives made hard her skin, her soul cold
sadness came alike snow on flat grounds
Is she waiting for something… the show?
She is waiting alone for died days

There are luxury curtains, red, carved
in the space of the stage: they are main
drama characters and so they can play
taking that puppet leash, moving her

Also I am here waiting for that
One I don’t see and could make me alive.
Also I am on that empty stage,
pale ceramic hard doll without heart

 

SL, Enoki, December, 6th 2015

 

Italian version here

Cold skin

terry occhi3

 

My friend Terry made this pic in SL. These words are both for me and for her.

Cold skin shows all my thoughts naked, so
every night  I dress darkness to go
where I meet you to make love alone.

We are only a bright little star
that survives in a shiver, then dies
lost in nowhere space without a cry

Daylight cuts off the truth and my masks
come to protect myself from those eyes
as my clothes hide my shameful flesh

No one may ever see my deep soul
otherwise I became brittle glass.
No one must ever see myself nude

I kneel down, often I kneel and lie
under the bad world eyes that strip me:
white and cold then I show no girl’s soul

White and cold as a dead woman knows

SL, Helvete Norge Fjord,
November 15th, 2015

 

Here you can find the bad translation into the Italian language.