Injustice
72 creative works found
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Zakopane, South west Poland. These were probably gypsies, I’m told – but it could be anyone on the wrong side of the tracks, anywhere in the world. J’ACCUSE [still in progress] ‘I should have more faith,’ Holmes said. ‘I ought to know by this time that when a fact appears opposed by a long train of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation…How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’ - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Dog, dogma: dogma, God. / Where is our constant friend? / Where has he gone today? / - Is he: / Hiding under the table, like Spot the Dalmatian? / - Is he: / Perched on the windowsill, like Wee Willy Winky? / - Is he: / Creeping upon the stair, like the man who wasn’t there? / - Is he: / Some malign force in the skull of a drowned pig, like Legion? / No. / His holiday haunt – just for this week – reposes in / “Our anthropic bias”: remote yet required, he is (like / Income Tax) and needed to explain / Why there’s so much soot in the cosmos. / Diligent astronomers line up, eager to assure: / It’s the Lord who puts lead in your pencil. How hard of heart you think I must be / To scorn the longings of good people. / Only – oh, yes – I crave eternity as much as / Any of them: yearning as much as any for comfort; / Or to be promised that their lives (as much as mine) / Were not in vain – were not shop-soiled, or naked, or / Somehow dirtied. And so there has to be an anger, / Not of contempt, but of infrangible disappointment: / As if for a love that was pledged, yet which / Could not be; leaving only the wake of betrayal. / It’s not annihilation that is unbearable, / But only the possibility of hope. There’s Samuel Butler, I suppose: / “Once we explain a thing, we must / Remove it from the sphere of divine action.” / You wily old snake, O Lord: whenever the glare of scrutiny / Dazzles you out, you bed down somewhere else. / “God of the Gaps” my logic tutor called you, / Slipping yourself into shadows, like a Spiv. / Concerning your account, too, the little question of / An infinite regress: / Of who created you – if it’s so bad to have / One uncreated thing; / Who fashioned the elegant architect, if elegance / Demands an architect – if brute coercion must, / For once, be beautiful? / / Miracles? For sure, they’re all around us. Each feather / Or each song of the lyrebird is one; and but for / Another (less strange, they tell me, / Than the forming of a soap bubble) we’d not exist / At all. To think! / There’d be no chance for speculation, and an / Inanimate void might shimmer in its fecund silence – / Saved from our dissimulation, spared at least / The prattle of precarious minds. “When I hear Bach, I know there is a God.” / No, Dr Einstein; you do not. When you hear Bach / You know there is a Bach. / Two things serve as the measure of humanity: / Compassion is one, and memory of pain. Yeah, yeah: blah, blah. We need an afterlife to / Square the circle, make those grand impostors fair. / Trouble is, God old boy, we clocked your number long ago. / You made us a mite too bright; we pried too hard. / For God so loved our world, that he made flies / Whose maggots crawl into a sleeping brain – / Eating it away from inside: / And a child’s mind slithers down her nose, like snot. / For God so loved our world, he fashioned other worms / That creep towards the sun on stalks of wheat, and then / They’ll hitch a ride, guzzling through one’s skin with acid spit. / Soon afterwards they’ll shred the victim’s lights and lungs: / A grown man coughs on bloody gobbets – and, as he chokes, / They’ll slide down to his guts, to make their / Home Sweet Home. I’ve seen the superhuman indignities of old age: / The long nights of senescent, emptied lives, / Meaning nothing, God, to you. / (Sparing that cracker-motto crap about the Hereafter / Wherein we rise, in a flurry of angels – / Preceded, inevitably, by choking on our false teeth. / It’s bollocks: like all your other, busted incentive / Schemes, that keep us lame, and tame, docile and debased.) See, God old Sport – me old mate, me old Cobber – it’s not / As if your cruelty were a necessary evil: / Something to make us think, or learn, or grow. / No. Sadism, for you (inventive in a way; / Not lacking in imagination)…it’s vindictive, / Petty, needless, squalid, nasty, cheap. / It lays waste swathes of decent souls, like a pandemic: / It’s undeserved, and makes good people stumble; / It saps them, soils them, makes them less than once they were. I know your meagre mind, O Lord, and your forbearance – / Thin as slime mould. You’re rubbish, God. God: you’re / Dead meat. Oh, and God? I spit on your grave. Man’s profligacy comes from loneliness. / Beyond Man springs the abundance of what was never / Meant to be. Here, beyond our fingers, is the reckless, futile / Richness of what was unplanned. Stretch out your hand. / Ours is the bounty of the bold insurgent, / Not the pasty gaze of slaves. Stephen Jackson January 2005 (Finished 2007)
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It’s funny the shots you end up liking isn’t it? / I just love this shot. / It’s taken in a remote area of Rwanda. / Kind of a scary area actually. (Remind me to tell you why one day). / Anyway, these kids were blown away that I had a camera. / And yes…blonde hair. Their energy and pure fascination was just so raw. So, I like the shot. I really do.
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HEAL Africa Hospital www.healafrica.org
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A young man I shared a few minutes with in Rwanda.
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These people had been run out of their village by militia and had just returned when we arrived in North Kivu province Democratic Republic of Congo. They are just some of the millions of displaced Congolese driven by fear of the horrific crimes carried out by the roaming militias. When we arrived it was chaos. People return to homes that no longer exists, and victims who are no longer as they were. HEAL Africa has started an initiative whereby the leaders of these communities from Muslim, Christian and indigenous religious groups come together to try and rebuild the community. Yep that’s right a Christian group working with others in a non judgmental socially progressive way. I just had to point that out :)
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Let me take you on a journey. / It’s 2007 in the capital city of Rwanda, Kigali. / April; The month of mourning for the atrocities of the genocide 13 years ago. / A wonderful theory. / A hopelessly inadequate practice. / Mourn for only one month, the butchering of your family? / Oh well, at least the government is trying we reason. / I’m here with 15 others on an aid trip to the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda in central africa. / Both tragic messes. / The trash can of the world. / Where other countries occasionally rifle through the litter to find gems – only to leave the remnants crushed up in their wake. / Messy business pillaging. / What do you do with all those annoying people? / This day we are with the Barakaboa Foundation. / A group of hopelessly under resourced Rwandans set up to deal with the ‘parent-less’ generation left dazed by the atrocities of the past. / On their ‘books’ kids as young as 10 raising kids younger than that. / There are no orphanages in Rwanda. / The government favours family upbringings. / A wonderful theory. / A hopelessly inadequate practice. / Who do you run to when your stand in Mum or Dad are 8, 10, 12? / Oh well, at least the government is trying we reason. / But how does that work you ask suspiciously? / If the genocide was 13 years ago, how are stand-in parents so young? / AIDS. / How handy Barakaboa was already in place. / They just swivel from one barbaric destroyer to the next. / We are to visit one of the families they support. / It’s hot, dusty and despairingly grimy. / We break into two groups. / I travel with my sister, a full time aid worker and her husband a doctor. / To a family in the city. / We feel uncomfortable. / We feel obtrusive. / We feel confronted. / We feel hopeless. / And we feel western. / We are all these things. / It is my task to record the event photographically. / My lens is worth more than they will make in a lifetime. / My feeble request for freedom to portray accepted with grace laced with exhaustion. / Our host is the woman in this shot. / I don’t even know her name. / It is dark and I can barely focus. / There is no electricity. / Torn material hangs inefficiently from the ceiling across glassless windows. / There is no breeze. / The air is stifling. / The atmosphere shameful. / The outlook hopeless. / In her one room home live herself, her two children and three adopted orphans. / Such is the way in Rwanda. / She has AIDS. / Her husband passed it on before he died. / Her 16 year old daughter has AIDS. / Most likely from rape. / Her fatherless child? / Who knows. / There are 6 people living here. / It’s tiny. / It’s tiny. / It’s tiny. / We ask how we can help. / Snap goes my shutter. / She needs medicine. / For all the stuff AIDS brings. / Colds, fever, nausea. / My brother-in-law writes a script. / We fumble around for some Rwandan money. / A wonderful theory. / A hopelessly inadequate practice. / She can’t afford the taxi to the pharmacy. The authorities supply AIDS medicine to those who’ll admit they have it. But not medicine for the ‘off-shoots’ of HIV. And the drug companies? Don’t even start me? / Oh well, at least the government is trying we reason. / Snap, another shot. / She has nothing on the walls except a crucifix. / She is a Christian. / She really is one. / Not just one for charity. / She asks us to hold her hand and pray for her. / She asks us to pray for her family. / She loves her family. / I look at my sister. / I look at my brother-in-law. / They stand up and hold her hands. / My brother-in-law bends down and checks the youngest’s eyes. / I love my family too. / We pray. / Then, snap, a family shot. / We leave. / With the promise we won’t tell the neighbors she has AIDS. / She is ashamed. / So are we. / Not of who we are or why we’ve come or what we’ve done. / We are ashamed and angry and affronted at the horrible, despicable and unacceptable inequality of gender and geography. / My sister and I share a glance in the silence on the way back to the mission hostel. / There but by the grace of God, that could have been us. Share. Please. You know the drill by now. All proceeds to charity.
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One of the young women working at HEAL Africa in Congo saw this line in a marketplace. / I thought it was brilliant. / They should know.
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All proceeds to charity / helafrica.org
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Elderly people are rare in Rwanda given the genocide. Makes this lady even more of a treasure. She’s praying.
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One of the Doctors examining a pygmy woman. Domestic violence was suspected. / He was with our group. Oh yeah, and he’s also my brother-in-law :)
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Our earth needs help, we’re destroying it more and more everyday with deforestation, global warming, polution, etc. Also the war, injustice, and poverty. Our world is hurting. Layers: 5 / Worktime: 4 hours
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This was taken during a demonstration in the zócalo of México City in around September/October 2006. The rough English translation is that “while there is injustice there will not be peace”.
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Porgera Gold Mine, Enga Province, Papua New Guinea These children spend most hours in their day panning for gold in the waste that comes untreated out of the Porgera Gold Mine. The waste contains high levels of suplher, cyanide and mercury and is over 50 degrees celcius. The mine has also destroyed the local ecosystems including the rivers and is having serious health impacts on the local people. The mine is run by Canadian mining company Barrick Gold.
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T-shirt design from abstract painting in acrylics. Red, white, blue and black design with white lettering
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Back Drop: / 18 Aug 2008 … The conflict has also rendered 158000 people homeless, according to ...................................WASHINGTON (CNN) Too many people are becoming homeless for different reasons in Bangladesh and across the world. / / Few lines form a love poem / ”... / At day’s end, like hush of dew / Comes evening. A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight fom its wings. / When earth’s colors fade and some pale design is sketched, / Then glimmering fireflies paint in the story. / All birds come home, all rivers, all of this life’s tasks finished. / Only darkness remains, as I sit there face to face with Banalata Sen. / From Banalata Sen By—Jibanananda Das / Translated by Clinton B. Seely. Footnote: / *I was trying to see this poem from a homeless point of view. In “The Birds Nest” I see “darkness” as conflict, war, occupation, invading, global worming, natural digester, earthquake, tsunami, flood,—poverty, hunger, social injustice…(list could be more long) / -also a world, where a birds nest is not so safe. / But I have hope, see the lights…
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This photo was taken in Washington DC at the Vietnam War memorial. It’s hard to see but the writing was a child’s and as a military member it struck an emotional chord with me. They maybe gone, but they will never be forgotten! Proceeds of this piece will go to the Disabled American veterans Org / http://www.dav.org/
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There was an indie film a few years back that came out after Columbine. It followed these kids around through their everyday school lives- literally there would be 5, 10 solid minutes of the kid walking down the hall, etc. In the end the school is broken out in chaos when two boys bring guns to school and start shooting students and teachers. It’s very eye-opening. / The movie was called “Elephant.” / My business teacher was on the subject of Columbine one day and refered to the boys who shot the place up as “crazy.” This pissed me off. Because It just gives more evidence to the fact that no one pays any attention to how fucked up higschool is. How fucked up life is. / The film has the very same message as my painting. There are pieces of wallpaper clippings to portray the “room” of which the elephant roams. / This goes hand in hand with my writing “Ode to My Nazi-fuck Highschool”. The (Elephant in the Room is jabbing his arm with a herion needle.) http://www.elephantmovie.com/ In Memory of Cruz Bowman / Blaze Ya Dead Homie.
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proud, yet savage / noble, yet cruel / destined …thought some / to be the white man’s tool An Apophysis fractal
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Judgemental Man.
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digital art / Featured in Politics, Race, Sexuality and Culture / My interpretation of woman being flogged.Still happens in some countries. / How does this Art piece make you feel?”
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