It is a very lovely pony. Although I have no idea about its gender, age; where it comes from, and what kind of past and story it possesses, I do feel inexplicably attracted at the first sight of it. Its eyes seem to be very ironic. May this be its attitude towards the ironic world? Or an unnamed sadness? No one has certain answer about this, however when the light reflects its beautiful colours in the pupils of human beings, we naturally feel a kind of beauty and connection.
Text by Anonymous
Beautiful ceramic bird
In certain ceremonious song.
Ceramic, porcelain, strong.
Just like my grandma
Who I inherited this prized possession from.
I watch as you sit there still.
Orange eyes, sunset bill.
Oh precious bird,
My cat can’t kill.
Crafted by hands
No longer seen
Apart from in a caliginous dream.
Quickly, quietly I creep.
Come to me
Come to me
With your handsome colours
Soft, spoken word.
Don’t be afraid of the umbrous sky
Fly little bird
Fly, fly, fly.
Text by Mickey Horrocks
What catches my eye at first is the design and the colour range of the Sari. The patterns that are displayed in it resembles the Algerian berber original patterns of my country situated in north Africa. I am amazed by the cultural links that people can make when seeing an object without knowing anything from its history or even its background. Cultural objects are not proper to any specific region but they are the cultural heritage of the world. Heritage connects continents together so this is why one should showcase it to the world! There is a lot more to discover from each other, in one way or another: we are all distant relatives.
Below: Sari and Berber patterns
Text by Mouna Lekkal
The floor feels uncomfortable today as I drag my feet to another shiny glass box with a pristine white pedestal inside.
I’ve forgotten my glasses so the brown blurry blob becomes sharper with each step closer
It’s a bird.
I stop moving and study the object.
The rough stone back is coloured like the earth. Within a vibrant exhibition, this little ceramic bird stands out, it’s colours are muted, quieted, but with one still orange eye. I feel like it watches people, flowing in and around the exhibition, as they make their way over to beautiful coloured rugs or tapestries. It sits here quietly, looking, waiting for someone.
It’s beak is like old moss, resting closed, it hasn’t spoken in years.
I stand, mimicking the bird, stone still, waiting for it to blink, flick it’s head around and look at me, as if to say:
“What are you doing here?”
Text by David Paulin