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FANTASTIK EKPHRASTIK EVENING
On April 23, 2026, the GWG hosted a unique event combining art with writing. In the spirit of ekphrastic writing, 6 local artists exhibited their art for a few hours at Flanagans Pub to tempt and inspire writers to produce poetry or flash fiction. (Ekphrastic verses are written in response to a work of art. Writers engage with visual art through language, exploring themes, meanings, or imagined stories.) This was a social event where the worlds of creativity mixed and mingled, enriching all of us.
Below, you’ll find each artist’s work alongside the writing it inspired. The featured artists are Connie Martinez, Arvid Fonser, Arantxa Cedillo-Arctype, Ben Buckland, Igor Marceau, and Federico Scariati.
INSPIRED BY...
Untitled by Halida Nasic
I Behind the face, a soul. Behind the eyes, fragments of joy and echoes of years gone by.
Behind each line, a story of pain — the pain of going unseen, unloved, of being wounded and quietly pushed aside.
So many lines. So many stories. And still, so often, we see nothing more than pain hidden behind every line.
Yet every line holds a story — a story of pain, untouched by color, origin, faith, or nation. Untouched by poverty or wealth.
Pain is pain for all of us. Invisible, and carried inside.
So why do we keep drawing lines among the lines that still unite us?
Why do we keep dividing what divided cannot be?
Untitled by Rosalind Yarde-Jumbe I have something to tell you, he said, a mascaraed eyelash floating down, So, what is the thing you want to share? I asked again, as the tip of his nose He took a long breath that, on exhaling, smudged the vermillion strokes on the You see, he said, blinking. Once, twice. On the third time of opening, the Yes? I prompted, leaning closer. Another crack. This time across the Your face! Something is happening to your face! Oh, that! He laughed soundlessly. It’s not me. It’s just my mask. Untitled by Kseniia Bulatova There’s a portrait on the wall behind me that resembles a certain president. I can feel him staring at me and I can see him in the mirror. I am turning my back on him, I don’t want to use this painting as inspiration, the symbol of total universal f**k-up, the face of my country’s trauma. Why paint this face? Am I the only one who sees who that person is with an expressionless look and those black and dark bordeaux lines behind him? There is not one pixel of joy, not one dot of happiness. Even less air is getting in, the room is shrinking, he is moving closer in the mirror. I would so love this to be a Tarantino movie – I’d get the biggest machete and slice this symbol into shreds with dark bordeaux and black bits flying across the room. |
In the Boy’s Room by Sachie Kikuchi Next to the cathedral
A man in his fifties Residue of youth Pristine shirt After a pint Him A man invisible Life quietly subdued Reached my pocket So you were just tired of us, Dad? | Untitled by David Lewis I’m not very comfortable standing here in this button-up shirt and tie, in this jacket that’s grown too large for me during my 14 months in the clinic. Of course the jacket has not grown. Rather, I have shrunk. No, I’m not very comfortable. But my daughter Sophie insisted I come to this party as part of my reintegration into society. She says it’s an important step. I need to talk to people, socialise. Everyone will be very nice. But I don’t know anyone. I have no conversation. Sophie has stood me against a dark red wall. In the mirror opposite I see that thick black stripes are running down the red wall on each side of my head. It’s as if my head is being squeezed between two clamps. And I don’t look well. There are rings under my eyes. The end of my nose is red, like Rudolph the Reindeer’s. I look like a drinker. I really wish I weren’t here. I really wish I were back in the clinic. Nobody will want to talk to me. And I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m dying for a drink, but Sophie says I mustn’t. And she’s right. I know I shouldn’t. But a waiter is walking towards me with a tray of full glasses. Can I resist? Untitled by J Loretta It will not come off |
Old as Time by Caroline Thonger crackle of flames |
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| Untitled by David Lewis She seems content, amiable, this woman with coffee skin, a black v-necked t-shirt revealing her brown arms. Perhaps 40 years old. She’s standing in front of a large framed painting of a river running between banks with luxuriant bushes. But she has the word NO written in large capital letters on the front of her shirt. And an exclamation mark. What is she saying NO to? It must relate to what she’s holding - a primitive birdcage containing four paper-cut-out people. Outside the cage are three more paper-cut-out people, holding hands. Are the paper-cut-out people outside the cage queuing to get in? Or are they showing the way out to their paper-cut-out fellows inside the cage? Is the woman holding the cage saying NO to imprisonment? |
Untitled by Kseniia Bulatova Blue ink, my school. First, there were boring, ordinary pens. Then the grey curtain fell and we got a tsunami of made-in-China goods, and I got pens that had neonish, strawberry-on-steroids smell. I would doodle for hours as that odor tickled my nose. An eye with the longest eyelashes, a leaf with green and orange veins, a marguerite flower. I wonder what this artist’s first doodles were like. I wonder if he meticulously chose his pens and if they smelled, too. I’m looking at the blue paper tattoo and I wonder if the little guys are suffocating. It’s more packed than an airport during a storm. I’d put little rafts – bits of post-its – on the blue sea to help them get out. They must be scared to death. This room is stuffy and I’m short for breath; not quite suffocating, but I feel we are on the same page, me and the guys. | BLUE by Sushma Belliappa Cross Is that a turtle? My mind is playing tricks on me, But wait, what if this is
Untitled by J Loretta Monsters, all of us | Untitled by Connie Martinez I have long ears. But around me others have little ears or no ears or just different ears. I hadn’t noticed all that before. But as people started calling me “rabbit” I asked why and they said that it was because of my ears. It is strange because I never saw a rabbit and no one else seems to be a rabbit around me. I also find it weird that they would call me something just because of my ears. Since then I started paying attention to the ears of all around me. I realised each one has different ears. Could it be that I am the only rabbit in the world? The problem is that I don’t feel like a rabbit. They explained to me what a rabbit is and they gave me carrots to eat every day. I hate carrots and I do not produce small round excrement… But they insist. Everybody treats me like a rabbit. Many years later… I have decided to cut my ears. Like this they will not oblige me to eat carrots any more. It was really painful. They don’t call me rabbit any more. Now they call me “monster.” |
ORANGE HOUSE by Sushma Belliappa Cross Did this house come first, How do they blend like this, It’s not a quaint wooden chalet, |
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| Untitled by J Loretta I stand in this place |
