Pieces Of My Heart 2017
Pieces Of My Heart 2017
In February 2016, Kari mounted an exhibition entitled Pieces of My Heart.
An exploration of the content of one poem, this group of pieces documented an emotional pathway from grief and loss through to renewal and revival.
The show is personal and layered, reflecting on lines from a poem written in the depth of grief.
The 2017 tour of the show stemmed from several calls from community to showcase the collection that other people may find their reflection.
Central to the show is a couch, a place where you are invited to sit and contemplate or share their own experiences of loss and/or renewal.
In 2017, Pieces Of My Heart was shown at Makers Gallery, Clayfield in Brisbane and at The Old Ambo Station in Nambour.
Jessi Dunbar, Kari's son, was commissioned to create a soundscape for the show. He pieced together a rich tapestry from short recordings taken on Kari's phone over two years. Often heard are her footsteps, a walk in the local forest accompanied by a chorus of birds. Each recording carries a memory, a recollection of time and space. Poignant and wholesome, touching and transporting. Behind this tapestry, is Kari's heartbeat, strong, unflinching... until....
Along the way sounds are morphed and tangled before clarity returns.
When you tore away so abruptly,
you left my entrails trailing on the ground.
Sinews and organs spilling out
of my body, my belly, my soul.
Falling and flailing in air.
Blood vessels shattered and broken.
Tumbling out, aimlessly, endlessly,
My womb opened and wept.
For weeks sleep was elusive,
food was not welcome.
In shock a body trembled,
daily, hourly, each minute.
Shaking never ceasing.
In shock a body reacting physically.
Flesh shook from my body,
dripping red tears.
Salty tears streaming down my face,
morning, noon, night,
night after night,
Weeping, for my own pain
and for he who could not, would not.
A wail so long, so loud piercing the air,
muffled in a house;
silence in a home once shared.
A scream unanswered.
A wail emanating from a wound,
a womb wound, deep inside
flooding up and out.
Mouth dry and screaming.
A scream tearing the air,
A wail of grief,
a wall of hurt,
a wound of blood.
A hundred phone calls for help.
A community holding me up
when I could not stand.
ego trodden below freezing.
Breathing nigh halted.
Daily tasks too difficult to manage.
Living; a salted wound.
If I am so worthless,
to one who had promised forever,
then how can worthwhile ever be measured again?
My other projects
Homage to the Australian central desert In central Australia there are several rock forms that have been sacred before people…
Originating in Sumeria circa 3100 BC, cuneiform text was the method used to record temple accounts and keep track of…