Them Bones
Ners Neonlumberjack was born in a tiny town in central Indiana in 1986. Having lived throughout the Midwest, Southern, and Western United States, the variety of landscapes in which they have lived informs a wealth of variety and interest in plants and animals in imagery as well as material choice. After graduating Herron School of Art and Design with degrees in Painting, Sculpture, and Art History in 2009 the longing for a sense of place and being conscious of the fragile nature of mortality has been a current within the works. Currently based on public (stolen) lands, their works maintain an environmentally conscious and sustainable working practice. Drawing inspiration from the natural beauty across the continent, works straddle the line between painting and sculpture showcasing vibrant colors in geometric patterns on raw natural materials such as sticks, stones, bones, feathers, and logs. The ever-present theme of mortality is contrasted with lively colors, and abstracted imagery of flora and fauna abound as they correlate alongside three-dimensional works.
The Bone on Davenport Beach
by Lauren Robertson
When we were lying on the beach With you reading and I, half asleep, I opened my eyes to the seagulls circling and watching us carefully. Pebbles balanced on nights of erosion, While shells clattered with the sweeping waves And the sand lifted and rolled in perpetual sickness. Perhaps because we were so still, The flies surrounding the kelp moved in on us. With my eyes half opened, I watched the little swarm approach. “The flies are gathering,” I muttered. “They think we’re dead,” you laughed. The sunburn hurt my cheeks as I grinned. Not but five feet from us laid a sun-bleached femur, or a maybe a radius, some weathered remnant, a testament of something once living. I wondered which poor creature the bone belonged to, Whether it was a deer, a sea lion, a whale. I went to school for radiology, so I’ve seen and studied many bones. Each one once belonged to its own human, though. I’ve seen life reduced to that osteo-white signature, and over time, the sight detached me from the miracle of existing. I couldn’t bear to look any longer, neither at the radiographs nor the bone. That’s why I was at the beach with you instead, With you reading your sad novel and me writing my sad poems. Life was not as bleak as I once pondered, and I appreciated the colors within and around us, and the joy we were gifted with the souls to find.
Author's Bio
Lauren Robertson is a queer writer and poet currently based in the Southeastern United States. She has worked as a farmer in California and Vermont, and currently works at a farming nonprofit in North Carolina. She is passionate about nourishing both the land and the soul through her work.