would move me more than glitter 2019, Good Grief Studios, Hobart

  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : Prickles and Pears, 2019, oil on linenPrickles and Pears 2019, oil on linen, 81 x 71cm
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : would move me more than glitter, , would move me more than glitter, installation view, Good Grief Studios, 2019, photograph by Rosie Hastie
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : Princess X x2, after Brancusi, 2019, oil on linenPrincess X x2, after Brancusi 2019, oil on linen, 30.5 x 30.5cm
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : would move me more than glitter , , would move me more than glitter , installation view, Good Grief Studios, 2019, photograph by Rosie Hastie
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : She Shells, 2019, oil on linenShe Shells 2019, oil on linen, 81 x 71cm
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : would move me more than glitter, installation view, Good Grief Studios, Nadege Philippe-Janon, 2019, photograph by Rosie Hastie, would move me more than glitter installation view, Good Grief Studios, Nadege Philippe-Janon, 2019, photograph by Rosie Hastie
  • Amber Koroluk-Stephenson : Peacock, after Quilty and Whitely, 2019, oil on linenPeacock, after Quilty and Whitely 2019, oil on linen, 38.5 x 38.5cm

would move me more than glitter

Priscilla Beck

Liam James

Nadege Janon-Philippe

Amber Koroluk-Stephenson


would move me more than glitter examines interpretations of the ‘artist’s muse’, aiming to capture potency and poetry of the muse through examining interplays between figuration and abstraction, desires and devotion, sexuality and objectification, public and private, intimacy and immediacy, substance and futility.

The works respond to fragmented states of meaning and understanding through equivocal visual dialogs, playing on the social, cultural, institutional and hierarchical understandings of the muse as object and subject in fiction, history, mythology and popular culture.


To an army wife, in Sardis

Sappho

Some say a cavalry corps, some infantry, some, again, will maintain that the swift oars of our fleet are the finest sight on dark earth; but I say that whatever one loves, is. This is easily proved: did not Helen—she who had scanned the flower of the world’s manhood— choose as first among men one who laid Troy’s honor in ruin? warped to his will, forgetting love due her own blood, her own child, she wandered far with him.

So Anactoria, although you being far away forget us, the dear sound of your footstep and light glancing in your eye would move me more than glitter of Lydian horse or armored tread of mainland infantry