Issue 57 - Writers Corner - Ephemeral

 Ephemeral Art: The Beauty of the Fleeting

This month, we invited artists to submit work on the theme of "Ephemeral Art," celebrating the beauty of the temporary, the fleeting, and the impermanent. From art made with natural elements to performances that vanish in the moment, to writing that captures transient emotions—this theme explores creations that exist only briefly but leave lasting impressions. Ephemeral art is an art form that defies permanence, embracing the impermanence of materials, experiences, and ideas. It is meant to be experienced in the moment and, once it has passed, survives only in memory or documentation.

Throughout history, artists have used ephemeral art to comment on the nature of existence, challenge conventional artistic norms, and create immersive experiences that are meaningful precisely because of their transience. In a world increasingly concerned with sustainability, preservation, and the role of technology in art, ephemeral works continue to shape contemporary artistic discourse, encouraging viewers and creators alike to embrace the fleeting nature of beauty.

While ephemeral art has gained prominence in contemporary discussions, its roots stretch back thousands of years. Many of the earliest human artistic expressions were, by necessity, ephemeral. Ancient sand drawings, temporary ritualistic paintings on bodies and walls, and performance-based art forms such as dance and oral storytelling were all integral to human cultures. These forms of artistic expression were designed to serve a purpose in the moment, whether spiritual, communal, or personal, rather than to be preserved for posterity.

During the Renaissance and Baroque periods, elaborate festivals, parades, and theatrical productions were often considered works of ephemeral art. Artists and craftspeople would create temporary installations, set designs, and architectural structures meant to be dismantled or decay over time. Even in religious traditions, such as Buddhist sand mandalas, ephemeral art takes on a deeply spiritual meaning—symbolising the impermanence of life and the importance of non-attachment.

In the 20th and 21st centuries, ephemeral art became more widely recognised as an intentional movement, particularly with the rise of performance art, land art, and conceptual art. Artists such as Andy Goldsworthy, who creates intricate natural sculptures that eventually dissolve back into their environment, and Christo and Jeanne-Claude, known for their large-scale environmental installations that are intentionally temporary, have demonstrated the power of fleeting art in making profound statements about nature, time, and space.

While many well-known figures in ephemeral art have been male, numerous female artists have played a crucial role in shaping the field. Throughout history, women have embraced ephemerality in ways that challenge dominant artistic traditions and societal expectations.

One key figure is Ana Mendieta, whose earth-body sculptures and performance pieces in the 1970s explored identity, nature, and the female body. Mendieta often used natural materials such as mud, blood, and fire, creating works that were intentionally impermanent and deeply connected to the landscape. Her "Silueta Series" involved carving her silhouette into various natural environments, leaving only a brief trace of her presence before nature reclaimed the space.

Another important artist is Yoko Ono, whose conceptual and performance works have consistently embraced ephemeral principles. Her famous piece "Cut Piece" (1964) invited audience members to cut away her clothing, highlighting themes of vulnerability, impermanence, and participation. Many of her works explore the idea of instruction-based art, where the art exists primarily in the act of creation and experience rather than in a tangible object.

Cecilia Vicuña, a Chilean poet and artist, has also been a major contributor to ephemeral art. Her "Precarios" series consists of tiny, fragile sculptures made from found objects, which she often leaves behind in landscapes or urban settings. She also creates large-scale installations using unspun wool, allowing the pieces to degrade naturally over time, reinforcing themes of environmental fragility and memory.

More recently, artists such as Cornelia Parker have continued to explore ephemerality. Parker’s "Cold Dark Matter: An Exploded View" (1991) involved suspending the remains of an exploded shed, capturing a moment of destruction in suspended animation. Although the piece is preserved in galleries, its original essence—an explosion—was a fleeting and unrepeatable moment.

Why Ephemeral Art Matters Today

In an age where digital permanence and mass production dominate, ephemeral art challenges our understanding of value and existence. We live in a time when everything is archived, photographed, and stored indefinitely, making art that deliberately resists permanence all the more striking.

Ephemeral art is important because it forces audiences to be present. Unlike a painting in a museum or a sculpture in a gallery, which can be revisited time and again, ephemeral works demand immediate engagement. Whether it is a performance, a temporary installation, or a piece of street art that is destined to be painted over, these works remind us of the importance of experiencing art in the present moment.

Another significant aspect of ephemeral art is its relationship with sustainability. As environmental concerns continue to grow, many artists are rejecting traditional materials in favour of biodegradable or found objects, ensuring that their work has minimal impact on the planet. Land artists, in particular, embrace this philosophy, working directly with natural elements like leaves, ice, and water to create pieces that will inevitably return to nature. This approach aligns with broader discussions about how art can be created responsibly in the Anthropocene era.

In my own practice, I embrace the ephemeral by foraging natural materials to create pigments and inks, crafting art that evolves and decays over time. This approach reflects a commitment to sustainability and a deep connection to nature, challenging traditional notions of permanence in art. By using biodegradable materials, my work embodies the transient beauty celebrated in "Ephemeral Art."

My website, nicholarodgers.com, showcases a range of pieces that highlight the impermanent nature of my artistic process. Whether it is botanical inks that shift in hue as they oxidise, sculptures made from organic materials that break down over time, or fleeting site-specific installations, my work explores how art can exist harmoniously with its environment, rather than seeking to dominate it.

The Future of Ephemeral Art

Looking ahead, ephemeral art will play a crucial role in shaping the future of artistic expression. As technology continues to advance, digital ephemeral art—such as time-limited installations, augmented reality experiences, and NFT-based works designed to disappear—will challenge our understanding of what constitutes artistic permanence.

Furthermore, ephemeral art provides a counterbalance to the hyper-commercialisation of the art world. In a landscape where artists often feel pressured to create works that can be sold, stored, and commodified, ephemeral art offers an alternative philosophy—one that values experience over ownership. By focusing on art that is meant to exist briefly and then vanish, artists can prioritise meaning, engagement, and impact over market value.

Public and community-driven art is also likely to see an increase in ephemeral projects. Murals that are designed to fade, interactive performances that exist only in collective memory, and pop-up exhibitions that challenge the institutional nature of galleries all serve to make art more accessible and democratic.

Ultimately, ephemeral art invites us to reconsider what we value in artistic creation. Do we treasure art because it lasts, or because of the experience it provides? In a world that often feels obsessed with preservation and permanence, embracing the ephemeral reminds us of the beauty in change, the importance of presence, and the power of art to move us—if only for a moment.

this months writers are below with a great mix of critique, poetry and letters…

You Will Never See Us Coming

He discovers the air in his living room is torn, and a few days later, he finds the first number - a four - gouged into the passenger door of an abandoned Vauxhall Astra. The car is sprawled across two disabled spaces at the end of his road, a police-aware notice taped to the windscreen. A network of thin cracks spread like burst capillaries along half the length of its front bumper. Its sunroof is gone and the front seats glisten with a dusting of tempered glass. It is still early, and the street is deserted, so he traces his finger along the scores in the paintwork. Later, he will dig sharp flecks of green enamel from the quick of his fingernail. He walks the length of the street, checking each car in turn. None of the others are marked with a one, or a two, or a three. Nor in the next street, or the one after that.

 At home, he edges closer to the tear. It hangs at head height, just in front of the bookcase. It is a few inches wide and perhaps an inch or so thick. If he so chose, he could dig with his fingertips and widen the gap by peeling away the air like old wallpaper. Motes of dust twirl in front of the schism. Flakes of his shed skin dance on columns of warm air in the funnel of light that seeps through. Some of what used to be him must surely have already drifted through and settled like snowflakes on the other side. Parts of him that are somewhere other than here. Around the edges of the fracture, the air seems warped. It bulges somehow as if inflamed. Bruising around a wound. When he stands still enough, he feels a faint arrhythmic pulse, mothwing light, on his cheek.

            The air trembles against his lips as he leans close.

            Four, he says.

A week later,  he sits on a bench scattering crisp crumbs for the fat park pigeons. They mob in front of him, throats the same shifting blue-green of spilt oil on wet tarmac. They do not skitter away like town-birds when he moves in his seat to keep his legs from numbing. Instead, they regard him with eyes the colour of molten rock and brush against his shins as they peck at the earth beneath their twisted elastic feet. When he rises to leave, he sees the memorial plate on the backrest of the bench is mottled with a furry patina of verdigris. Beneath this, the three is carved into the damp wood. Its curves are jagged, and the grooves are fuzzy with the same mossy growth.

            Why there? He says into the tear that evening. Why that bench?

            He presses his ear to it and waits for a response. From somewhere in the depths, perhaps there is something. A voice, or voices, soft as insect legs.

            Where next? He says.

The two, he does himself. Spray paint on a white garage door half a mile or so across town. He lays it on in one heavy coat. The paint runs in long rivulets and pools in tacky puddles before it has time to dry. It is barely legible. He leaves coin-shaped spatters at the base of the door. Beneath the streetlights, they are the colour of childhood nosebleeds. Is he allowed to try again?

            Am I allowed to try again? He says later, into the fissure.

            He has started to worry at it, prising with his nails as if picking at a scabbed knee. He feels nothing but the slightest draught against his skin, but he can see that he is manipulating it. The light around the split has changed. It bleeds like ink at the edges of a cyanotype. Now, the air is bulbous, as if viewed through teary eyes. In his peripheries, he can see that something is in there, shifting in the vitreous light. Shadows behind the mist.

            Am I allowed to try again?

 He thinks he sees the one etched into the cracked Perspex of a bus shelter near the chip shop, but when he draws closer, it is nothing but mindless scrawl. He keeps looking. In the evenings, when he moves his face close to the fault and breathes deeply through his nose, he detects the hint of oily earth. Of the dirt beneath the underpass.

            Where next? He says. But there is no answer.

            Sometime later, he realises that he has been asking the wrong question.

            When? He says and waits.

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Artist name- Sona Sahakian

Instagram @sonyl_artartart7

Website - www.sonasahakian.com

My film ‘Everything Comes and Goes’ shows the transience and the cyclical nature of human existence. A connection is made between a person and the elements of surrounding nature. Change always occurs, and destruction and decay lead to a new existence. Due to transience, this cycle continues in the world. So I want to show that you need to appreciate, enjoy, and have a positive outlook on all the little things in your life, no matter how difficult the situation is. It is a victory of life, movement, and rethinking.

For me film is a form of art that moves, so that time and its perception are always present. Working with film makes the awareness and transformation of time tangible. Time becomes dynamic and mobile, so that past, present and future merge and form a unit that stimulates your senses and your imagination. Time is distorted, freezes and transforms at the same time, allowing you to find unexpected new experiences and creativity in your life. Life flows when there is movement, making feelings, emotions and thoughts transparent from a liberating consciousness.
 To me , poems are like musical sounds that give a poetic, warm and lyrical feeling. Even when I take a walk, ideas arise that I express in my artworks in a lyrical, poetic and mystical way. A moment of being and not-being come together and merge. The intangible world consists of abstract feelings and the emotional world.
 It's an invisible mirror in which you see yourself. Words are like floating musical notes that come together, harmonize and form a unity.


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Artist name - Richard James Hall

Instagram - @dickjameshall

Website - https://richardjameshall.weebly.com

Dear Performance Art,

I miss you.

I miss you, even when you left me feeling fatigued from working with you, when you left me feeling drained from watching someone else work with you or when you left me feeling awestruck by those little moments of reflection and pause that you gifted me… you were wild and fun and accepting, a pansexual polyamorist alien discipline who liked to feel the warmth of many bodies at many different points in time and space.

Our relationship was akin to a deeply felt romance, at first a long-distance admiration which then blossomed into the delicate rough tensions of serious play… all that you had ever asked for was that I would give you the time, care, and attention that you needed.

For over a decade, I held you close and felt comfort in your embrace as I performed and watched others perform within various institutions of art and education, out in the public realm and even between the domestic-digital spaces… I felt so secure in myself working with you, even when you were working with other performers or went under the pseudonym of “Live Art” or felt out of reach.

But then a variety of circumstances ranging from being traumatised by perpetration, feeling trapped by the pandemic, slowly becoming numb from numerous bouts of grief and many other small fractures broke our bond… Instead of feeling condent, self-assured and comfortably challenged, feelings of doubt, trauma and overwhelm began to make me like I was drowning whilst you could do nothing but watch.

Perhaps this was the point in which our relationship broke down by my pushing you away, even when I was in denial around the fact, hoping that you would ght for me… but then you didn’t ght for me, as your time, care and attention went to other folk who were making performance work.

I grew bitter from your abandonment, feeling lost as an artist who put nearly everything into making only performance work and as a result feeling critical of the culture surrounding you, feeling like I wanted to protect any new partners making performance art from the tempting trappings of the practice.

Slowly, my bitterness bled away and I started to look back at the little moments of our relationship, laughter and tears and quiet pauses orbiting around us like celestial bodies in our very own intimate cosmos… an education of beautiful agony derived from an unequal partnership dynamic.

I don’t think that you ever mean to hurt me or any of your other partners who had been let down by you, but it does happen and it hurts to see you embrace the new everyday without ever really pausing to take a break and reflect on your behaviour, especially when you are influenced by folk with ulterior motives… you never grieve for our absence, you just move on by avoiding the topic of the past, because you are constantly pushing for the present.

I am older now, having taken steps towards a process of recovery where I am acknowledging the work that I undertook towards building stronger foundations (with the support of friends, family and medical professionals) whilst also giving myself the grace to accept that I am still fragile in some ways and require more care… I may not have the same energy, conscience, and resilience that I had when I was younger, but I am also not burning myself out through the self-imposed masochism of constantly pushing beyond my capacity to live.

Perhaps one day I will perform with you again, when my foundations are much stronger and when I feel the need to convey something beyond the concrete visual language, something that reaches out to those who need that sense of wonder, connection and pause from the everyday… I don’t think I could go back to loving you like I did back then, but maybe we could reach a place of cooperative friendship with a better sense of where the boundaries are now between us.

I miss you, but nostalgia is not a house that we can live in, only visit before it collapses under its own weight.

Much warmth and admiration,

D x

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 Artist name - Rayan KG

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/reno_carat?igsh=MXZvbHFmbHdxdm5wYg%3D%3D&utm_source=qr

Dementiad

With this poem, I explored the concept of ephemerality through its vivid imagery and emotional depth. I tried to navigate the fleeting nature of time, and the bittersweet memories shared between me and my father, expressing a deep longing for moments that feel both precious and ephemeral. It reflects our struggle with anticipatory grief, recognizing that as time passes, it both enriches our memories and diminishes our shared experiences. *Title is Dementiad with a strikethrough on “ementi” to uncover the person I wrote this poem for, Dad.

Title: Dementiad

Author: Rayan KG

We laughed,

                                 You and I

said It was a joke 

my mind skipped                       a line

because It was you my guiding light

My spirit and my first love

the one with whom I always laugh and chat 

Together we sugar-coated the gloomy days

Our dimples always held witness to the heartaches

graved by the path our tears took down our face

what a beautiful trace to be made 

We always knew how to lighten up the mood

As If dark humor drilled a hole into our minds

and we were blind, 

till It was too late,

till I saw you 

falling

like a leaf

my heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't breathe

how could I heal                      the malady of time

and stop stealing our little joyful moments of life

In a rush hour, I met uncertainty for the first time 

No one ever said it would hurt this much

Scars I thought were healed but their trace is here 

The sky went dark and gloomier than ever

Clouds cried out to me, while I waited for time

Stars went far away with my hopes & schemes

To go on a trip together and feel the breeze 

To sing the Beatles with you,

now that I have memorized

Lucy in the Sky with a Diamond

It was something only both of us know

and we used to laugh at,

as we drove back home

Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes

you said it was written for mine and I know 

looking at you,

I know, what great of a man you are

and what an extraordinary life, you have led so far

and how lucky I am to have a role in your story 

You had big ambitions and I’m following you

through the stormy night, and the rocky road

We’ll find shelter from these thunderstorms

We’ll be alright, as long as I see you at my sight

And see the twilight inside of your eyes

reflecting those hidden rivers of mine

twinkling like there is no sorrow no pain

Still praying for miracles and time to wait

till I cross everything out of our bucket list

till we see the world from a different landscape 

Let’s say It will pass, and we will strive to thrive

It’s just a phase It’s just a lesson we had to take

So when the time comes to do us apart

I will be courageous enough to say

You will be engraved in my heart for eternity.

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 Artist name- psychoblockie

Benchmarking, a response to Helen Hoyt

I don't know who placed the flowers on the bench, why they are there or what they mean. Do they serve as a memorial, a marker, an act of devotion, or are they a kindness by a stranger, left to brighten the day of any passer-by?

They are lilies.

I think of you. I think of all the moments we have shared. I remember you in your youth, and me in mine. The ways our limbs would entwine. The way I would kiss you and hope to make you mine.

I remember the days that followed, the days that still follow, the days where I am yours. I cannot count on one hand the ways that you have changed me, nor the ways that I have changed you, but I only need two fingers to count the lives we have created. I'll save those two fingers for later. I feel they will come in handy.

I stumble upon the lilies on one of our walks together. I do not know, now, these many days later, if I shared the view with you or simply used the shutter on my camera to inscribe them onto film, preserve the memory and the feeling, and hope to tell you later.

I was lucky. We were lucky. We came upon the lilies while they had some semblance of life, even though they were cut down in their prime.

They have not yet withered and died, though soon they will. No. They already have, long ago. This picture is old, like our love. Our children no longer run around and get under our feet, tug on our clothes and our hearts with want. They too are older, yet always younger, always there to remind us of ourselves. 

Our parents still live. I remember when your parents did not like me. Hate is too strong a word, and yet not strong enough that it cannot be overcome, be knocked aside, be pounded until it turns, changes shape, becomes respect and understanding.

But our parents age, too. We pass the age they were when we met. We see their faces, how they change, the lines we have caused, the lines their grandchildren have caused, the lines we have yet to gain, and the lines we may never gain.

Minds change. Some turn bitter, some turn mellow. What causes such bitterness? Is it a clutching to a certain type of thought, allowing other thoughts to slip away, to become ephemera? Happy thoughts, fleeting moments, left behind? Not left at all, just forgotten, as if they never existed? Which thoughts should we make our benchmark?

The flowers on the bench are lilies.

 The flowers on the bench are lilies and they call to mind Helen Hoyt, and her poem rain at night.

 The flowers on the bench are lilies and they call to mind Helen Hoyt, and her poem rain at night. The closing line will not leave my mind.

O love, I had forgot that we must die.

I remember my two fingers, that I saved, for the last. I see you death, approaching, and I use them to salute you. I do not care if it is a futile gesture, at this moment I have a victory, I can look across a room and see my love, see her smile. I can wait until the day the stranger is me or my love, laying lilies on the bench, traipsing hills to do so, maybe returning when they die. 

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Artist name- Sergei Shteiner

Instagram - @prisnilsya.sonet

Website - https://linktr.ee/sergei.shteiner

BIO

My name is Sergei Shteiner. I was born in 1988 in the USSR and have been living in Berlin, Germany, since 2021. I have a background in mathematics and work as a software developer. I am passionate about visual poetry and art. I have self-published around 35 poetry zines, most of them in Russian. Besides Russian, I have also worked with English, German, Ukrainian, and Yakut, as well as the pidgin language Russenorsk. My tiny little exhibitions:

• Little Window Galerie, Berlin, 2024

• Dreams & Memories, Gallery Informal, 2025

More about my work: linktr.ee/sergei.shteiner

I was truly captivated by the theme of this open call. As the poet Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov once said, “Lord, we are all temporary,” so every work of art is ephemeral in its own way. Nevertheless, I struggled for days to come up with something fitting—until today, when I had the following idea. I have a deep appreciation for the Japanese haiku genre and have worked extensively with it in the past. At one point, I even created haikus from human search engine queries. One of my favorite haikus is a piece by Matsuo Bash¯o, which I had only known in Vera Markova’s Russian translation until today. Here is a rough English rendering of her translation:

 the nun’s story

of past service at the court

deep snow all around

One observation I made some time ago was that the final line could be omitted—the effect of deep snow is already created by the blank page surrounding the haiku. Today, I attempted to find an English translation, and it proved to be quite a challenge. Eventually, I discovered one in Basho: The Complete Haiku, translated by Jane Reichhold:

 the story

of the famous poet nun

 a village in snow.

This is, of course, a completely different text, yet also a great translation (though I suspect the original Japanese differs from both versions). But even here, the final line could be omitted with the same effect, as the blank page assumes the role of the snow-covered village. It’s a stunning image:

 A nun recalling her past, her memories gradually covered by falling snow, fading until they disappear entirely. A conventional printed text cannot fully convey this effect, so I came up with an idea—to create a website where the third line becomes the URL itself, http://a-village-in-snow.org/ the site, we only see the text:

The story of the famous poet nun

But most importantly, this text shrinks a little every day. I purchased the domain today for a year (the standard minimum period for domain registration), with auto-renewal disabled. In a year, the website will disappear. And in a year, the text itself will vanish, becoming nothing but a single dot, buried in snow. I will also attach screenshots showing how the site will look on different days throughout the year.

Summary: Characteristics of Ephemeral Art

• Intended to disappear – The website will cease to exist in a year, and the text will gradually fade over that time.

 • Site-specific – In this case, website-specific :)

• No lasting object – The only remnants of the project will be screenshots; it will also be interesting to observe Google’s cache over time.

• Powerful message – This is ensured not by me, but by Basho (and, of course, translator Jane Reichhold).

• Symbolism and significance – I leave this for others to judge :) Regarding the technical side:

The website’s code is straightforward, and I have uploaded it to GitHub: https://github.com/sergei-shteiner/a-village-in-snow One of my professions is programming, so I was able to implement this idea in a single day, I love deadlines, and nothing is more ephemeral than them!