“Green Fuse” stag print


Red and green striking large stag print with full moon and oak tree

In stock


“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower”

This is a large limited-edition hand-screen printed work of a stag surrounded by an oak tree with a full moon in the background.

The stag was pencil-drawn and inked by brush before being prepared for printing.

There are two colours used, red and green, and where the green overlaps the red there is a very dark green, almost black background.

The print is numbered, named and signed in pencil – it is a strictly limited edition of twenty.

The print size is A3; the mount size is 40 x 50cm. The mount colour is black and the backing board (unseen) is grey.

Paper: The print is on thick 180gsm off-white heavily textured recycled paper made from elephant poo (I kid you not). Don’t worry – it doesn’t smell!

Mounting: The print comes mounted with black mount board as per the photo and wrapped in cellophane for protection. The mount size is a standard one, so getting an off-the-shelf frame for it should be simple.

Postage is free and at present I only post to the UK.

In case you’re curious, the name of the print comes from the Dylan Thomas poem below, which was stuck in my head as I printed it!

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.