Welcome to the Yellow Lamp Art Gallery

Visitor Information

A note from the curator

Exhibition details

Artist by Brooke Soulsby

A snippet of a clipping... by Whaitiri Tua-Warbrick

Hand-drawn by Ellie Bennett

Sheep in a Slaughtershed During a Storm by Ted Greensmith-West

A Blackout Poem by Ash Raymond James

INT. SITTING ROOM – DAY by June Ha

Pale, Flocked & Blue by Megan Clayton

Relentless by Christina Hira

Visitor Information

• The gallery is open 24/7.

• We estimate the exhibition will take 20 -30 minutes

• Please move quietly through the exhibition.

• Photography is permitted.

• Please take your time with the artworks.

• Please touch the artworks.

• Some installations may contain tough topics.

• Allow yourself to feel.

• Stay to the left.

A note from the curator

Ekphrasis has always fascinated me. The act of finding art within art. Beauty exists like a snowflake; every perspective is different, even if it is the minuscule detailing. This means every ekphrasis expresses deep individuality. Some beauty grabs us without reason; some is too beautiful to express in any fathomable way. The writers in this collection took a piece of art and pushed the story outside of the frame. They gave motion to the still. May the following pages remind you that every work of art holds more than one story. That even the very thing you are reading is reaching the heart in a unique way. Read these pieces, then read them again. Take your time working through them, and you will be rewarded for your meandering. Thank you for being so supportive. Now go and be reached, and, most importantly, stay curious.

Ash Raymond James

The founder of Yellow Lamp

Exhibition Details

Title: The second-ever Yellow Lamp lit mag

Medium: Poetry & prose.

Date: Winter 2026

Curator: Yellow Lamp

Collection: Contemporary New Zealand Writing

Artist by Brooke Soulsby 

(After Interior with the Artist’s Easel by Vilhelm Hammershøi)

~ One day I tried the darker palette. I swirled long-stiffened fibres around and around until all was ripe for the cosmos. I will strain no more for the gossamer threads of the heavens! And let it be said, with the first daub against tight off-white linen—indeed, dear reader, I found my oblivion. ~

Falling. I was falling.

I went right through one floor,

then another,

and another,

and finally—

At first, I did not feel a thing. I heard only a dull crash and was only dimly aware of misty surfaces colliding. There was no debris, only dust. My destination was mostly charcoal with hints of slate and stone. I hue of off custard smudged the back wall. Then, feeling yanked hard at my wrists as I sought purchase— I yelped with inhuman sound, jolting, shocked, the gloom sharpening. I had only meant to leverage myself closer to—

The smells were all. Damp wood, mudbrick foundation below… and tobacco, faint, hanging in the air… and before long, the sweetness of powdered rot—there! In the hall! My hind prickled. My nose, like a dog’s, dragged along the floor, collecting, smudging, travelling up, and up, right up to the chipped ceramic on the sidebar. I peered at the limp husk within—

A plum-sized body unfurled from shadow. Quick, scuttling legs sent me scrambling back to the hardwood, bottom-down. I lost my tail. My fur dispersed in motes, limbs lengthened anew. The frequency of my yowl, my bark, my cough sent shrinking ears ringing. I rounded the corner—staccato from metamorphosis—and my new-and-old nightgown caught on the rough-splintering leg of the easel. Hear now the slow tick tick tick, the teeter from leg to leg… to leg…

Tugging myself free, I sought the window, hoping to discover where in the hells—The glow was imminent—But beyond the frame— only scribbles. Mottled textures like eggshells, soil and fertiliser. Nothing. No space. Kneecaps and elbows filled with stones. Gravity tugged at me, would not let me look away—

I saw it. Where the light was really coming from.

The wall rushed up to meet me. A frame jolted overhead—more falling; this time, I was the target—But no! A spectral, raw-boned hand clutched my chin, pulled me forward, would not let me forget, would not let me look away from eyes too bright, mouth too tight, skin too folded and smooth—prickled and smooth—smooth and rough—composed and weary—uncertain, mournful, fearsome and exactly new. What I’d thought was a canvas was in fact a mirror.

~ I wasn’t sure what to make of it all this morning, having emerged from twisted, sodden sheets, unmade. My knees were worn, my elbows bruised. Nose, bug-bite pink. Nor could I account for the brush, my hand—tips stained with every colour you could imagine. ~

__

Brooke Soulsby (she/they) is a writer, poet and publisher from Whangārei and Pōneke, currently residing in Kirikiriroa. She is one of three founding co-editors of circular publishing collective. You can find some of their writing via linktr.ee/brookesoulsby, or @book.soulsbee on Instagram.

A snippet of a clipping of a newspaper interview on a young comedian’s corkboard, underlined and encircled in red pen by Whaitiri Tua-Warbrick

–and it’s no small irony,” said Mr Molecular

after sipping from his coffee cup

and softly grinning,

reminiscing,

“that my mother took my father’s name,

when her maiden name was Biggs—

Whaitiri Tua-Warbrick (Rāngitane / Ngāti Raukawa) is a poet who lives in Palmerston North and is a multi-modal, omnipresent librarian. He writes poetry when he’s not out walking and trying to be a person. You can find his work in Landfall, Starling, Bloodbath Journal, Ōrongohau | Best New Zealand Poems.

Hand-drawn by Ellie Bennett

A small hand / monkey-bar calloused / learns the shape of holding / a body / then a crayon / then a body / the grip not so different / kneecaps soft enough to take the imprint / small stones pressing their brief claims / testing impact in miniature / not yet knowing the scale / not yet knowing / gravel elsewhere / holds longer / keeps the impression of what has fallen into it / everything opening with a sound / the velcro of everything / sneakers / book bag / the daily tearing apart / the daily sealing shut / bark caught in the turn of a sock / bark like a dog / that will not leave / that follows / into the house / settles where it can / on the playground / games delightfully mean / you’re dead / no you are / no you / the word dropped when playtime ends / except for some / above / the sky not empty / space not empty / something moving / a figure with a cape / flight without border / something named and renamed / illegal / alien / the distance between things growing harder to cross / what are we hurtling towards / the smallest superhero in the world / not drawn / but drawing / the enormity of it all / ignored / in favour of the smallest superhero in the world.

Ellie Bennett hails from Te Whanganui a Tara. She has recently completed a BA(Hons) in English at the University of Otago – Ōtākou Whakaihu Waka. She loves writing, overthinking, and summer.

Outside, flocculent clouds huddle in the sky

like sheep, the midnight starlight mostly

hidden behind their drenched coats;

the empty hills, and

inside, little grey sisters huddle too,

enjoying shelter from the storm, their respite

temporary;

beneath them, the roots of the slaughtershed

have begun to move.

Their windpipes will be cut soon

like whistle valves - hot

steam sputtering out, clumping in the air

like crimson scud.

All day,

the sky has been in gradual stages

of blackening, and finally, now,

it’s here.

The hollowness of evening has shrunk

into everything -

the clank of a bucket,

the roiling of peat mosses,

hollow bleating, the wind bleeding

through the eaves, and

meathooks on their long chains, rattling;

at these lofty altitudes, they remind me

of the rusty red hand of Damocles, passing

over the heads of Dolly and her sisters, casting

a shadow.

They remind me,

at these lofty altitudes,

of gently swinging bones.

Ted Greensmith-West is a poet and lawyer, based in Tāmaki Makaurau. He grew up on the Otago Peninsula. Ted’s work has been published in the Spinoff, Poetry Aotearoa Yearbook, and Cordite Review. He edits Bloodbath Journal. More of his work can be found via Instagram @tedtedwin

Ash Raymond James (1990-Present)

2026

Pastel on paper

12.7 x 20.32 cm (5 x 8 in.)

Yellow Lamp Gallery

(after Woman at the Piano by Pierre-Auguste Renoir)

two ceramic ducks on a shelf

above ivory keys

blue and pink,

they are

kissing

permanently kissing

beak over beak, in a French way

we also

behave:

no running inside and leave

our shoes at the threshold

be so good we collect dust

a prima vista: at first sight

biding for when the fallboard

lowers and the painter turns in

biding time to savour bites

of melody and sweetness

in moderation, biding

for the deep quiet to slip in

to rest my blues against your pink

skin on skin, underarms over sheets

a prima vista, my dear we are

sight-reading, lip-syncing

to the tempo of your pulse

as the wax runs upstream

on a curling wicks

June Ha (she/her) lives in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, Wellington, and writes anywhere she can. June enjoys Earl Grey with oat milk, long walks that turn into a swim, cordless vacuums, windows, and making lists. You can find her other work in Starling and nine lives.

(after Woman at the Piano by Pierre-Auguste Renoir)

The movers were uncertain

when she asked them

to push it against the wall. Madame,

it will make it difficult for Monsieur

to sit beside you, especially

when you have the giant ficus

right there, see, in the heavy pot.

Madame, you will have to play

alone. Oh, she knows the night’s

a hazard: heavy wallpaper,

candles melting down,

the snapping gusts she makes

with every page-turn. Perhaps

in the end, it will conflagrate,

and she’ll be scared and sorry.

Fled queen of yet another fiery

moment. Not now, though.

Pale, flocked and blue.

The counter-melody, the corner

score, the solitude.

Megan Clayton (she/they) writes and performs from Ōtautahi Christchurch and works in higher education. Megan's poems and essays have been published in Aotearoa and Australia. Megan’s manuscript collection ‘Dynamite’ won the 2026 John O’Connor Best First Book Award and will be published in August with Sudden Valley Press.

(After Evening Shower at Teradomari by Kawase Hasui)

head bowed to the reign of disappointment,

too many years in power,

not enough weight is given to its impact,

covering myself in protective gear

does not limit its reach,

but it does embellish my delusion

if only I could see it as weather

and not tyranny.

Christina Hira is an emerging poet who is always seeking connection with what is uncomfortable. Writing poetry is how she remembers that curiosity and compassion are the point. She is currently obsessed with tarot, grief and crafting