A Lovely Surprise!

Surprises or Love? I'm dithering about my topic today. 'Surprises' seems too thin, whilst 'Love' seems too vast (although with this key pad the topic of 'Typos' could easily outstrip them both!).

It would be more than fair to say that I am no expert on either subject - I generally shy away from giving or receiving surprises, whilst my attempts at dealing with Love have always been rather journeyman, and I would suggest wary of real engagement. I suspect that my understanding of Love has always been hampered by the lack of an independant frame of reference . Meaning what you say? Meaning I've never really trusted literature - Love always seems too much there; and I've never trusted my own emotions enough to consider what I felt valid. I have a similar issue with pain - I'd really like a scale to let me know whether I'm actually in pain, or merely a hypochondriac in denial; so when someone says: "Does that hurt?" I don't have to consider how much pain other people consider enough to be 'hurt'.

In the same way the various versions of love in poetry, epic and even Richard Curtis never quite seem right - mainly because I've never felt right about that sort of public declaration in the first place (And I can't pull off the bumbling idiot like Hugh Grant - though idiot...?). Well, surprise! Here's my attempt (And you thought this was meandering and lacking structure - ha!)

Love is rarely a straightforward sentence, it's always a complex metaphor - and often, like this sentence, mixed. Love is a naked anorak - exposed and vulnerable, whilst being able to shelter you and your partner from the elements (and then can be tucked into a ball and stored until needed). You see! Here I am attempting to meditate on what many consider to be the essence of humanity and I end up comparing it to effective hiking gear for that trip away from it all - where nature meets suburban planning regulations! You might as well ask if Love needs weatherproofing? To which I say... erm, yes. Love develops depth and texture through time, and becomes ever more a part of you; so much so that it can easily be taken for granted, yet at the same time forms a symbiote with your personality and persona.

To furnish Love you must provide for it, and it is here that danger lurks. For the upkeep can be mistaken for the thing itself. Love can be masked by the customs and rituals used to sustain it. Love is a swelling heart, a trembling stomach and a warm glow in the ribs; it is bodily and anchored to the psyche. As substance and anxiety it is the perpetual oxymoron, and it is a feeling I can finally embrace without fear of misunderstanding or triviality. 

Love is the burning present held for the future in a teardrop.

Lingua Dafta.

I love it when language is forced into unusual boxes, as anyone who's read my posts would guess. I enjoy 'verbing' nouns, and creating adverbial phrases that deliberately push against established structures. Don't get me wrong, I make no claims to be at the cutting edge of a language revolution - rather I have a sense of mischief and a wilful enjoyment of breaking the rules of grammar and spelling (both of which I can probably trace back to the liberal use of red pen on my work  at school). I would also say that I am a bit of a sucker for the 'cool' and rebellious, and a shameless appropriator of new words and phrases - to the extent of being the sort of person who uses the latest yoof speak when clearly my 'yoof' is long gone. I also like puns. The worse the better. Sorry.

... 

Anyway, the way in which language develops - through accident, design, evolution and disobedience is what gives it its energy. I love the rhythm of spoken language - with the variation of intonations and codes that spring from country, class, age and culture; the tapestry of delights that are woven into the patterns of what we speak. I even enjoy the way that punctuation can impart a sense of the timing and force of our breath into a sentence... or paragraph(s). Even that last little joke has options, if I'd chosen a hyphen instead of ellipsis, then the ending would've needed an exclamation mark to follow the imparted speed, whereas as written we have the very 'office-y' sense of embarrassment along with a hint of self awareness. All this multiplicity beats in the language we use, giving so many options for expression and delight.

All this is by way of attempting to find a way to celebrate my wife's brilliance with words - especially when tired, as last night. During a prolonged and over-tired conversation, while berating me for lying on top of the duvet and thus preventing her from snuggling into sleep, she brilliantly declared that the origin of the word 'cover' was a blending between the words of 'Caroline' and 'over'; and therefore asked what I was doing lying 'cunder' the bed.

Now, apart from the joy and absurdity of the coining of the new word, several things occurred. Firstly I love the paradox of using opposites - so 'over' is used when you are under something, and thus 'under' needs to be used to indicate you are on top. I also love the way that words can be justified in your own particular way. This definition of 'cunder' shows the way in which language can glitter, and also the laughter it can generate. I also love that etymology can be both a rigorous academic discipline and a valuable path for imagination and whimsy - which both brilliantly add to the history of language itself!

So, if you'll allow me some indulgence in my summing up? Paradoxical and perverse language tinkers with tautology to provide fractal pathways of delicate and delightful meanings. 

Road to nowhere

Travel has always appealed to me. Not just the excitement of seeing new places, but the act of moving from one place to another. I find the potential in a journey attractive, it provides a sense of optimism or mystery about the day - even when the destination is less hopeful.

I have made trips to romantic and sexy destinations - from Rome to New York to Berlin, and the sense of exploration and discovery is palpable. Here is someting new - something to throw myself into, to bathe in the history, to wallow in the culture - and because this is me, to stuff my face with the food. Yet to me the most interesting aspect of the a new journey, or trip, is to walk around the city; to feel - through foot-fall, a sense of the pacing and rhythm of the city - the opening, the shutting, the shops, the people, the celebrations and the stresses.

Other roads lead to more familiar places - back to memories from the past, back to the recognisable yet also curiously changing icons from the past. Places where landscape is pyschic as well as physical, where emotion is geographic. Here the journey becomes more metaphorical, more personal and often - despite an abundance of natural beauty, more introspective.

Some journeys can be disasterous of course; but to me these are mainly the trips where I have to carry vast loads - as a result I prefer to travel light, meaning I feel able to respond to the problems put in my way. Makes me feel a bit Ninja-ish, like I'm in an action film or something - maybe couriering national secrects, or racing to save the world? 

These are the exceptions, of course, these journeys that thrive on the anticipation of what is to come; most journeys are far more mudane, yet they also enable us to connect with the world around us. A journey to me implies that the day has been productive in some way. So even when all I've done is to go to work and back: the journey has been what has given me the impetus to create in the morning; the journey is where I write these posts; so the journey is the place where my mind can wander where it needs to go (hence the ad-hoc nature of this blog!). 

Travel allows for a variety of people watching - although I'm not especially keen on jumping to conclusions. I get a flavour of the outside world - even if that flavour is unpalatable. I experience the weather, I talk to other people - I take the temperature of society. 

True, travel can be exhausting and frustrating - especially when you are eager to be somewhere; but this gives drama to the day. Maybe it makes time brush past dismissively or else meander distractedly like a dawdle-er in a shopping centre, but a journey gives an opinion on the day - it is rarely neutral. 

As I read through these musings, it does occur to me that I may be using imagination to enliven a placid and tedious part of the day; yet the theme of travel or the journey is often central to narrative structures. From Tom Jones to Lord of the Rings the uncertainty, difficulty and hope involved in getting from here to there - often to attempt some final feet of daring-do, has been embedded in the way we think. Travel is adversity and action, it is a part of our desire to find more about ourselves and to challenge what we already think.

Even a day spent working on a painting can be accuentuated by a brief walk - whether purposful or not, merely to contrast with time spent in my own head. It is this sense of perspective that a journey gives, enabling reflection on the home, and understanding of what you see as important. A perspective that makes the journey, not the destination, the final goal. 

My first best bed.

A new bed arrived today. Delivered with the customary upheaval: we had to prepare the space it was to go in - meaning we had to remove the old bed - meaning we found that the old bed wouldn't come apart - meaning the delivery men had to smash it and go - meaning I had to put it together - meaning I damaged myself as is typical in the normal space of any D.I.Y. fiasco. However it is now done; the bed is in place and I gazed down on the finshed scene with pride - or at least satisfaction, that I haven't cocked it up (yet).

The new bed is our first genuinly new bed - the result of a rough couple of months, and a couple of years not sleeping properly. It's quite a statement - of security, of certainty and of a desire to get some decent kip! 

My worry is I find it hard enough to get out of bed anyway. In many ways this is a good sign, a return to my normal approach to the wonderful land of snooze, after a few months where my mind wouldn't quiet in the dark. Now that I seem to be 'getting a grip' (to use an especially unhelpful phrase) however, a bed that spreads itself evenly under my ungainly bulk, and supports me in ways previously unknowable to mortal man, may only serve to cocoon me in the duvet as I prepare for a long winter. 

I have always considered myself a lazy person; a surprise to many who know me, as I have a tendency to start work early and go on longer than I need. Yet I have always felt I must work hard or else what I have to do just won't get done. It turns out this was more a symptom of being disillusioned with my work and unhappy doing it. Recently I have changed my life, and added more time for my painting (and this little blog thing that is becoming quite a big deal for me), and find I still work hard, but now the extra is for me I find it is less resented, and more celebrated as an opportunity. 

This is not to say I don't appreciate sleep, no - in fact I still have the remnants from my time as a teenage connoisseur of the lie-in. Ah! The texture of a softened mattress, the warmth of a snuggled duvet, the downy softness of the marshmallow pillows and the unbriddled joy of turning over to go BACK to sleep.

It is this residual behaviour that forbodes a new comfort. As if some form of evolutionary hangover means I may not be able to prevent myself from giving in to my baser urges - to sleep, perchance to dream. Of course one of the problems I have always had is this desire to stop myself doing things I enjoy, as if constantly measuring myself against an impossible standard that could only be achieved  through my own suppression. The excitement of this bed then is the recognition that I can be comfortable, I can enjoy sleep and that I can have sweet dreams. Goodnight... zzz.

Time and Movement.

Looking over my recent paintings I've been trying to work out what brings them together? How I could define my style (-This, by the way, is not necessarily my concern when painting, but seems to be desired when making the work available to the outside world.) from a body of work which is, after all, based on whim and a tendency towards fruit-fly like concentration?

I begun by thinking that the work is preoccupied with naturalism - at least from a drawing perspective. This is true to an extent; I have always enjoyed the technical skill of reproduction in drawing, and am keen to make my use of line both expressive and energetic. Yet, although some of paintings are about representing the natural world, there are many that deviate from what exisits in the 'real world', taking inspiration from graffiti, comics and cartoons. 

I like the combination of renaissance type observation and contemporary use of pattern and line to suggest the movement potential of each moment. And here we begin to see the importance of timing. How the drama of movement comes to be considered in a static form. I can see claer attempts to impart the dynamism of movement in much of what I paint, however I am also aware of the importance of stasis, of the moment of contemplation, the moment before action. I guess this in many ways represents the dual sides of me; the one hyperactive - eager to complete a task quickly and urgently, the part of me obessessed with the passing of time; whilst the other is the side of me that yearns for peace, for contemplation - the side that enjoys the monkey puzzle of thought and the Brazil nut of theory. 

Though it is not yet a dominant presence in my paintings, I am obsessed with the sea and the sky; two elements that exemplify movement and tranquility - that stimulate my appreciation of pace and quiet. You can see this more obviously in my drawings - some of which are on the site. More remain in the sketch books that provide me the freedom to fully engage with the world by observing from a distance; the little volumes of oxymoron that help me find a pathway through hours and minutes in the day. 

These obessions bring to mind the work of Turner (good ol' J.M.W. himself), whose work is full of the play of light, and the impact of the moment. From "Rain, Steam and Speed", which brings together the violent movement of the modern with the vast expanse of nature - seizing hold of an instant through the flickering light on water vapour; to seascapes' where the sea is brought to a tumult around the viewer.

My abiding recollection of Turner comes from a visit I made to the then Tate Gallery whilst at school, researching the painter for a project. I wandered, rapt, through the Clore gallery fascinated by the use of paint to evoke the shimmer, gloss and shade of light. Memorably I was able to have access to the back catalogue of Turner's watercolours. You go up from the main gallery into a library room, full of furniture of wooden hues and patterns, where the paintings are brought out in folders and you are able to see them up close. Viewing these snapshots of time and landscape (and shitting myself at the realisation of the damage a thoughtless and over-excited dribble might have), witnessing the energy and vibrancy with which he was able to freeze the movement gave me both a thrill and a massive inferiority complex (ironically only really possible becuase of an overdeveloped ego in the first place). 

In Turner I see a concern with time, with the inherent contradiction between movement and a static image. This is what draws me to him - his sense of the power of the exact moment. In this I begin to see my own concerns mirrored back at me, and start to sketch out an understanding of what my own work is looking for. Of course, maybe it's just my skewed sense of humour, and my obsession with the fundamentals of comedy - my inablity to properly take things seriously, that give me this need to explore all the variations of - wait for it... timing.

Gospel truth.

I was quiet yesterday - maybe because I had a day off, which I spent illustrating a new idea (it's in illustrations) and going to see the Lindisfarne Gospels in Durham.

Now my views on religion are complex - I'm a lifelong atheist and have a real problem with organised religion, but I would also say that I'm quite a spiritual person; and I wonder abut how you can interrogate a moral code without a frame of reference about death? Coupled with this there's the small issues that these gospels represent the union of political and social forces of the time; there's the longevity of the document; and the fact that they are staggeringly beautiful.  

The figure stuff you might have seen - the Saints in all their symbolic splendour, but the truly gob-smacking stuff is the patterning. Not only in the lead letters, but also title pages that trace a geometry of line that interweaves in a way that follows the forms of nature in waves, bark and the flow of the wind through leaves. The butterfly of line forms knots, which twist and turn - doubling back, teasing the eye with mis-direction before revealing themselves momentarily eager for you to follow. These lines are chameleons too, with vibrant colours that ebb and flow during the pursuit - playful and majestic. 

All this was well and good, until I had a technological epiphany - the monk wot did this, did it to size, and the style of the gospels suggests that each line was coloured in!!! No overlaying or underlaying of the ink, no drawing big and reducing to size, just exquisite little strokes from the edge of a feather quill, watched over in meticulous detail. 

At this point I sat down, in awe of the patience and dedication of the scribe, but also fascinated by the way in which graphic representation of the forces around us was vital to a sense of engaging and understanding those forces. After all the Bible is, at least, a philosophical text - it attempts to give us stories and parables that we can use to guide ourselves through life. So, too, the illustration of the gospels pulses with a sense of the vibrancy and randomness that reveals a complex order akin to a bee's waggle dance. 

These illustrations point to a sense of order that drew its inspiration from an isolated community that lived in daily proximity with the vagaries, contrasts and comforts of nature. We can say this way of life was translated through the exploits of Christ, but in a more secular time it is possible to see that world reflected in the knots and lines of the embellishment - weaving cultures into Art.

I found myself mesmerised by the detail and precision of the work; work crafted over a thousand years ago; work that will remain closed for another two hundred years to preserve its painstaking care for the future. The images, surrounded by artefacts from the time of writing, held in an environmentally sealed atmosphere, asked me what in them I called Art? And, exiting through the gift shop, I tasted the umami of an answer, as I realised that though the decoration of the gospels did not capture the likeness of the world they came from, they did savour the aroma.

Food for thought, eh? 

Art and work.

Recently my brother referred to my site as "doing Art", and it got me thinking about the way to approach what I do. The verb 'doing', to me, conjures up associations of effort - almost suggesting labour, as if the 'Art' has to be confronted and forced into submission. Yet it's also a process word - active and ongoing, hinting at no end in sight.

The title of this post brings back many of the Marxist works I read as a student (and still attempt from time to time) - concerned with the idea that the physical labour of the artefact was more quantifiable in terms of social and economic value. In many ways I can appreciate this, that is to say I'd certainly like to make money from what I paint and draw; something that requires me producing an end product - or artefact, or better yet a commodity. In doing this I need to decide on many things once the composition and painting is done. I must frame and present each work - considering each piece in a wider, and possibly alien context, and the desires of the potential viewer. Then I need (not least because the web-site won't let me arrange the price for each piece with those who want it) to consider specific prices.

Now here's where I begin to struggle, as I have no real frame of reference. For a gallery I need to consider their commission, but the base price? Is this simply hours worked plus materials? If so what is my hourly rate - do I include thinking and sketches (if any) as time on the final piece? Do I include life experience that impacted on the final painting - 'cos arguably that's my whole life and even at below minimum wage it'll cost ya!

But I cannot reduce the value of what I do - and the expression of my experience, to the market place; aesthetics doesn't work that way. The idea of cultural value has gainned grip over the last twenty years - my old uni tombs would wink and mouth 'ideology', then grin, just ever-so smugly, at the thought. So the value I place upon the work is mitigated by the value I feel in having it valued. I like food and appreciate shelter; and these facts should enter into my considerations, rather than me just giving paintings away in the street whilst gushing: "They like me, they really like me!" (Something not as far from the realms of possibilty as I would like!)

Thus it is the value of my work comes to be negotiated between individual desires, social impulses and economic needs. Art exisits in this twilight realm poised precariously in the grip of expression, labour and context - expressing both the individuals appreciation of the world, but also their relationship to the world - occassionally bruising from an over-zealous twitch. In which case my paintings not only reflect my understanding and response to the world around me, but also demonstrate the impact of the world, in all its variations, on me.

I look up and see my books nod sagely and agree:

"Totality. The system is both about and within you," they say. I concur, but it doesn't stop me looking again.

Anger - wow!

So I've just walked up the road rehearsing an argument I'll never have. It got pretty heated, and I've got to say I gave it to him pretty hard, some low blows, tres vitriolic. Thing is, after it finished there was this waterfall of relief and I felt, well, invigorated?

This is typical of me, imagining how the world will be before it is; although in this case the argument will never happen - though clearly a part of me wants it to. The sense of relief stunned me; I found myself observing my emotions - realising my capacity for rage, as though the feelings I thought I was aware of weren't truely accessed, and had fermented into this imaginary tirade. 

I looked back at myself, pausing for a moment in the mirror trap, witnessing the infinity of emotion that was always passed on, but never truly seen. In that acceleration of force without meaning I began to grasp the futility of my anger, to see the absurdity of myself, walking in heated debate - without a soul around, struggling against situations that were outside my control, and could remain on the outskirts of importance should I wish.

The sense of amusement that followed the acceptance of the present was equally unexpected. There I was, fully fight-flighted, adrenaline spiking through my nervous system - red-faced like a victim of an ambush by the Bash Street Kids from the Beano, and equally perplexed about the whereabouts of my assailant. 

Before I started this blog and website I'd been pretty down. learning to understand how I feel, and what I try to deny to myself has been a tricky process - which got worse, before it started getting better. In a strange way it's meant me becoming the 'post-modern subject' I've spent a lot of my life writing about - stepping outside myself to fully understand my feelings. I've become my own version of Schrödinger's cat - neither alive nor dead till observed. This act of observation has always been an act of control though, and in observing the feeling it is in my power to note its workings, and decide its impact.

Of course you may also point out that the cat is both alive and dead until we open the box. True enough, which means that the strategy of observation could easily go both ways, and release emotions that I hadn't acknowledged before, or kill off feelings that are emerging - I suppose that's the problem with putting cats in boxes, you're guarenteed to get scratched. 

Autumn and Goobyes

The rain today hints very strongly that Autumn approaches. I've always liked Autumn: the soft melancholy of the colours, the brittle texture of the air and ground, and the feeling that this season holds the wisdom of the year, before it slides into the dotage (and quite frankly the absurdity) of winter (especially Christmas). I've appreciated too the irony that when the year begins to ebb, school and academic institutions fire up with renewed energy - as if to pretend what is to come has none of the bleakness of the year's true start.

Autumn's slow movement towards the year end conjures up farewells; most notably with the harvest - gathering in the food to see us through the barren, empty times ahead. Meanwhile in the cities the inhabitants rush to make sure coats and footware are up to the job, tinned goods are stocked and the TV schedules are tightly packed. 

Strangely I've never been good at goodbyes. I either scoot over them dismissively, or they become an almost unbearable emotional ordeal. The former is the way in which I handle the situation most of the time, briskly - very English, detatched and ironic, as if the parting isn't really happening. This form of social denial is typical of the way in which I handle the majority of contact with the outside world; open - yes, upfront - yes, scared out of my fucking mind - yes. As a result I weave webs of sarcasm, irony and invention around myself - hoping to display something interesting. To be honest this kind of social persona is vital in order to leave the house without the burden of paranoia grinding me into the ground (something I assume to be the case for other people, but have not really researched), so is fairly unremarkable in its necessity.

But goodbyes of significance? Leaving home; sending a loved one on a journey; moving to a new house; beginning a new job - all of these I find quite overwhelming. The sensation is worse when the other person, or people, leave - or a permanent presence in my imaginative world is removed (For some reason my departure from others holds less discomfort for me - I think because in moving I have control over a situation, and I suspect my absence is not as hard on other people). In this way parting becomes about security, about the need to have the safety of those I trust around, and about ny fear of not being able to function by myself.

It occurs to me that I associate goodbye with finality - with deseasement, and the concern that I will not live up to my own judgement of what others should expect of me (which, given my ego, is immense). So each time I confront these goodbyes I glimpse a sense of my own failure to fulfil any promise I once had. 

The wisdom of Autumn then, is to reveal the need to pause, to recognise the expectations on me are of my own doing, and to enjoy the creativity that I have surpressed for what it is - an act of free communication. No pressure, no guilt, just expression. Yeah, right. 

525,600 minutes - Jesus that's a lot!

So how do we measure our days?

At the risk of sounding like a knock off song from the musical 'Rent', what do we use to give value to our lives? (And no, I don't think it's as easy as love - although I may touch on that later.) Is it simply the money for each hour, or part thereof, or do we consider the quality of each interaction? For me the time spent in the contemplation of a work in progress, or in process, gives a lift to moments of monotony or tribulation. This is probably a slightly egocentric trait - even masturbatory, yet it helps me to give a value to the situation in which I find myself.

By value I mean that I am able to contextulaise a situation - to see the moment as part of a longer sequence in which the joy, satisfaction and challenge of painting or sketching is traded for the necessity of money. Of course this can also be compared with other elements - such as the trade off between the work and the desire for a holiday; the extra hours now, to reserve the time later on to be with someone special. In these situations the value of the the days, or acivity is defined by their relation to moments of percieved freedom - of art, or space and time and of feeling. It is in the hope of these moments that we are prepared to shoulder the burden of work; even for those who enjoy their working lives, the time there is peppered with considerations of rewards or treats that they offer themselves as renumeration for their long hours.

Then there is the consideration of legacy, of whether or not something has value for the ages. Whether what we do has any lasting impact on the world around us. For some that impact is upon the lives of the people they come into contact with, for others there is the nagging though of what will I leave for others to find, and the taunting of the 'great masters' from bygone days who smirk, knowing that you've already noted how mint they are - or were, and there's nowt you can do about it. Inevitably this all brings up the question of whether we have had a 'good-life' - have we made our mark? (Although I realise the two are not the same - after all I'm pretty sure you can say that Pol Pot made his mark, and probably - by most criteria didn't live a 'good life').

I'm not really sure about how I react to this idea - I'm pretty sure I've impacted on people in my life, maybe even made things better for some? I've also probably affect people negatively in one way or another; so I guess for me its not really about 'other people' - sorry, but I'm not that nice. I really do think that for me, it's gonna be about having something I can look back on and feel... satisfaction. Satisfaction of quality will be first in importance - was it good enough? Then of course I'd love satisfaction of repuation - what will people think of my stuff. Needy? Well of course I'm an artist and writing a blog to no-one in particular, hoping someone will read it, I think that goes without saying.

So how do measure our days? Probably best to use a tape-measure.