Remember, remember.

It's the fifth of November: Guy Fawkes night, bonfire night - fireworks night, and as I've already mentioned this in a previous post I was trying to think of another topic for today, but I can't. Is this through too little imagination? Possibly, but there is something tempting in a national celebration of a plot to overthrow the government. 

Whether you celebrate the capture, mourn the discovery, express relief at the prevention of death, or just seize upon the impulse to stick two fingers up to authority; the intrigue, suspicion and betrayal - coupled with the idea of an explosion, fits in brilliantly with the closing nights and conspiratorial chill in the air.

The actual plot is a matter for ambiguity, was it a plot or counter plot, a bid for freedom or an elaborate political stunt? Were they terrorists, freedom fighters or dupes? The cause, as well - the eternal battle (well, in Jacobean Britain anyway) between Protestant and Catholic; although I understand it historically, I can't say it grabs me in a modern context - as it seems to be about two groups of vested interest.

Yet this is a too easy dismissal, after all this was the tension that lead to some of the most radical political thought in our history - the Levellers and Diggers and the English Revolution (or Civil War if you want). Thoughts about monarchy and citizenship, about common ground and how people relate to it, and about what it means to have a voice.

The debates and conflict over religion provoked new interrogation about our place in the world, our understanding of right and wrong, and questioned the very order of the universe. These questions led to the overturning of social assumptions about land, class and privilege; true, questions that were answered and quashed by the forces of vested interest, but they were asked nonetheless. Amongst the 'ooh' of the fireworks, the pennies for the guy, the stickiest of toffee, this is a festival of why. 

Add in the setting, Jacobean London: close alleys, shadowed by flickering candlelight, the slurp of the Thames lapping at the edge of the Houses of Parliament, the smog of rumour and deception, and the inner rebel is let loose. This is history, romanticised - woven into a tale of conspiracy and deception, but it is ripe with the power of narrative and potent with an idea caught in the imagination of a culture. 

Remember, remember indeed; but also question, interrogate and think. 

Evil awakening.

God getting out of bed is annoying! Especially when the thought of work broods on your mind, and the duvet is warm, and oblivion is so easy - and really last night wasn't proper sleep anyway, so surely you're due an extra hour, or two? Then, with willpower, the like of which those who laboured daily to put in place the giant blocks atop the pyramids could not muster, you're up. 

The floor is cold, the socks have fallen down the back of the radiator, you forgot to iron a shirt, the cat is meowing - over something you can't quite make out, and the day has begun. Great! This was not why you were born, this is not the reason behind the miracle of existence, this is definitely a Monday.

You find the world coming into focus, the slow release of breakfast energy seeping through your body, blinking a morse code of awareness to your brain. Sketching first thing is good, your hand is given the freedom to roam looser than with the paint brush. Ideas are suggested, then corrected and finally decided. As these are the opening marks you have permission to make mistakes - to negotiate your ideas, until you strike a bargain with the outline, and turn to the paint.

Still groggy I like to block in colours here, establishing the outline in negative, and leaving the nooks and crannies until my concentration is alert enough to tame the horse hair of the brush. This is inevitably several steps backwards, as before you are able to realise the depth, shade and colour of the painting, you will necessarily obscure it. 

Finally, having achieved a zen-ninja state of control, you pick up the brush - knowing what you want from it: unconsciously you mix the paint, judging consistency by instinct, shaping the tip with quick dips and flicks, and add the fine details, nuances of colour, temperatures of tone and suggestions of movement. This is when the painting comes alive, or else exposes the folly of your path. Fortunately I see my mind's image forming on the page and take the confidence to embolden my brush strokes, relaxing my hand to fluidly elaborate and elevate the image. 

Now I am awake, now I am alive, now I have to go to work! 

Work, rest and play.

A strange weekend, yet notable mainly for its normality. I hope using the old 'Mars' slogan will not cause me to drift into sickly sweet musings (though I fear I can never make such guarantees), but instead give me distinctions like the layers of chocolate, caramel and nougat to add variations of flavour.

To begin with work: I have been slow this weekend - with more going on in my head than on paper. There are always these moments in creation - of speculation and cogitation, where the idea is mulled like wine, spiced with purpose, laced with style and warmed with form. Yet gradually notions have become images, and images have become decisions, and decisions have become a lingering frustration to get on and do it - a restlessness that comes when thought is not given shape and made tangible.

From this urge to work has come the finishing touches to a work in progress - one I was anxious to complete yet feared to drive through to its culmination; anticipating the disastrous stroke that rips through satisfaction and cuts hope into confetti. Filled with the desire to do something worthwhile, however, I rolled up my sleeves, took a breath, and waved away the anxiety with my brushes.

What had brought this sense of paralysis (you ask)? Well, illness mainly, which has nagged away through the week, ensuring that my concentration has been needed for more mundane focus; and to be frank, I've spent more time in bed than I should have. The results have not been all bad though - I'm impressed by the addition of cardamom, cinnamon and cloves to honey and lemon (and whiskey - and yes I used bourbon), and I spent a blissful few hours stretched on the sofa, cat curled up on my lap, and wife tucked into my side.

I do have to say that this scenario makes sleeping feel enriched - like malt loaf; there I lie thickly buttered, and with the comforting density of space that gives a sweet stickiness and depth of flavour to the ordinary experience. I will quite happily give too much of my time to this state of idleness, as it somehow feels like an extension of connection - as if I share the speculation of the subconscious with my fellow dream walkers, both spouse and feline (Which may explain why I eye the birds outside differently after such a nap?).

We did eventually rouse ourselves, to go to the theatre: the RSC and  As You Like It , directed by Maria Aberg. Now I've have seen a fair few of Ol' Shakey's plays before - including this one, so I can handle the language - in fact I'd say I delight in it, but I'm firmly of the view that he was a playwright and his poetry is a part of the play - not the point of it. This tends to mean I like it when a director considers the relationship with the audience then and there, and can recognise when the play needs to straddle the centuries, or when an actor can hold the stage alone. Previous viewing of this play had left me confused, a little bored, and I think I nodded off a bit (doing that thing when you wake up, panic, then look around hopping you didn't snore); but this one was impressive: well conceived, powerfully acted - engaging the audience, a lovely musical score, and set and lighting I loved. In fairness they were playing to my weaknesses with expressionistic noir shadows casting strong lines across the stage and the actors, then shifting to the Forrest morphing the structure of the set through lighting angles and tones from the darkness of the court to the carnival of imagination and play that the woods gave us. Using dance and music to aid the transitions gave us the celebration and lightness of touch that this comedy, which followed one of Shakespeare's twisty, windy plot knots, needed so that the audience did not dwell on the rationale and use of coincidence that his lighter plays often hang upon.

I know the RSC raises questions: about arts provision and subsidy, and about privilege and establishment control of art and culture, and that some of its output works better than others, and even about whether this is the best way to approach theatre (never mind Shakespeare)? But when it works it transports and reinvigorates a play into a performance for a modern world.

What I loved, though, was the world of play that was created, the world of whimsy and art; a world where objects are transformed by use; where music is spontaneous  (yet immaculately rehearsed and harmonised); where words are bandied and struggled with , and where pictures are painted by bodies, costumes, lights and levels.

All in all its been a full weekend, chewy and rich, and I think... uh, mmm, yeah... I've still got a little bit stuck in my teeth, mmmmm. 

Halloween.

A festival of the dead? As the nights grow darker? Why should this be? Well the cynical response (and my traditional one) might be that we need another holiday to stimulate the market in cards and general tat that is produced for the festivities - and that darkness is more scary. Also sweet makers know a good thing when they see it, and what better market than small children demanding candy with menaces - the cute and the horrific all wrapped up in a nice black ribbon.

Yet the mixing of the alive and dead is a tradition in many cultures, and while I am ambivalent about trick or treating, I am attracted to the idea that a mortal culture should address the place of the dead, and memory in our lives. We should engage with what death means in order to understand what it means to be human, inventive, imaginative, aspirational and fundamentally afraid. 

This is  'All Hallows Eve', the night when the veil between the living and the dead is drawn back, so that souls may walk again amongst us. A night that has become synonymous with the gruesome, the gothic, and the breaking of boundaries. From the dressing up, to the challenging of fears, to the ritual and the high camp, Halloween has become a night when the normal order of society breaks down. Based on the medieval belief that spirits walk the earth to cause mischief before 'All Saints Day', to disrupt the living, this is a night when our fears are confronted and let loose on our society. It is, if you like, a collective breathing out, a release of pent up tension, the time to go a little crazy and test the elastic of life. In this spirit I been having fun with pumpkins, turning my garden pathway into a tunnel of nightmares , making each step towards candy (actually a tin of Heroes) more apprehensive. 

In Britain Halloween runs close to the remembrance/celebration of The Gun Powder Plot (and the death of arguably the only man to go to parliament with a useful purpose), an attempt to challenge orthodoxy of behaviour - although an especially inept attempt by the forces of authority to change the point of power. Yet this moment has become associated with revolution - not least because of the mask of Anonymous made popular through Alan Moore's V for Vendetta and the 'Occupy' movement. Here too is a time that makes us think about who and what we are, as people, but also as a society. The symbol of the bonfire drifting into the sky, both conjuring images of hell, and cleansing the ground beneath ready for re-growth in the coming year.

We are given this mortal coil to roam, but our use of it must be judged against what we owe to those who came before, and who will come after. 

Category A, B, C Oh Buggerit!

So it's finally arrived, the day I've dreaded since I started this painting thing - I have to categorise my work. This brings up the spectre of Genre, and the tricky process of naming my paintings. Why have I shirked from this before? Well I have only come to see my paintings as different types as I have painted more and more - and the links and differences have become more apparent. As for names, the topics and subjects have not followed a specific plan or aim, they have arrived out of experience and experiment, so names have not jumped out. I guess the main reason I have avoided this task, however, is mainly because it places the conflicting sides of me against each other: the artist verses the critic!

The artist finds all this a pain - the Work is the Work; the meaning, message, the response is all down to the receiver, let them find what they will in the Work. All I need to do is find the inspiration, follow my instinct and the Work reveals itself as it develops. It is not my job to dictate to the viewer what a moment means to me, it is about their own journey and how the Work fits into that!

Ah yes, says the critic, but you must engage with your audience, allow them a glimpse into your understanding, arrange and decode your thoughts for them. Give them names and rules by which to appreciate what they see. You as an artist have a responsibility to give multiple points of engagement, to have a dialogue with those who you wish to invest in your work.

At which point my writer butts in: titles can be creative, they provide another layer of imagination and guide the artist too. The work is part of a greater story, it is beheld in many eyes and needs to utilise every technique that Art allows to stimulate a reaction in imagination. 

Bog off! Yells the artist (he's quite rude). Well really, exclaims the critic, and the writer, although delighting in the exchange of dialogue, calls the artist an ill mannered bore, ducking as a paint pot splatters against the wall, covering the critic, who replies by hurling a poison pen in the direction of the artist. Years of high living count against the critic as his throw is revealed to be pathetically weak, the pen only managing to stab the writer in the back, causing him to knock his typewriter on the artists foot, crippling him. 

Naturally this conflict can often lead to a Marx Brothers film of paralysis in my head; however at the end, covered in Jackson Pollock, the three stumble out, and hand me a crumpled piece of paper on which are a list of names. I open my mouth, note the look in the artist's eye, and quietly pocket it as they walk off in various states of huff.

Hidden Journeys.

Studies are great. The same object or scene drawn from angle after angle, coloured, shaded, changing medium and composition, but all leading towards a final piece - though not one it knows beforehand. 

They are journeys - sometimes slapdash, sometimes as minutely detailed as the finished piece. They make you wonder how much the artist worried and reconsidered before deciding on a final composition - and also, how much time did they have to look, to think, to really look again and to paint the final piece? 

Studies may be painted, sketched modelled, coloured or black and white. They are trials and explorations for the final work, and Works themselves. They are what goes under and into the finished display - beautiful and ugly, but hidden through embarrassment or a sense of impropriety. I think this is why I love them so much - the idea that these are ideas in the raw, and that they are in the process of growing.

I was in the depths of the Old City in Edinburgh, the hidden rooms and lodgings that held the hideous living conditions from the past, recently; following the tour guide through the literal layers of history that lie under the Royal Mile. There, too, were studies of a kind, the mistakes and solutions of a city from past times, shown in their gory and fascinating detail, evoking a sense of process a city has made to its modern form. Here was a city that took to modern planning in an attempt to solve the chaotic knot that had become so twisted and wet that it was impossible to unpick, so needed to be cut. The restrictions of the past needed to be loosened, and the idea of civic direction was established, and naturally bent and changed as individuals raised their heads through money, politics or need. Thus the study became one thing, then another until it arrived in its modern form. 

So the city is complete? Hardly, as a work of art grows and changes with where it hangs and the reception of society, so the city builds, refreshes, preserves and destroys - a series of animation cells, art in their own right, but all the more compelling by their place in the play of light and shadow. 

King of the Castle.

I am king of the Castle. I have climbed the steps, paid my dues at the entrance, my penance in the museum, survived the politicking of the great hall, and now I look out over the battlements and survey my domain.

Around me lies the city spreading outwards. Cathedrals rise up in the north, and to the south are bridges grasping across to the far bank of the river, clutching hold of allies and enemies. Rail lines weave around the architecture, disappearing away, and waving their caps in greeting, like some urban hide and seek with a friend who will soon be gone. 

Trains enter the city - invading hordes come to visit or to plunder, and retreat wearied or beaten - or else escaping. Smaller local services dart between, toothbrushes for the national arteries, clearing away the fatty deposits that clog up a restrict flow (Yes I know that mixes metaphors - just think of me as a metaphorical DJ). 

I'm sketching, of course, but there's something about watching the city in action that gives it an organic quality. The more you look you see how the layers of history, culture and society interact through the architecture of the urban sprawl. This city is built on medieval remnants, Georgian planning and Victorian industrial construction, then topped with 1970s planning and noughties reinvention. 

But this is generalisation - I haven't time for much more. Where it begins to fascinate is on a micro level: walking along the river pathways, seeing the social changes, the way history and building are recycled, reinvented and pastiched by the modern world. Visually this throws up moments of anachronistic joy: graffiti on Victorian brick work; junk sculptures floating on the river; housing behemoths next to Edwardian pubs; swanky new flats where once goods and boats thrived; and fortress art - where institutions look to defend and protect what they have from marauding philistines.

In looking over the miasma of strata that make up the scene I am drawing I chart the way seemingly disparate elements find ways link to each other, see spaces and places in a new light - the context of their surroundings, and I realise, with joy, the beauty of chaos. It is hope, it is danger, it is absurdity, but it is pulsing with potential; and I am reminded why I like cities - mainly the nobbly bits.

Cows in the wind.

The sun dazzles from all the reflections in the coffee shop - off mirrors, metals, shiny floor and table laminate. The effect is like being in a cloud, with light cocooning me; it feels a little like a 1970s vision of the future - all white jump suits and endless bright corridors (For some reason Woody Allen's  Sleeper springs to mind - am I so quick to parody myself?).

I am sitting here winded. Knocked for six by one of those memories that stop your pleasant thoughts for a while; that leave you on the pavement like a drowning fish. I came in for some breakfast and a coffee, but more to remember how I made the moment go away before. So the feeling of unreality is quite welcome.

The sun flashes off the river and sends a ripple across the room. With all the light the room and my black jumper have started to warm nicely now, banishing the early morning cold. My thoughts have found the eye of the storm, and watch the whirling chaos of the darker moments, the lifted emotions that have nothing to anchor them: the cows in the wind. 

Safe in the middle I reflect on my successes, my needs, and my hopes. I also remember that this place - the calm centre is important for what it is, and not for what might happen. The future is obscured by flying debris; and through cars, trees, cookers, and, yes, cows. Where we end up is a process of many moments of now - jumping from calm to calm, occasionally grabbing hold of what we can to get us to the next one. 

So I set off to a day of sketching and painting, with a new sights, some more than decent lighting, and the excitement of the coming weekend building within me. Life will be what I want from it - a challenge: juggling moments of doubt with moments of joy, and held together with a large dollop of bloody mindedness.

Hmmm... might have steak tonight? 

Late.

Shit! I'm late. Okay breathe, organise, organise. Right: brushes to be cleaned - cling-film paint, clear sink, brushes in turps, washing up liquid to clear turps, use turps to clean hands, hand lotion to remove turps, ensure container is cleaned, leave all to dry on paper towels, put stuff back in sink and remind self to wash up tonight, or tomorrow... or another time. 

Now shower. Put clothes in easy reach - don't forget socks, arrange pocket crap where it will be remembered: wallet, pass, cash, phone - all check. Shower (censored, I'm shy), get out of shower, spray, brush, shave (-ish), clean sink (-ish), and scramble on clothes - pants, trousers, shirt, shoes, belt, tie - quick mirror check... yeah no one will throw anything. Breathe. 

Fuck - food! Run down stairs, grab lunch and fruit and drink, stuff in bag and feed expectant looking cat, who well knows her place (at the top of the food chain!). Grab coat and bag, check lights, doors and go. Dash up to train stop in manner of road walker - hips kicking painfully (but I refuse to run for work - or in general, as it contravenes too many health and safety and I'm fed up with the law suits), I scoot around the barrier, flicking my pass in the general direction of the person checking, and dive on the train. 

Sit, hyperventilate, and write blog. 

The irony is I'll be early after that. I hate being late so much that if I'm not early enough I class it as late. I like it when I'm so early I have to take an activity with me that I can do while I wait - like writing, drawing or reading. In this way I convince myself that I am getting extra from the day. In fact often I find that the arrival of my appointment is frustrating, as I have really been enjoying the waiting for the appointment more. 

My relationship with time is complex and tense. I want more, it wants to run away. I wouldn't mind but time is so passive aggressive! I always feel like I'm abusing it, or guilt for not using it properly, and that's when it rebukes me for wasting it, or being too paranoid - I'm not paranoid, I KNOW time is after me! 

Too shouty? I know, it's just I like time so much, and I just don't feel like I get the same commitment back. It's okay, we're having counselling, if it'll only get that smug look off its face. 

HowIing at the moon.

The darkness of the night demanded the light of the moon. Clouds wisped past, dotting the sky and hazing the moon's glow, masking the stars and teasing the horizon. It was beauty in black and green-kissed yellow, caressed by the faintest of silver-grey. A skyscape that seemed flat, but revealed texture, depth and the joy of deception as eyes grew wide to take in the full display on show. 

I stood staring at the moon: sucking in the sight through greedy pupils; tracing the face through a pock marked surface - each dent picked out in a glowing blue; feeling the glimmer of the iced sunlight; watching as the clouds played peek-a-boo with the world while the moon presided over. 

Standing there the world around seemed to stop. The street was empty - silence echoing from the rooftops, fences and pavements. A moment out of time, a sight that spoke to cultural history, to primal instinct and to deep desire: looking into the darkness to find a lantern. There the moon hung, around it a blurring corona; but the more I looked the more textures appeared in the night sky - clouds could be discerned in the distance, lands entirely in gloom that glided across the world in solitude. 

To ask in what direction did it point me is to miss the point. There was no mystic pathway or hidden route. Searching for the way is indeed to howl at the moon - a howl of despair and anguish as your hopes are dashed by the contempt of fate. But then howling at the moon isn't just about seeking an answer, or the frustration of giving up, it is also a way to dig deeper and find a way to tap into raw emotion; to let out the toxins and knots of the day and clear space to breathe. With the intake of oxygen comes a moment of clarity - of optimism, and in this way the moon replies. 

The moon is a lantern, and it reminds us of the passing of time and tide; it reminds us that life waxes and wains; it reminds us that the journey is onwards and that in the gloom we can find beauty and solace too. Sometimes, in the clear cold of the night, this is the solace we need.