Dinosaurs.

Cranes loom over the docks, modern day dinosaurs munching on the leftovers of the surrounding houses. Huge presences that dominate a landscape, but yet speak of famine and austerity. These are animals of a bygone day that have lost their purpose and drive, now they tower and rust on the horizon. Ships and boats drift by them,  transport dinghies and overnight booze cruises, almost embarrassed to make eye contact.

There is the social reality, that jobs and society have moved away from these monuments of industry; but there they stand, held together through history and creating an aesthetic of their own. These are horizon sculptures that rise from waste ground where once stock and goods were stored. They speak to the sky and to each other, a show for those from afar who use them to negotiate the space between ground and sky.

In this they strive upwards like famous buildings around the world: monuments to religion, to commerce, to art and to civic society - oh, and to entertainment. These great symbols  of weight, statements of longevity (however hubristic), and icons of society point to a desire to mediate the natural world, to find our space along the horizon where we can find our place between the higher and lower worlds.

Here caught between what we cannot reach (or know), and what lies beneath our feet, humanity seeks to shape a world around it, hoping for a step ladder to the unknown, and a platform to avoid wet feet. We are victims of our own insecurity believing, but in place of a vengeful god, we find our own ways to tear down or subvert our efforts. We use slump and war, revolution and re- branding, poverty and fanaticism; through all these we find ways to crack our mirrors and look at the distortions that stare back at us. 

These cranes remain as aspirations to build new pathways, to bring people together. They hold their heads up against embarrassed eyes, they had noble purpose, and show it for all to see.

Tightrope.

Each day is a tightrope - you balance, just, trying to keep your frame upright and continuous along a thin path that wobbles and quivers as you inch forward. All you have to keep righted is a long baton that spreads the weight of each move across evenly, helping you to move one foot in front of the other; and a degree of confidence or fear that forces you to continue what you've started.

I'm looking out at train tracks from the back of a train. I can see the rails stretching backwards where I've come from. Although it's a set path, I like the points of intersection, I like the fact that on this most precise of transports there are moments where there are choices - good or bad, moments where you can see the direction you came from and yet be aware of routes you might have taken.

I have a second of reflection, of where I am and why I am. I look at the tracks and see my choices, my memories are the rungs of the tracks: my early copying of the Beano, my first oil painting, mountains in the snow, beach cricket (soz Dave), early morning over the Alps, Aber in the sun, beer doodles, Victorian libraries, cartoon hours, La Lupa meals, Rome at night, Tynemouth walks, a wedding in the wind, New York breakfasts, sunset outside the Santa Crocce, the Bigg Market, the Haymarket, and a few winter markets; many, many pubs and restaurants, and not a few mistakes.

A life has texture, nuance and shade. It cannot easily be judged or defined. Neither can it be lauded or condemed on the basis of one rung in the track. The journey continues onwards, and though it is fun and salutary to look over the marks left behind, it is necessary to clear the sleep, the tear or even the make up from the eyes, and turn to look again to the front.

Take a breath, relax the weight to spread it evenly, let the centre of gravity fall to the hips and use the strength of the shoulders to hold you steady, focus straight ahead, and step.

Backlight.

Sunday afternoons in the back end of the year create a the sort of contrast that makes everything look cut out and two dimensional. It's somehow very English, making perspective clear and orderly to arrange. It smacks of the clarity of Constable, and uses the sudden brightness of the lazy sun to bring the detail of the scene to the front, picking through small flecks of light and shadow to allow each shade to breathe. 

I like the power of this backlight, this way of illuminating an object or idea from behind, so that the membranes are revealed and the edges are highlighted. It takes an ordinary scene and gives it an otherness; making us think again about what surrounds us and how we respond to it - how we fit in. Whether that is the revelation of the beauty that exists where you live, or the understanding that truths that you have taken for granted about the world, about yourself are misguided - or just wrong. 

The change of the angle of the sun gives us these lighting changes, realigning (our sense of) perspective, casting light on the normally hidden face. Winter is sharper, both on the skin and the eye; but of course it is the sharpest season, trialling us physically and mentally, and the light we can find is so much more precious and precarious. The darkness of the season is so easy to give in to: pull the covers tighter, grimace at the marching of the rain, sneer at the thought of decoration, imitate the action of the squirrel and sleep until spring.

Yet while I too worship at the alter of 'bah humbug', the time taken to dress the world in preparation for the this time of philosophy, can bring out the red of a Holly berry, a bulb in the dark, though poisonous if indulged on. So, if rampant consumerism is ignored, the celebration of introspection and the need for community can be a joyful act. If understood to be personal and generous our celebration of winter can act as a filter, with the light shining through. 

The Big Coat.

Face outside of the door, there's a sting in the air. Right, that's it, time to break out The Big Coat. Walking up to the station the sky is full of that shifting purple that moves night into day, there is a winter chill and the sounds of dampness as cars splurge through puddles. The ice in the air is satisfying as it contrasts with the cocoon of The Big Coat, and accentuates the warmth provided. The tops of my nose and ears glow pink, pinched by the air, but my back, shoulders and lungs glow with smugness.

The Big Coat is a tricky decision, put it on too early in the year and you arrive drenched in your own fluids, too late and you get early onset pneumonia. The coat is one I've had for a few years now, it is scruffy - I know this because my wife has begun to make dark noises about getting a new one. She's right, it has frayed sleeves, a few stains which I can't account for, buttons are loose, and the zip unreliable; also, if I'm completely honest, it's a bit snugger now than when I first bought it. None of this matters to me however, because it is warm. Properly. Warm like lost in the snow and needing to make a new settlement to save humanity warm.

The best time for The Big Coat, is on cold days (preferably dry, but this is not always possible), when you have no rush to get anywhere. On these days you can fully revel in the experience of the cold, the change in the air, the light and even the quality of sound - echoes and chimes abound; all the while coiled in the warmth and weight of a coat who's sheer presence adds a sense of Nowness to the moment - as if you were a sculpture in a winter garden. You are an impassive observer, sartorially shielded from the elements; and because of this you can participate more fully with the world around: take in the landscape, cause chaos at a winter market, drift into slow motion as the frenzy of Christmas shopping waggle dances on speed around you.

Most importantly, as I pull The Big Coat up around me, I recall winter nights curled up with my wife, The Big Coat draped over us as we snuggle in the glow of candles and the deep drowsiness of mulled wine.

A bumpy start.

Weekend blade light cuts through clouds. The autumn fluorescence flickers on and off as the drift casts over, like a bulb dragging the last sparks from a filament. 

There is a melancholy beauty to the morning in this play of light and shade; overhead looms grey disaster, but towards the horizon stretches Elysium vistas. Along the borders can be seen beige and pinks as the light kaleidoscopes the colours and reveals the hidden hues. 

There is a brittleness to the palette, as if you could snap out parts of the landscape, or crack it like the shell of an egg to reveal...? Well that's the question I guess? The morning began with a reminder of mortality, of fallibility, an opportunity to dwell on the disappointments I have caused, and the mistakes I have made. This was the cloud that followed me on leaving the house, my very own Tex Avery cartoon of despair. Yet walking uphill towards the Disney panorama, and aided by some Looney Toon texts, the cloud released and floated up to the continents above.   

The autumn morning sky is bluer up by the clouds. Up there are deep blues, oceanic waves and the depths that take us to the crest of space - new discoveries, new thinking and maybe even new worlds. This is the realm of speculation and exploration; impulses that jolt us into action, and cause us to overcome our inner demons. Here is the reminder that we cannot remain under the cloud, but must work to outstrip it. 

Nearer the horizon light explodes, clouds are given a renaissance coating, and the blues are drowned by yellows and whites. Here are dreams, sculpted from the merest wisp of lambs wool and the whispering of light. They await, calling to us edging each foot in front of the other along the journey from out of the shade. These are the solace that comfort our hopes and insulate our days from disappointments and set backs. 

Mistakes as they say, were made, but self recrimination or worse flagellation will not correct nor erase them. I acknowledge them as part of me, a spur, if you like, to make of myself what I can and should; to be myself fully for me and for others. I flick the switch. 

Tux on a Train.

The train rumbles its rhythm this morning, transporting passengers from where they get on to where they get off. I'm sitting here in a tux. Yes I do look like a bloody idiot, especially as I have all my work stuff with me - including my pass and bag. The reason? It's a dress up day, and this is the closest I can get to the 1920s at short notice; although I was tempted by the idea representing the Wall Street Crash, and dressing as the masses of unemployed and destitute - alas I am am cursed by my natural aristocracy. 

I hate costume, which is weird, given my delight for art and drama; and it fairness I like it on others, and appreciate the design aspect, but wearing it, no, not so much. I've always felt that costume limits the opportunity for play and movement, it - like all clothes really, makes me more self conscious rather than less. Bizarrely I'd rather act, or be, in neutral clothes, as then I feel I have the freedom to explore and mess about. A costume, a uniform - these define and assign roles to you; they tell you to be this or that, they increase tension and expectation; whereas when there are no expectations, even from yourself, then you find ideas take shape and catch hold.

In contrast to my overdressed and resentful frame opposite me there is a man with a puppy on a lead. The puppy is bright eyed, inquisitive and excited; it runs towards people, takes in the sights and smells around it, goes to say hello and receives warmth back in return. I wrinkle my nose at it, another stops to stroke and pet it. The owner is slightly uncomfortable with this positive response, and apologises in case friendliness is just too much.

I consider how much the dog's simplicity and openness dwarves my panic about what I am wearing; I am quick to assume l am being judged, expected to be something I am not   - because of how I am perceived; whilst the dog looks openly to find out about other people. Now I am not one of those who considers life better as a dog, I am attached to many qualities of being HomoSapiens: I like thought, culture  and our capacity for exploration; but along with complex thought comes the ability to put barriers in our way. Equally I am not naïve enough to believe that if I embrace the world it will cease to judge me, alas no. Yet if I embrace the world I will care less about that judgement, and demand that I am take  more on my own terms, as who I am; which is generally a okay human being

Lumpy sauce.

Béchamel sauce has long been a bête noir of mine. The first time I made it the recipe stressed the importance of mixing the butter and flour quickly into a paste in order to avoid lumps, which, it was made clear, were akin to summoning the devil to the table for three courses and cheese. On top of this you were instructed to add the milk slowly, over a low heat to make a silky sauce and prevent the liquid boiling over. In my mind these elements resulted in a process that could not only lead to lumps of flour in a thin white sauce, but that sauce could boil over and cause a disaster in the kitchen that would make Quatermass' pit look like a Ikea catalogue. To add to my chagrin my favourite food at the time (and this remains perfect comfort food today) was lasagne, which needs a good béchamel - just ask Garfield. Mine, however, was thin, lumpy, and whilst it thickened up in the oven, and tasted okay, it never really added to the dish. Over the years this image appears whenever I begin a new attempt.

Now I began cooking about twelve, and the excitement of creating my own food was combined with fear of processes and techniques that I had no experience of. I have a natural apprehension towards anything new, based entirely on a fear of getting it wrong. In my mind I feel that I should be able to master most techniques, and yet I find myself paralysed when it comes to adding heat, setting up hardware, measuring amounts, using a new device and so on. I also have a brilliant side effect that stems from this, which is a dislike of asking for help, feeling that if then I still can't get it right then I have truly shown myself to be an idiot. 

It is only as I get experience and confidence that I find that I can fully express my ideas and trust my instincts, but the process of taking the first steps can be hideous and a process full of self recrimination and doubt - like walking with a bungee rope wrapped around your scrotum (I speak from experience). The importance of trusting my instincts came from work experience during university: working on colour design in an animation firm I spent five of a six week placement dithering and not working fast enough, then when told I'd been taken on because of my colour sense I was able to speed through the work without debating each decision twenty five times, and using the simple criteria of do I like those colours next to each other?

Each time I come to a new project I remember this, and remind myself - often under duress - to believe in my thoughts, instincts and any talents or qualities I possess. So now, when asked to whip up a béchamel I know I need enough flour - rather than using too little for fear of lumps, I know I can use a whisk if I need to make sure it combines quickly, and I know I can up the heat a little without the sauce mutating. From this I can mess about with flavourings, and explore variations; I can trust my gut, before filling it.

Streaming.

Crap I haven't done the blog! And I'm running out of time now, so this'll have to be stream of consciousness - hello Virginia Woolf, and echoes of Mrs Dalloway from uni.

Why so unprepared? Weeeell, been tidying the house for the in-laws, so it's ready for them to come and tidy when they arrive (a complex process, but one now established as canon by years of repetition), and finishing a painting, well illustration, of a serpent/dragon, then fuming at my phone while it takes an entire train journey to upload - practically giving me third degree burns as it strains with the effort!  

So I'm a bit rushed today, and slightly preoccupied with a change of pattern at work that I'm trying to get my head around. Yet there are times when having it 'all to do' is exciting, giving a feeling of purpose and drive. For a moment you can pretend you're in one of those glossy and tense TV dramas, where it all rests on you and the clock's ticking - what will you do? What do you do?! 

Those moments colour the day with the sheen of importance and momentousness; for a while you are a giant, a superhero, you're "king of the world" (Cheers Cameron - looks like that's gonna stick!). You puff up, walk a little taller, strut a little more. The trouble is that feeling is addictive. It is delivered intravenously and gurgles along your blood stream, pumping the heart faster, expelling endorphins into your brain, and laving a sour taste in your mouth.

This is because it hides the rising stress; the sense that it all rides on you becomes endemic, and a fundamental expectation that is taken for granted, yet gives you nowhere to BE. Those jungle drums become background noise; so easily ignored that you don't notice how loud they've become, and how much you're shouting to be heard, and how intent you are on the softest note that you can no longer hear the melody. 

It is on days like this, when you feel like a king, that it is sensible to remember that we live in a democracy and bear the weight of suffrage together, not alone.

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!