Blinking.

I feel like I'm blinking a lot at the moment. My eyes open and a snapshot of the world flares into existence, only for the lens to shut as the focus drifts true. Keeping up with the Blog posts as I wanted didn't happen - though I am stiring myself once again. 

Picking up the (metaphorical) pen once again I am reminded of the eternal struggle between form and content; assembling words into their various formats, inhaling breath to speak, only to hear the wisp of the tumble-weed as my absence of anything to say coughs up a mucus glued void - my literary hairball If you will. 

It's not as if there is a lack of subjects - after-all we live in a society that perhaps balances more precariously over the abyss than at any time in my lifetime; in a world more connected to, and alienated from itself than at any point. And if the personal is political (and the political is personal) - which it is, then my own experiments in creativity surely give food for thought - (and in many cases thought for food - and even food for food).

So there are subjects to talk about... but now instead of blinking I find myself stiffening the sinews and imitating the action of the goldfish - the eyes boggle, the mouth opens... and closes, and opens... and closes, and opens... and... well, you get the picture. I read about changing this and that, and acting on this - challenging this wrong, preventing this atrocity and I find myself stunned. I mean I vote, I rant, I sign petitions and I protest (though not as much as I should), but if I'm honest I stopped arguing properly a while ago because I found the arguments all accepted basic premises I didn't. 

We want to make things better - but we want to look to the past, we want our lives to hark back to our parent and grandparents days, but we don't want to question what it is we want from society. A university friend once asked me what life would ever be like after the revolution? I didn't know how to answer - I think I nicked something from Oscar Wilde - but brushed it off pretty quickly - after all... it was never going to happen - really? All we could hope for was to make the world we live in a little better. In other words we don't really know what we're after - is it simple: shelter? An income? The right to do the same thing day after day? Freedom to do what we want - when we want - whatever that means? I wanted to paint, to write - but that was never going heal people, generate a wage or in general make the world turn - was it?

My point is I want to fight, I want to argue - to know what to do with the anger I feel; but I don't know what we're looking for. And a lot of this feeling is my own fault - I need to read more and think more - it's not down to other people to inspire me, but that's not to say I wouldn't like to be inspired. The apparatus of Capitalism likes to regenerate itself like some deviant timelord, which makes it difficult to see outside of what we see and do on a regular basis. Maybe we can see the cracks - especially when people are shit on; but are we strong enough to prise them open? Too often we seek to paper over them - and given my ability at DIY I've always thought this is a bad idea.

I know I'm late to the party - but I get a sneaky suspicion that the future is now, so maybe it's time for me to paint a picture - of what it should look like. Alas, all I have right now are some rough drafts - I think I need some help.

Caught in the act.

I just did it. I caught myself in a breath of anxiety - a gasp of time. I'm reading an article in the newspaper - a profile, so a long piece. I get to a break in the text - a helpful paragraph, and my next thought is do I have the time to finish it - is it worth me carrying on as I may arrive at the end of my journey (work) before I do? So now I'm in a fix - I want to read, but if I do and I arrive will I start again? So I shouldn't start - I don't have the time - I have to do all-sorts today - and I don't have time for that either, and now this is my day. And I realise - this isn't the way I should see my life. Chopped up into chunks here and there - no possibility for ebb or flow, the Now hesitating in the face of the Next to come.

So I stop. And for a moment I can see the thoughts - caught in the act like a pick-pocket with their hand in on your wallet. Frozen they seem solid - ice-bergs that loom over me standing in my lifeboat. They stretch upward - the camera climbing the steepness to reverse and hold on me - small, vulnerable.

In the stillness a route through is revealed - a way to navigate the huge obstacles that have begun to close in, and the breath begins to slow. Each stoke forward accompanies the almost unnoticeable drip of melt. As I grow in my confidence - the oars powering more forcefully as the direction gets clearer, imperceptibly at first the monoliths decrease - without the speed and cacophony they are manageable and can be tamed.

I know I will always find myself surrounded - bombarded by my doubts, my fears - and my mistakes. And maybe it's too much caffeine, too little sleep? But more it is the need to sometimes... stop, to step back, to put into context, to let go. I won't always feel I can carry on, and that is when I need to ask for help. Until then the least I can do is breath. 

For the love of Cats!

Through a combination of circumstance, opportunity and inclination I've found myself drawing Cats recently. Maybe the effect of the Internet is rubbing off in a subtle psychology? Or maybe it's because I own a Cat, and I don't have to hunt too far to find subject matter? Either way - that's what I've found myself doodling, and then developing.  

My scribble style is fun using ink and charcoal - each mark leaving a sense of what was before, then making up its mind as to what is, right now, right here - and saying so. With ink the decisions are scratched onto the paper, building up the Cat with look and re-look. A detailed argument of what is staring me in the face. Charcoal is looser - saying as much by where it shys away from, with different sticks, pencils and blocks adding texture and debate to what is discovered on the page. 

The enigma that Cats are suits this back and forth of a style. One moment languid and settled - pouncing at thin air the next; demanding food - but only this or that food, then needing to go out; curling up affectionately on your lap, but turning on a laser beam of disgust if you dare to stop stroking for a second. 

The inability to pigeon-hole the subject makes the challenge. My drawings offer an interpretation of the subject surely, but that viewing is not always worked out. More often it is in the drawing that thought takes place, that I come to see, to feel the emotion, or sense of what I am doing.  

Then there's always the additional pressure of time - Cats rarely stay still for long - especially when they know you want them to. The right look, the right pose - these come in glances - quick marks, cheeky photos, a process that earns the Cats' amusement and contempt. As a Cat owner I am used to this masochism, and have come to terms with this unequal relationship. 

Still, there's always Art. 

Magic eye realism.

There's intense staring. Complete focus on what you see. Slowly the world around fades out, leaving the incremental changes in shade and light, unfolding deeper as the eye strains to see into the nooks and crannies of existence.

Then all at once the detailed and specific expands outwards, exploding the surface plane - a magic eye of the real; so that the enormity of the scene before you almost chokes understanding. Now perspective and perception knot together threatening to distract from the scene as you realise that the first mark has committed you to this; and now you have no choice but to see it through. 

Later I recreate this torrent through the movement of brush strokes - quick to search for new lines - to find the tangent to the line of the thing; through pen scribbles that ebb and flow through thick and thin, overlaying mark on mark - hatching and twitching in nervous fight; through the violence of scratch marks - seeking to delve beneath the surface, to score and underscore presence(s); and through the instinctive dot and jagged line of tip-ex - highlights meandering and double-thinking what and where the image is.

This is the first time I've sought to categorise anything like a process in my recent work. It sprang from instinct and serendipity - and, of course I now run the risk of reading too much into it - of creating my own mythology. Yet the process has its origins, and although they are physical - jerks and motions that stem from neurons and nerve endings, there is underneath a motive, a desire - the throbbing presence of Ego and Id.

If nothing else there is a clear sense of energy, a desire not to stand still - even when depicting buildings and monuments of definite 'There-ness'. 

So here, at the end I find what I'm trying to express is the sheer effort of the now. No wonder I'm knackered.

Things and things.

Bits and bobs. Detritus. Odds and ends. Things you need to move your life from point A to point B. The narrative grows and expands. 

Wanting to paint, finding inspiration - gathering brushes, pencils, paints, paper; then walking, strolling, ambling - wondering out and about trying one thing, then another: sketching - re-sketching, photos, doodles - ideas sparking - some fizzling out, and some exploding. Deciding to sell the paintings - taking the plunge, needing to display them - shit! Easels and easels, table-clothes, signs, boxes, prints, mounts, frames, cards, trolleys, bubble warp, scissors, prices - business accounts, plans, ledgers - numbers swimming. Things and more things.

I find myself surrounded by the small things that have come from the bigger thing. Choices made have snowballed and I am learning to ski (or more accurately given my natural balance, slide on my face) quickly! Whether this is a great business decision, or some cul-de-sac on the meander of life, I have taken the decision to put my work in front of other people. And unlike on the Net I can stand and watch the responses - a situation that spasms waves of nausea and excitement across my stomach. 

Those moments of some kind of recognition are brilliant. Someone seeing something they respond to - an idea they share, or else see anew. There are comments too, but at the market - with the unspoken tension of the buy and sell, first there are the glances; furtive looks and double takes, then the appraisal - and hopefully the nod or grunt of connection. Of course the opposite passes too - a dismissal, or sneer - but here too there is the pleasure of the challenge - the taunting of expectations: like it or not, you notice it. 

And here I am, standing with my painting on show - this is me, this is my brain, my gut, my hopes and fears, right here, and I am alive.

Who said life was fair anyway?

Resilience is a word that we use. It tells us we can bounce back, that we can take the hit, shake ourselves off - try again. It's something I've always been pretty good at I though. Square up, keep trudging - change the world through sheer bloody mindedness, by refusing to y'know just stop, and eventually something will turn up.

There are times when refusal just seems like denial however; a failure to look at the world honestly, to accept limitations with no expectation - times when the urge to grab hold of the blanket, to burrow deep into the earth seems overwhelming. These are days when the crisp light of the morning is dulled by the oncoming tumult of the day - becoming a blade that stabs and hacks away whittling insecurities till they are a grotesque caricature of who you are, and what you want to be.

I am feeling the urge to hibernate, to find a nook - a cranny, where I can hide away, and give in to my doubts and fears. I question my talent, and my qualities as a human being; I revisit my past(s) and the present and mock the person I have been/become - will be. 

But I am fortunate - I am arrogant. I believe I have some abilities - and even as I write this I feel my chin clenching, and my teeth setting. This fear is selfish, and self-pitying - I have much to be thankful for, but I have begun to become insular again - it is time to open my eyes. 

It is true, as I was taught from a young age, that life isn't fair... the point is, I guess, that can work both ways.

Roll up - roll up, they're lurvely.

Spring light makes the surroundings smile more. Glass reflects warmer, highlights criss-cross the shade with more contrast and ochre replaces grey as the bass note of the colour palette. I feel warmer, even with a chill.

Getting my work to market has been a strange mix of emotions: fear at what I am about to do - and how it will be taken; trepidation about the cost and the success of the venture; uncertainty about what and when to do this and that; but bubbling around all this has been a feeling of excitement and energy. 

Sure the production line has been stressful - getting to grips with packing and presentation; not least on Caroline, who has the wonderful role of critique and oversight - not easy when I am in full tortured artist strop, cursing the world and it's minions. As well as the fact that she is better at packing, and thinking ahead so that the paintings can be propped up so that people can - y'know... see.

We've learnt how to protect work, the importance of a trolley, what people respond too (and what they don't), and I have the satisfaction of seeing that what I do out of personal whim and fascination can communicate to others too. We've even sold some of the paintings too!

Like the changing season the beginning of something new gives new impetus. Of course we've made mistakes - but that was always going to be part of the process. I can't describe the venture as a complete success - yet, but it helps to put the life determined in context. Maybe it's a sense of choosing my direction, maybe it's something out of the ordinary, but even when it rains on the market roof, or the wind blows along the platform I feel I am giving myself a chance to encounter and embrace life fully, and hopefully sell some paintings...?

Sole Trader.

I’m back from my short hiatus. Yes, after a few triumphant weeks my blog was once again derailed - both by disaster and by life (this is getting very Kipling now), when I found myself brought low by a pain that I have never faced before - a giant of an affliction that contorted my very form, and made me question my god. The name of this carbuncle of medicine, this demon of biology, this torment incarnate… Blister.

I should point out that this was not a simple rubbing on the sole of the foot, this was a full on infected inflation that seemed determined to convert my toe into the next Hindenburg; and thusly, when it came time to burst the damn thing, a similar scene of carnage ensued: fluids and pus pouring forth - those in the room searching forlornly and vainly for some vessel for escape. Recuperating from such trauma has seen me sofa bound, pumped full of antibiotics and pain-killers, almost zen-like in inactivity. Yet being me I found that this posture of idyl only served to make me aware of my failings - as if not being able to do something is not enough of an excuse. A feeling only accentuated by the machinations of the washing machine - which decided to break to spite me. And so, with one leg elevated I found myself crawling through the bowels of the plumbing to establish the problem, braving flood and instruction manuals, and predictably finding that it was out of my power to control. Defeated again I hobbled back to the sofa, whilst Caroline rang for a repair man, and I sulk…(ahem), reflected.

I have found myself caught up on a tide of doubt recently - one of those times in life when mistakes and errors follow each other too quickly for us to put them down as ‘one of those things’, which drives us to question ability, luck, fate and worth. These are the tides that start you talking to albatrosses, and make you want to drink the sea-water. Inevitably these moments come when you wrap yourself within a bubble, realising too late that the transparent film around you has become clingfilm, and that you can't seem to get out - to fight your way out of it.

But I am lucky - though prone to fuck-up and a tendency to embrace blame too readily, I have found ways to find myself - metaphorical bread crumbs that prevent the corners from sealing (seriously this post is becoming the Terminator X of mixed-metaphor), so that I can reflect on the wider significance - or more importantly insignificance of each moment. 

So here we find me standing at my first market stall, taking my work to the people; no longer hiding away and hoping people will find me. Debating the best way to position my paintings, to engage those who look in conversation, to talk about what I do without feeling self-conscious, or worse embarrassed… oh, and smiling (it’s quite painful if you’re not used to it). It is the beginning of a new step, and it is a joy. People walk past - people stop and look, some even talk, but there is a response, and no one threw anything - which I always see as a plus. Again mistakes were made, but solutions were found, and most importantly I went through with it… and I’m going back… and it’s given me ideas to paint… and I want to paint… and I have. 

I want to thank people who supported me over the stall - it is a small step, but one I didn’t find easy in the run up, so thanks to those who were there, who visited, who gave a moral thumbs up; and be assured I will be back - (fill in obligatory Terminator reference here). Thanks.

Self(ie).

So I'm looking hard - closely I should say, trying to see everything in the frame. I see me staring back - ‘judgemental fucker’ I think. I look past the obvious - all the blemishes I'm expecting - teeth at odd angles, chins that swell like a bullfrog; then past the mocking curl of a jaw at rest and the irony I expect to misdirect and deceive. Instead I go closer - into the shifts in skin tone, the waft of beard growth and the crooked lines of eyes, nose and mouth.

In amongst the detail I find the worry, the hope and hopelessness; eyes that glance ready to look away, the pale shades of milky white glassing over with a sheen of time passing - refusing to meet my own gaze; lips part, the mouth ready to apologise or to wax lyrical, but only in the safety of friends. 

This is my Selfie - a self portrait, begun to explore the possibility of new subject matter (and maybe commercial opportunity), but soon - too soon asking questions of myself and how I appear (and want to appear) to the world. I ask myself what conclusions I draw - after all this interpretation of the sitter at the hand of the artist by the author is very much a dog chasing it's tail - or should I say cat - this is a knowing pursuit at heart, and a cat will tell you it knew what it was doing - even if the opposite is true. 

I stare a the image of myself, judging each brush stroke again and again, knowing that by wrapping myself up in technique I can push away the complexity of my inner thoughts that ripple across my outer face. Unsure as to whether the image creates an illusion of ego too inflated, or reveals too much id to the world, I am left holding on to the moment between overwork and the first daub. Turning away I head to the kitchen, though of course at the door I look back.

Double Vision.

Sketching away means I look in a forensic manner. Judging distances and depths, watching to see how colours agree and disagree, how they change so much whilst staying completely the same. I notice light - the way it blinds, the way it disguises in plain sight and the way it challenges what we think of the obvious. 

Recently I have found the intensity of looking beginning to mess with what I can and can’t see. My last sketch was of trees in the winter: lines that curl and zig-zag through the landscape, shades that spread and fade, with patterns that hark back to celtic runes; in short though no snow lay fallen I found myself becoming snow blind. Browns lightened - becoming opaque with almost frost, and darkened subdued by the cloud; flashes of green interupted - diverting and distracting, whilst the light dappled across the hill, a searchlight examining each bark in turn, only to return them to the amnesia of the forrest as the moment passed.

Looking down I found my eyes could not take in all the information, instead I had to look for an element each time - searching for the line of the trees, dissecting where one branch began, and where it multiplied into twigs and twiglets, entering a labyrinth that nature quite frankly gloats about. Then having traced lines over the page I looked back, with eyes almost out of focus - now I wanted the light and shade - an impression at best, but an impression without which the lines could never hope to record, to inhabit the view. All to be done in shades of black and white as I cursed not using my watercolours.

And though this sounds precise, a work of premeditation and almost technical drawing, those who know me (and my work) will know that my drawing is based on perpetual motion - a line that never seems to stop, a hand that fidgets, adjusts and redefines until cold, time, or expediency stops the process. Thus the sketch worked back and forth - shifting focus (literally) between the wood and the trees, delving into shade, striving up to strengthen a trunk line, then plunging back into the sea of a thousand branches, a sea so intricate I felt myself drowning in the detail. 

Finally raising my head to gasp for breath I brought my eyes down to the page. There was the energy, the confusion, and the still secrets of the forrest I had been immersed in. Whether the sketch was enough or too much, it was over. I could not go back, and would not go on.