Why
she asked
Are dreams better
than this reality
Even when they twist
to nightmares of
galloping fear
Dreams
I replied
melt away as the
day begins
whilst reality is
the tangible now
And you and him
will
never share
that moment
here
I like some, not all
he muttered
to the cushion to my right
It is too..
(pause for embarrassed effect)…
spiritual
he explained…for me
No spirit in here I thought
to myself
the place is all substance
no energy
just patterns
of niceness
and taste
Too hippy I offered
Yes that’s it he
concedes
and consoles
And then the paynes grey
won through
smashed hard gained defences
a palette knife offensive
nailed
to the bland
and the smooth
the insipid and the
tasteful
the farrow and the balls
Bilbao
from 1997
Not worthy,
of a smiling face,
a cross kiss of approval,
or even a jagged word
crying plagiarism.
Honestly is really,
the kindliest policy.
she muses.
No like, no response,
implies all.
But then I judge
all my life,
sometimes,
on the breath,
of others.
It begins….I have gone back to the rocks and the sea and the flow. I am starting to feel my way around the subject…to delve deeper and to enjoy the physical process of painting. Letting go with brush and pastel and pencil and charcoal, Stabbing, gouging, gently stroking, feeling my way around my response to the rocks, the sea and the memories they evoke. A Cornish Summer…. Hot summer sun in azure skies contrasting with the cold, wild Atlantic.. warm granite slowly eroding..seaweed clinging to the surface, billowing out in graceful, dancing fronds of deepest green, contrasting with the soft turquoise of the ocean. I’m back there again, transported by paint and the flow of time.
The new ‘rock series’ painting
Detail of Rock painting..think I could use this as a basis for a new work
Sketch book : Rocks
I am currently undertaking a personal epiphany on the subject of my own art work. Since I began creating work that I have offered for sale, I have been torn between my personal validation of the work I produce and the desire to please both buyers,critics and galleries. My artistic integrity has often been found wanting in that I began to create work which was less about my interpretation of the environment I exist within and more about creating work to please, becoming more about attempting to produce the chocolate box stuff that haunts galleries throughout the breadth of Wales. I justified this action with the excuse that I was ‘exploring’ my art, but there was always something lacking in the Authenticity of my work. Perhaps there is an underlying credibilitybut it never felt true or real. There is also the issue of selling the work, which also creates pressures, particularly when you are attempting to make some sort of living out of art. As this has proved not to be the case I can now safely dismiss this as a credible reason for continuing down this path. I am I think finally tasting the sweet (yet dangerous?) taste of freedom.
Anyway the conclusion I have now reached is that I will begin creating work that I like, that touches the core of me..perhaps this may also touch the core of others but the most important point is in all of this is I don’t care about how others perceive my work any more. It is mine and if it is liked than that is good… but no more than that.
This post was originally posted on 6th April 2011 on my bevdunne.blogspot.co.uk art blog. I still think it is relevant and to be honest things have not really moved on since then. I must heed my own advice and ‘do’ the art that I want to ‘do’. So I will…it begins…………
It begins…work in progress
Ice melting slowly.
I create slowly.
laborious mark making
tenuous touches of pencil and paint.
More trees.
Determined
to explore the trees
to create more.
But today interrupted by the incessant phone calls
Demanding their money
with interest
beyond my means
veiled threats
But I pretended to be my daughter
grown with voice
to tell them
No
Small Hawthorn painting
There are people down the valley today. Farmers in their four wheel drives making light work of heavy frosts. Checking on the pregnant ewes with their tiny parcels of Spring promise.
The man fixing his bright orange machine marooned in the white for the past week. Cnicht looming behind ready to pounce.
And then there are the small flurries of snow falling, promising us more frozen moments. My cat dances on the plastic roof chasing snowflakes. his coat whiter than the field below.
The machine is moving now.
The cat is on the stairs.
Light through trees in snow field below
