The Right to Bare Arms

I don't understand.

No really, I haven't got a clue.

Not even a geriatric glow worms arse of an idea to light the moles-pocket darkness of my total and utter incomprehension.

Throughout the passage of my disorganised, rudderless, futtering existence there has been one comforting precept that I have come to rely on;  that if I repeat any activity to which I bear some small aptitude a sufficient number of times, then I become tolerably proficient at it.

It's a strategy that has served me well in many areas:

Riding a bicycle, brushing my teeth without poking my eye out, avoiding IKEA, impersonating a stoat, getting fired from proper jobs, making tiny mice out of apple pips, buying shoes that don't fit.

All these, and more, are areas where I feel completely capable because I have done them so many times that I no longer have to think about them.  They just sort of happen automatically.

I rely on them.

Soooo.... why in the name of God's underpants do I periodically lose the ability to make anything even vaguely convincing appear on the evil, taunting piece of overstarched bedlinen propped up on the easel in front of me?

I mean, what if I suddenly forgot how to drive a car half way round Oxford circus, or had a momentary lapse of cognisance whilst doing something crucial involving a step ladder, a bucket of angry gerbils and an unusually large Swiss army knife?

I live in the cosy reassurance that such things are unlikely to happen, so why does the one ability I've devoted more time and attention to than any other suddenly decide to pack it's Speedo's and buzz off on its holidays without leaving a forwarding address?!

By now you may have gathered that the current bid for artistic gold has not gone according to plan.

It's like turning up at the Olympics only to find you've forgotten your PE kit.

It should be so simple: Paint the chairman's portrait as a present for his birthday.

I've worked with him for years, he's a perfect sitter, and I get a pretty fair likeness of his more reflective, personal side in a couple of takes.

Bung in his favourite winebar and a few memento's and the job's all but done.

All but for the foreground figure which steadfastly refuses to resemble a woman in a sleeveless dress and persists in looking like a haddock that's swallowed a hunchback.

Some days you just feel like sitting at the bottom of the garden eating worms.

At least I know how to do that....

        

Finished

Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Woman

It's odd,  but reassuring,  how paintings seem to sort themselves out if you let them.

This one is far from finished yet,  but it's on it's way.

If you recall,  I'd made a pig's protrusion of it by trying to fake it using old photo's as reference instead of basing it on a real person.

Long story short:
Quick trip to a Burlesque show in town, friendly fabulous dancers,  a studio session involving feathers, glitter,  fishnets and a spontaneous symposium on the failure rate of merkin attachment products and I had everything (and more ) that I needed to complete this painting and a whole bunch more.

By now you will have gathered that this whole process is to do with so much more than making pictures.

It's about meeting some pretty amazing people,  being witness to their stories  and celebrating the magic and brilliance of their take on the world.

All I have to do is link up the themes and colour them in.

This, then, is the story so far of a painting that feels like it would finish itself if I stopped painting it.

Without giving it all away, I wanted to paint something around the idea of the point at which we choose to identify ourselves.

Do we identify ourselves when we are young and beautiful, or when we're rich with experience?

Do we stop the clock at the bit that represents us at our best, and if so, when is that?

Youthful and desirable or old and dribbly, it's all part of the same story.

Maybe it's good to hold onto the evidence of our lives as we go along, so that one day, when some well intentioned teen is tucking the acrylic blanket round our boney knees, we can take out the scrapbook of how fabulous we once were and beat the sanctimonious smirk off their face with it.

Time is a thief that steals your future while you're looking for the keys of the here and now, so make each day a burlesque show in your heart.

Just mind your merkin...

The Fickle Finger of Fate

A heartwarming tale of kindness and coincidence that should awaken the dormant doormouse of joy in even the most hardened old heart:

Being of an artistic temperament, and prone to moments of absent -mindedness due to the kaleidoscopic nature of the creative mind, I managed to lose my backpack one evening.

(Ok, fair enough, you're right, I had been overserved at the bar...)

Anyway, the crucial part is that it contained one of my moleskin notebooks, which in turned contained the last twelve month's ideas, dreams, sketches, personal futterings and contact details - not to mention my diary of the time I spent in France planting the Wireman.

Choked I was.

Fast forward two or three weeks and I'm having a pint with an artist chum (couldn't afford absinthe, even though it makes the parts grow longer ) and in a moment of Karmic harmony I bought the barmaid a drink.

When Artist chum questioned why I was chucking the currency around when we had barely enough for our own lubrication, I told him the tale of the lost notes, and how by spreading a little pleasantness I might offset the fact that my precious book was lost forever, abandoned to a hideous fate, and in all probability being used to line some miscreant's ferret's cage.

The Good Bit:

Artist chum then recalled a mysterious, garbled message he'd received, which had mentioned my name.

A quick check through his call history, contact with the caller, a trip across town and The Tale of the Lost Bag comes to a happy, misty eyed conclusion involving a charming, thoughtful taxi driver, a scrawled number in the back cover and a great deal of coincidental luck.

Or was it....

(Dramatic pause)

So, here's few sketches from it that might otherwise be lost on the storm tossed tides of misfortune.

Sorry about the florid verbosity of the epistle - I've been reading the biography of Dickens and it rubs off a bit.

Never mind...

Sometimes you just have to accept you've missed it by a living mile, and it's nobody's fault but your own.

I've spent 18hrs so far on this one and it's getting nowhere.

Sensibly, I put it away for several months and pretended it wasn't mine.

I had hoped that the Art Fairy might have visited and sorted it out, but no such luck.
On digging it out recently I discovered that all the old faults were still there, plus a few I hadn't seen before.

It's actually a useful lesson in not breaking your own rules; in this case trying to paint something I haven't seen with my own eyes.

Quite a Big Rule, that one...

It started with a photograph I found of a stunningly beautiful dancer, taken in 1898.

Her name was Cleo de Merode and she wowed them in some style, invented a new hairstyle, consorted with royalty, became the biggest star of the Paris stage and was photographed from here to Wednesday.

Later on,  I found a picture of her taken by Cecil Beaton in the early '60's when she was old,  forgotten and broke,  but still a star, still poised, elegant and beautiful.

It got me thinking about which point in our lives defines us.

Is the 'me' I think of the person I am today, yesterday, tomorrow?  Will I be a different 'me' in 30 years, or is the essence of oneself a constant?

I wanted to create an image that confronts that reflection, that contradiction, and she seemed perfect.

Ok so far, but all I had to go were some low res, tiny photographs I'd peeled off the net, and it shows.

The answer is to reconfigure the painting using a real model, in the here and now, and try to find a model with similar features but 50 years older for the reflected 'self'.

I'm off on Saturday to meet some lovely Burlesque ladies who I'm hoping will provide the answer to the young 'Cleo', and I'll wing it from there.

The moral of the tale is that you can't create this stuff in a bubble, tucked away in a studio, clinging onto your imac.

It has to be about real people, which means going out there and accosting strangers again.


Brace yourself Bristol, I'm back in the game...

Ta daa

There we go.

Apologies for the crap photo's, but you get the rough idea.

Anyway, back in the saddle again so no excuses from here on in.

8hrs from start to finish and although it may not be the most meticulously nurtured piece I've ever done, it's probably a personal best in terms of slapping it on against the clock.

Right, off to watch Get Me a Big Fat Celebrity Essex Chef on Ice methinks.

Never mind the quality...

7.30 and going well.

A bored Madonna, a grumpy cherub and a cat.

There's a perfectly good reason for all of this, and when I've thought of it I'll let you know.

Nearly time for my Red Bull and amphetamine sandwich.

Pressing on...