The King of Bristol

When I was a nipper my father gave me a book of The World's Greatest Paintings.
I still have it.
On page 52 is a picture of a king staring at a girl dressed in a simple leather dress.
It's hard to tell what he's thinking although the explanatory text tells us that he has chosen her, a simple beggar maid, as his wife over all the finest ladies of the land.

King Cophetua and the beggar maid, by Sir Edward Burne Jones.
It's a haunting image, full of Victorian charity, sentiment and chivalric charm.
The story of a monarch who defied all convention for love, truth and beauty, kneeling in supplication before the woman who has captured his heart.
It just wouldn't wash these days; the idea of royalty stepping aside so all the world could marvel at the beauty of his common born love as she steps forward into the limelight.
Or could it...

I like to feel that there is enough romanticism left to allow for the simple joy of infatuation to find its place without the cold touch of reason blighting its brief moment in the sun.

I just thought it might be fun to take that thought and plant it in a modern setting.

Bristol has staked its claim in the art world thanks to artists who are capable of painting faster than policemen can run.
We should be proud of their courage, wit and elusiveness, but theirs is not the whole story.

Within the city there are still romantic heroes and femme fatales, princes and princesses of style, charm and delight who daily present a vision of our city's artistry that has nothing to do with spraycans.

My thanks to Andy (Psycho) for being the perfect subject.

Rarely do you meet someone who looks, sounds and proves to be a perfect gentleman.  

Goldfinger

In a spirit of blind, naive 'bless me for trying' optimism I have entered 'Under the Ivy' for the Royal Academy Summer Show.
In doing so, I am joining the ranks of about 12000 similar hopefuls, all of whom will be keeping their appendages crossed in the hope that this will be the start of Something Big.

The comparisons with the X-factor are toe-curlingly obvious, but I'm on a journey, living the dream and doing it so me babbies will 'ave a more better future than what I done.

Hard to argue with that, one thinks.

So, to finish the painting I have to have another encounter with the dreaded goldleaf.
Handling the stuff is like trying to fit pyjamas made of cobwebs onto a sticky pig.
At first, all seems to go well.
Stealth, cunning and a steady hand win the day.
And then it gets smart.
In playful mood the wispy glitter discovers the gravitational pull of my pullover;  I breath fractionally too much and find I have applied a gilded finish to my own face.
Things get worse.
The static on the screen of my immaculate Imac calls, and like Gollum to Mordor, the precious gold wafts off towards the light...

Meanwhile, the part of the picture I had coated in stuff that would stick down a badger has ignored the laws of physics and refused to cooperate, and all the shiny bits peel off at the first suggestion of a breeze.
Rude words ensue.
Walk away, deep breath, cup of tea.
I manage to get more of it onto the canvas, but it fights like a disadvantaged weasel brought up on Stallone films.
I decide to opt for a distressed look, which mirrors my own.

Off to the framers, hire a van, fight my way through Knightsbridge and hope I've timed the double parking on the smart red lines correctly.
Into the bowels of the Academy, register my entry and then, with its label dangling from its frame, my precious painting is carted off by a brown coated gnome to who knows where?

I have a sudden sense of empathy with mothers whose children were evacuated during the blitz...

I offer a small, thankful prayer, however, to the Big Art Pixie that Simon Cowell isn't on the judging panel.

BTW

If any of you out there fancy leaving a comment/deposit/small consideration I'd be pleased to hear from you.

No, really, I would.

Then I wouldn't feel like I was talking to myself.

Again.

This is me giving one of my meaningful looks to encourage you...

Madonna of the Trainspotters

There seems to be a patron saint for pretty much every occasion, with one glaring omission - railway enthusiasts.

It struck me as a trifle unfair considering their devotion.

When you think about it, they have all the qualities of a religous order:

They are usually recruited at an early age and remain steadfast in their allegiance all their lives.

They gather secretly to avoid persecution, and wear discreet lapel badges so that other brothers may know them when they meet.

They wear a simple habit of beige.

Appearances would suggest a vow of celibacy.

Anyway, for all those delightful, mildly eccentric and very British devotees of the iron road, here is your saintly guardian.

May your ticket be forever clipped by the celestial inspector.

May your summer seaside excursion be not filled with footie fans.

Grant, we beseech you, the grace to smile when rude words are spoken into your microphone by irreverent oafs as you try to record the sound of a Class 5 thundering through Little Knobblington on a wet wednesday afternoon.

And, when your number is up and the Great Trainspotter in the Sky signals that it's the end of the line,

may you be eternally chuffed.

Pants

The ancient Romans believed that the creative process was a collaboration between the artist and a spirit helper that lived in the walls.
If you put the hours in, worked hard and struggled to master your craft  it would reward you with moments of sublime, inspired magic.
It's a lovely idea as it takes the pressure off trying to be brilliant every time.
Sometimes your Genii (hence genius) will pop out from behind the magnolia to lend a hand, sometimes it won't so there's no point beating yourself up if you've tried your best only to find the little bugger is having a duvet day.

However, this painting:

It began with a question: Would a Gothic washday be all dark and stormy skies and funereal laundry?

The model is Leanne, who is adept at all manner of performance skills involving silks and Samurai swords,  ( think Cirque de Soleil with sharp objects...eek!).

She struck me as someone with a lot of steel behind those pale blue eyes, and even more available if it came to a fight.

Once I got going with this painting I remembered something she had said about being underestimated and prejudged by people who choose to form an opinion on the slightest of impressions.

Not a mistake I was going to make with someone for whom the cutting edge is not just an expression.

Anyway, this is what appeared:

I'm not entirely sure whether this is a result of the Wall Pixie going for broke, or too much Bovril.
I like to think that even getting the unmentionables out on the line can be heroic, and that strength, beauty and magic are just as important when it comes to the daily grind.
That's why she has a tattoo of another Roman Home Help  on her shoulder - Hygieia, the first Domestic Goddess.

ps. For those of you who thought the pictures are a bit on the small side - try clicking on the image.
Either it will get bigger, or your computer will get much smaller....

At last

...and there we go.

Didn't include the confetti/leaves after all as it just looked wrong.

'nuff said.

Wedding Blues

It's 5.00 on a Friday and I have been working diligently all day on a sensible, money earning illustration job.
I am seriously thinking of impaling myself on my own pencil, but I am too bored to sharpen it....
I know, 'I'm lucky to have work at all in the current climate' etc etc.
Mustn't grumble.
I am now going to turn a blind eye to myself while I bunk off early and get on with The Big Blue Painting.
Also, if I post images of it so far, it will make me finally finish it.
The concept came from a photoshoot last spring.
A crowd of outrageously decorative creatures had turned up at a rented studio to model for me.
Amongst them was the tallest, most exotic and ethereally beautiful young man and his equally stunning girlfriend. (The eagle eyed amongst you will have spotted that she also features in the Adoration of the iphone)
Enter Andrew and Amanda.
He had been described to me as a peacock, and it was obvious that together they were a painting waiting to happen.
During a teabreak, they stepped outside and as they did so a wedding party went by and gave them the sort of look normally reserved for things you've trodden in.
Considering the bride appeared to be wearing a meringue and her intended bore more than a passing resemblance to crippled penguin I thought it was a bit thick, really.
At this point it would be easy to get all crusading about narrow minded bigotry and xenophobic intolerance towards people who step outside the perceived norm, but in truth it was really just one numpty moment.
The fact that some of my lot had come on the bus in all their Gothic splendour without any problem sort of balanced the whole thing up, but it gave me just what I needed as a counterpoint.
I'm more concerned with celebrating the colour and magic that interesting people bring to the world.

So, here are the various stages so far.
It's a big painting (about 6'x3') and it's taken flippin' ages.
I've changed the background so many times it weighs more than I do now.
I started it last April and it's been treading on the back of my shoe ever since.
I've finally worked out was missing, as a result of standing in Westonbirt Arboretum on a windy day.
A big gust virtually stripped a Sycamore tree, and for a moment I was surrounded by falling leaves  - just like confetti.

Bingo...
No more excuses, I shall now finish it off and get it photographed.
Honest.