Are you looking' at me?!

Painting pictures is a tricky business at the best of times.

Dabbing coloured goo onto fabric with a hairy stick in an attempt to create a recognizable image, such as a bowl of fruit or a particularly handsome cat, is an activity that invites frustration and failure.

Compared to portraiture, though, it has one redeeming aspect: it’s virtually unheard of for a bunch of bananas, or Tiddles from next door, to offer an opinion on your efforts.

The thing is, everyone has a very private view of their own appearance.

No matter how long you stare at your reflection, it’s always back to front, and that’s before we get to the issues of which expressions we’re comfortable with.

Add to that the layers of  complexity that form the encyclopedia of our self awareness and the whole thing becomes a bit of a challenge.

So, do you paint somebody as they see themselves, or as you see them?

Phil is a man who rarely troubles his mirrors for an opinion.

He and I travelled across Scotland together, and during that time I saw him a little more clearly in the grey, Celtic light.

His story is both commonplace and extraordinary, a mix of great good fortune and teeth-clenching adversity that would have driven a lesser man to his knees.

Every man has a mountain to climb, and for Phil it was Ben Nevis.

We gave it our best shot, but as a metaphor for life it proved less than cooperative, and we conceded defeat, backed off and went to the pub.

Several months later I got a call.

Against the advice of the medical profession, his horoscope and his own common sense, he had gone back, and was now standing on top of the biggest bump in Britain.

I painted him as I saw him then.

He’s too modest to recognize himself, but in looking at his own image he may see himself as others do.

I sincerely hope so.

Meanwhile, back at square one...

I've never been one for following the herd.

I'd much rather find things out for myself than sit quietly amongst a crowd of supplicants listening to some windbag demonstrating their superiority in the naive expectation that you will somehow be inspired to emulate, but never exceed, their abilities.
You will have gathered from this that I was not a huge success at school.
I'd rather blaze a trail than trail my blazer.

All of this gives me a warm feeling of maverick integrity and daring independence, but the passage of the years has revealed that it is also an extremely long winded way of going about things.
If I'm going to make it as a portrait artist before they measure me up for some Grampy Pampers, I'm going to have to get a wiggle on.
Against all my instincts, and through gritted teeth, I'm going to have to ask for help.

Andy James is Vice President of the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, but let's not hold that against him.
He occasionally runs courses designed to help aspiring artists so I coughed up, locked the delicate ego in the cupboard under the stairs and joined in.

Mercifully he turned out to be a genuinely nice bloke, a top rate painter and a good teacher to boot.

Now it's not easy making the transition from illustrator to painter, and old habits die hard.
The temptation to employ all the clever tricks and effects that have got me through the last thirty years is strong, but whilst they might impress some observers, they're a dead giveaway to any artist with 'Vice President' on his notepaper.

Suffice to say the experience was a tad humbling, highly informative and ultimately inspiring.

So, armed with  a more 'muscular' style, a new set of techniques and the confidence to paint direct from the live model without cheating, it's off into the big wide world to put it into practice.

Here's a peek at some of the exercises he put us through, against the clock and with no safety net:

So what next?
The BP awards are on again, as is the Royal Society open exhibition with a deadline for admissions in Feb.
I'm going to have to have a go, but it feels a bit like being back at school sitting for an exam.
Except this time I can't forge a note from my mum.

Different strokes

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself."

That's one of those handy catch-all's that we tell ourselves whenever we're confronted by our instinct to run a mile from anything unfamiliar.

The thing is it's only when we leap joyfully into scary situations that we discover what comes next.
Ok so far; nice concept.

The problem is actually doing it...

I've been attending Life Drawing Classes on and off since the last Ice Age, and over the years I like to think I've developed a style that gets me past those awkward moments when you realise someone's looking over your shoulder.

It's not just the model who feels naked.

Now I know what you're supposed to say - "you're not creating a finished piece, it's a working drawing designed to educate your eye"etc. but I've never completely got over the slightly gladiatorial sensation of working in public.
Shallow? possibly.
Insecure? Definitely, and not something to be proud of, but a rather British part of me tends to cling on to a drawing technique that works and gets approving grunts from my fellow artists.
Stuff like this:

Which is all very nice and fuzzy, but inevitably leads nowhere as I'm repeating what I already know rather than attempting something exciting and new that might actually move me on a notch.

Which is why I found myself in a crowded bar full of pencil grippers the other night, waiting for a nice lady in a Beetlejuice costume to unfold herself in front of us.
If you've never been to a Dr Sketchy's anti art class, you've missed a treat.

Check them out on:
http://www.drsketchy.com/branch/bristol

Hosted by Miss Lou-Leigh Blue (she who modelled for a couple of paintings for last year's exhibition)  it's a wonderful blend of Burlesque, beer, theatre and art and definitely no place for a formal approach to anything.

No point in playing safe then, so I loosened the corsets and went for it with a piece of broken chalk, a £1.99 notebook from Tesco's and a devil may care glint in the one eye that can focus further than two feet away.

And surprise surprise, I surprised myself.

Long labour, pain free delivery

Funny thing nerves.

It took me nearly two years to finish this one, which is pretty shameful really.

I lost track of how many times I put it back on the easel, resolved to finish it, bottled it and turned it to the wall again like a guilty secret.

Somewhere in the back of my mind was the sneaking realisation that it wasn't the painting that was inadequate, it was me.
I knew that if I painted it further down the line, it would benefit from the time I'd spent improving.

Self awareness is a wonderful thing, and it's good to be honest about your limitations as long as it spurs you on to greater things.

Two years, and a lot of trial and terror later, I had to face up to the fact that it was finished and would have to be delivered.

I'm no stranger to standing before the critical eye of the fee paying beholder, but it's different when what you're presenting is such a personal statement about both you and the sitter, and I'm not ashamed to say I was bricking it.

Hard nosed corporate heavyweight though he is, Peter came up with the sort of instant response that makes you feel the world isn't such a bad place after all.

Painting people's stories, their lives, their complexities is an extraordinary mix of objectivity and intimacy.

All I've ever really wanted to do was create pictures and make people laugh and cry.

It could be I've found a way to do all three.

No news is good news

About a year ago I held an exhibition because I was angry.

Five years previously, a group of young men with the strength of adults and the judgement of spiteful children beat up a 'mosher' for no reason other than to exercise their aggression.
When his girlfriend intervened, they turned on her and killed her.
In their minds they were entitled to single out victims for recreational violence, and anyone who got in their way invited the same treatment.

It made me angry then, and it still makes me angry now, mainly because I'm powerless to do anything about it.

Painting a few pictures, raising a few quid for the charity, inviting people to think about it comes a poor second to the significance of what happened.

For those close to Sophie Lancaster, that moment will walk one step behind them for the rest of their lives.

Fast forward six years to the Harbourside Festival in sunny Bristol.

We all meet up and have the sort of day that you'd expect.
A mixture of young and old, youthful exuberance and grown ups being daft; music and beer and telling people whose names you can't remember that you love them  ( "but not in a funny way..." ).

We all go our separate ways, but later on two of our group walk into trouble.

It's the usual depressingly familiar scene of hate fuelled violence.
Ugly, relentless and dangerously out of control, the victim incapable of offering resistance.

By intervening, the son of our family friend broke the flow of the attack but in doing so made himself the target.

He wound up with a few bruises and a chipped tooth, but he'd defused the moment enough for others to assist, for the violence to fade, for help to arrive.

It's entirely possible he saved a young man's life.

He's off to uni now, his future bright, his smile restored thanks to the wonders of modern dentistry and his cheerful enthusiasm undiminished.

There's no headlines in the paper, no Daily Mail tub thumping about "Broken Britain Ruled By Thugs", no bedside vigil, no need for charity fundraising, no moment when the clock stopped.

There's nothing to report.

And that's as good a reason as I can think of for painting someones portrait.

Fairy Nuff

When I was knee high to next door's dog I used to pull my toy soldiers, knights, zoo animals, farm vehicles and tanks to pieces, chuck them in the toy box, pull the components out randomly and make weird, hybrid creatures out of them.

I think my favourite was a cow with a gun turret that towed a caravan.

I also wore a deerstalker hat and a tie with the Taj Mahal on it, but that's for another time.

The end result is that I get terribly, childishly, even ecstatically excited when I find myself in one of those fancy reclamation places that sell bits of old toilets and stuffed squirrels.
The last one I encountered had everything a ten year old could want, including swords, a Russian T34 tank (running order, road tax exempt) a Cruise missile (honest! no warhead though) and the clock from Crewe station.
In fairness, I was never your average ten year old.

I inevitably come home with 'stuff that will come in handy one day', which in the past has included the back of a broken chair which I was sure had potential.

So when a Designer Chum of mine offered to do a swapsy of a portrait of her daughter for a leaflet design I had the frame sorted already.

Not so bonkers after all then....

Apart from that, it's been business as usual.
I spent an amazing afternoon with two incredible belly dancers which has provided plenty of material for the next round of paintings ( sketches as shown ).
These are, hopefully, going to be a lot looser and dynamic, ( the paintings, not the dancers, wash yer minds out ), as fits both the style of dancing and my desire to get a bit more life into the paintings.

And finally, the very beginnings of a portrait of an exceptional guy whose story is worth telling, and whose portrait is most definitely worth painting.

Pretty obvious it's early days on this one, but when it's done I'll tell his story, make his mum proud and embarrass the living marsbars out of him.

Still, at least he's not wearing a deerstalker.

Bill Badger and the Badger Bill

Someone once said the most informed and objective critic of newspaper journalism is your cat, whose susceptibility to the effects of media manipulation is demonstrated by what they do to any newspaper you line their dirt tray with.

Thinking inside the box at its best, I'm thinking.

How in the name of all that's twinkly do we form intelligent, unbiased, objective but above all informed opinions of our own, when so much of what we read is influenced by the editorial leanings of the Fleet Street keyboard thumpers?

Do they tell us what we need to hear, or what they know we'll buy?

Take badgers for instance, (not literally, too hard to swallow...)

Now anything involving wildlife is going to be tricky, and if the creature in question looks like  nature's blueprint for a cuddly toy you're into seriously dodgy territory already.

So, starting with the benchmark of "cute badgers spread bovine TB to lovely tasty cows" I set off in pursuit of some grown up facts and figures;

First port of call was an article by Jacob Rees Mogg, Conservative MP for NE Somerset who set forth the findings of the Chief Scientific Advisor to the Dept. of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (no, not the sort that involves a tumble in the hay with the barmaid from the Pig and Portfolio, the other sort)

Anyhoo, our learned friend (Eton, Oxford) and his senior scientific source put forward a pretty robust case for nipping out in the night and blowing Mr Brock and his stripy chums to kingdom come.

He hoped that 'the urban population will have some sympathy and tolerance for the needs of the rural community' which does make anyone with clean shoes sound like a farmer hating hoodie, but we'll let that one go.

Game, sett and match to them then?

Well, let's try the opposite point of view.

Today of all days, let's go Royal - the RSPCA.

I wasn't sure which way they'd swing on this one, as it's not so much about cruelty per se, but about having a sensible solution to a genuine problem.

If you visit their website they'll give you ten good reasons why creating a badger homage to WW1 in the meadows of dear old Blighty will create nothing more than  futile slaughter and expensive waste.

According to them the actual solution requires a complicated coordination of immunisation, limits on livestock movement, land management and herd isolation/removal from infected areas.

Oh, and putting fences round cowsheds so they can't mingle with the rural riff raff after lights out in the dorm.

So there we have it:

A simple 'blow their heads off and it'll (probably) go away' policy versus a carrier bag full of adjusted behaviour that would take a level of cooperation not seen since we all stopped slagging off the Olympics.

Me? I'm still not sure I've got all the facts before me, so I'll just have to rely on a comfy mix of well intentioned prejudice, guesswork and a smattering of cuddly toy related sentimentality.

Just like in the General Election.

Coincidentally, there is very visible indication that I'm not the only one who thinks this way on a bridge over the M32 into Bristol, which proves my point quite nicely.

I love it when that happens.

PS. For those, like the Somerset MP, who think this is just about rosy cheeked farmers in the shires, think again. Whenever it rains, we are visited by urban badgers who go through the flowerbeds like furry JCB's.
I don't mind, although it's a real bugger having to lock Daisy and Buttercup in the shed until they're done.