Seaweed, the entrails of worms and the hides of oxen.

Experiments with block printing.

The seaweed in the title of this blog is Gracilaria, the Caribbean indigenous variety of seamoss. When soaked and converted to a gell it can be used to thicken the fabric dyes I use for block printing. I am experimenting with incorporating block printed designs to my Bare Minimum fashion lable. The process is centuries old and getting it right is a steep learning curve. 

While my hands are taken up with the task of carving the blocks my mind wanders on the subject of clothing in general and brings me to the "entrails of worms and the hides of oxen". On that score, the following quotation speakes volumns.  

The horse I ride...is his own sempster and weaver and spinner; nay his own bootmaker, jeweler and man-milliner; he bounds free through the valleys, with a perennial rainproof court-suit on his body...nay, the graces have also been considered, and frills and fringes, with gay veriety of colour, are not wanting. While I - good Heaven - have thatched myself over with dead fleeces of sheep, the bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, and the hides of oxen or seals, the felt of furred beasts, and walk abroad a moving Ragscreen, overheaped with shreads and tatters raked from the Charnel-house of Nature, where they would have rotted, to rot on me more slowly. 

From Sartor Resartus by Thomas Carlyle, Scottish essayist, historian and philosopher (1795-1881)

Outdoors in a cold climate I can well believe needing the felt of furred beasts. But in the Caribbean women dress for autumn in New York, and jackets and ties are derigueur for attending Government meetings. Missionary zeal and Colonial hand-me-downs have a lot to answer for.

Freedom from Restraint

The subject of a painting should not be an end in itself, but a point of departure. 

So many painters today, especially those working in watercolour, slavishly copy from photographs. If the medium of watercolour could speak it would surely say: For God's sake set me free.

For thirty years I have been hammering home this message to artists and art students throughout the world by way of my blog posts. For those working from the live model my book "Notes on the Nude" drives home the same message.

The painting I have used to illustrate my point was made there and then from life. The "there" being a hillside between rain showers, and the "then" being less than five minutes from start to finish. Rather than spoiling my painting, the rain aided and abetted it.

I don't expect my painting to garner the "beautiful", "lovely" and "nice" comments, but it honestly speaks of life and it's not "just like a photograph". 

Facebook and the Fine Art of Censorship

Work in progress on a life-size reclining figure.

 

Todays image is just one of thousands that have been deemed as inappropriate for the eyes of Facebook subscribers. Since their inception in the mid 1990's blogs have served as a valuable record of artists' work in progress. But alas, links on Facebook to blogs such as mine are ruled as spam by the administrators and immediately deleted. Appeals on the ground of legitimate art content, fall on deaf ears. 

Why the majority of art societies favour Facebook as their preferred means of communication is beyond me. No organization has done more to censor artistic expression. 

Nothing serves better to bring this message home than this brilliant YouTube video. 

In trying to find ways around this ban I was reminded of Guinness Brewery takeover of Bells Scotch Whisky in 1985. At the time, publication of the slogan "Guinness Is Good For You" was prohibited on health grounds. In order to attract Bell's shareholders, Guinness used the ban to their advantage and took out a full page add in the Times Newspaper. Other than the heading "Message to Bells Shareholders", the page appeared to be completely blank. But on closer inspection, in the smallest type size available, were the words: Guinness Is Good For You.

My attempt to evade the searching eyes of Facebook censors hasn't the subtlety of the Guinness ploy, but it seems to work. The permitted image shown below enables Facebook users to copy the link to this blog.

Larger than life

 

In my book Notes on the Nude, under the heading "A New Visual Experience", I mention that I am forever searching for different ways of presenting my work in the belief that there has to be more to exhibiting paintings than static pictures on walls. If, as been said, my paintings represent a different way of seeing, it follows that there needs to be a different way of viewing

One variation that I have been experimenting with is fast-moving audio-visual presentations of images for the large screen. A watercolour no larger than the page from a newspaper takes on a completely new visual experience when projected to the size of a house wall. My video Body and Soul represents a first step in that direction. 

For a second step I have created a collection of small watercolours, no larger than 4" x 6", specifically for enlarging into 16" x 24" prints. The larger than life effect is dramatic. I give credit to William Shakespeare for inspiring the theme for the paintings. 

Prints of paintings can be viewed and purchased at: https://www.saatchiart.com/antrimstudio

Incidentally, had Shakespeare lived today, rather than 400 years ago, he would most likely be regarded as a persona non grata on Facebook and doubtless would have resorted to blogger for getting his message across. 

Painterly Painters

A clip from a YouTube preview for my book Notes on the Nude

For many artists it's not just my paintings of the nude that shocks but my way of painting. This particularly applies to those watercolourists who seek to achieve a photographic likeness down to the last minute detail. If the paint itself could speak it would say: For God's Sake Set Me Free!

One of the notes in my book Notes on the Nude refers to this dilemma. 

Painterly Painters

My paintings suggest rather than the defined detail. I leave it to you to interpret them as you may. The American painter and writer, Charles Movalli has this to say about those he terms painterly painters.

The painterly painter uses the viewer's experience to give life to the work. Instead of being a passive receiver of information, the viewer becomes a participant…Painterly painters believe that an abbreviated style is best suited to capturing elusive effects. But although they consciously strive to develop a rapid execution, their detractors often criticize this characteristic, dismissing their work as little more than sketches…The painterly painters labour under a disadvantage, since their idea of finish is not that of the general public.

This link takes you to a YouTube preview of my book and this link enables you to preview and purchase.

Notes on the Nude e-book

 

My book Notes on the Nude is now available as an e-book. Click the link.

The book contains 100 high definition illustrations of my paintings and sculptures and the notes express my personal approach to depicting the nude and to working in accord with the model. They are not meant as a course of instruction or an academic thesis. As with my paintings, they were jotted in the heat of the moment and suggest rather than define.

To circumvent the reluctance of publishers when it comes to depicting the nude, the entire production has been done in-house, or more to the point, "in studio". Hence, the book comes directly from me to you from my island of Dominica in the Caribbean. 

I welcome your feedback.

Unlikely bedfellows

Untitled sketch by Roger Burnett

Untitled painting by Tracy Ermin

Although my work and that of Tracy Ermin are unlikely bedfellows - and more especially when it comes to her controversial "Unmade Bed" and other installations. But we do have the freedom of line in common. And freedom of line reflects freedom of thought; and freedom of thought is an essential component of art. 

A shameful thing

Pudendum (plural pudenda)

Definition: The external genital organs, especially the female vulva.

From the Latin: A thing to be ashamed of.

Curiously, what nature devised to attract we consider shameful and visually degrade it to the realms of phonography. This conundrum has led me to the series of paintings that I am currently working on. Perhaps the fleeting suggestive sensuousness of my watercolours can rescue the pudendum from its shameful state and innocently reveal its beauty. 

A faultless recollection

 

A recently discovered photograph of an early watercolour of my wife Denise. 

I can recollect all the paintings that have flowed from my brush over the last sixty years - with the exception of this one. It is an early watercolour of my wife Denise and would have been painted in the early 1990's aboard our boat in the Caribbean but I cannot remember painting it. It's image survives on a faded colour slide. I can only assume that the original sold.

The fortunate buyer, whoever it may be, has a rare paintings that I cannot fault. 

They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel

The opening pictures show Sudanese fashion model Adit Priscilla, before after her claim to fame. In the before picture she could well have modelled for the paintings and sculptures in my series Daughters of the Caribbean Sun. True enough, it would have been the Sedan sun. But no matter, all my models are of African decent. 

To those who keep asking: I have not given up on my Bare Minimum fashion label. It is just that my creative energy is presently taken up with other projects. The unknown young lady in the picture below temps me back. She leaves the world's fashion designers and catwalk models standing.

The devil is in the detail

I've been harping on about the allurement of detail by it's absence since my 2013 post of the same title . There is nothing more dreary than the contrived finish that most people are looking for in a painting.

In my book Notes on the Nude I mention experiments that I am making in projecting details from my paintings onto a screen the size of a house wall. The result is a dramatically new visual experience that has elements of the abstract. In its original form, the detail that illustrates today's post is no larger than a matchbox. The breasts that gave life, have life.

As Dylan Thomas once said in reference to a good poem having the captivation of a motion picture, By God it moves. And so By God, it does.

I am my own most ruthless critic

When it comes to viewing the paintings of aspiring artists you're expected to say either say something nice or say nothing at all. Criticism, especially here in the Caribbean, is perceived as a negative.  

Fortunately, I serve as my own most ruthless critic. And regardless of the shock I may occasionally give you, I also serve as my own most ruthless censor. 

For this post I've avoided the erotic and kept my subject on safe ground; that being the tops of palm trees. The detail shown in the opening image is all that a watercolour should be, and in the closing image all that it should not. The first is confident, the second confused.

In Homage to Egon Schiele and John Running

John Running's photograph of the model Nettie Harris in homage to Egon Schiele.

Close on the heels of my last post, I follow with this haunting photograph by John Running (1939-2018) in homage to Egon Schiele (1890-1918). Nettie Harris, also deserves credit for her remarkable modeling.

I quote from John Running's commentary on his photograph.

Here is one of the most lovely images of Nettie Harris, which says a lot, since dozens of the best photographers have shot her, and she's helped create probably hundreds of photos that will someday be seen as the masterpieces of this time.

It is, of course, the nature of Art History. So much of it is hindsight. Like seeing the work of Egon Schiele. He was a protégé of Gustav Klimt. His work, often self-portraits and women, noted for their twisted bodies. Some say he was a fore-runner of 20th Century Expressionism. Schiele began to explore not only the human form, but also human sexuality. At the time, many found the explicitness of his works disturbing.

Today, the sexuality of the work isn't shocking. Rather, we can see that he was just a pioneer of erotic art. 

It is exactly a century since Egon made his now classic erotic work. This portrait of Nettie, holding a book of his work, is a fitting tribute, that I am sure would thrill Egon. 

At a first glance I would have attributed John Running's photograph to the masterly work of Jan Saudek. My post Weird or not Weird featured Jan Saudek's work.

Incidentally, the painting I featured in my last post is from a collection I have titled Sensuous Suggestions. Alas, my collection is to too sensuous and suggestive for a fine art society that claims to represent the full spectrum of the beauty of the nude.

 

I leave you with one of Egon Schiele's drawings.

Unadorned, unabashed, unappreciated

We are forever demeaning natures natural beauty and then diminishing it still further by what is known as "beautification". When nature is unadorned and unabashed she is regrettably unappreciated. 

My watercolours attempt to record nature's subtleties without favour or shame. They suggest rather than define. I leave you to interpret them as you may.

When the world was young

Relaxing aboard Dan Bowen's yacht at English Harbour after our first Atlantic Crossing.

The above faded photograph was taken soon after we had completed a five week voyage from the Canary Islands to the Caribbean. Dan Bowen, a veteran of many ocean crossings, is on the far left, I am on the far right, our friend Caroline is in the center, with my daughter Di and my wife Norma to each side. 

The painting below dates from those early sea gypsy days.

Down Island Boat at St. Barts.

I have taken the title of today's post from Eartha Kitt's poignant recording of When the World was Young.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBm5DD6DAWo&list=PL_YnYFDhXSMIbp8A7G4LXAesGSuZawBTH&index=6

Fiona and the mists of time.

The village of my childhood on a misty day thirty years ago.

For two days the countryside that surrounds my studio has been lost in mist due to the passage of Tropical Storm Fiona to the north. Thirty years ago I was painting my childhood village veiled in mists that were far from tropical.  

My current project, a mezzanine floor and stairs for a museum, is on hold until the weather improves. My woodwork shop relies on natural light and on most days there is no pleasanter place to work. I have a view of the mountains on one hand and the Caribbean Sea on the other. To that you can add the scent of wood shavings and tropical blossoms. 

So here I am, impatiently waiting for the sun to come out.

By Appointment...well, sort of

Me (center) with the fund raising committee for my lockkeeper sculpture.

As the British monarchy is in the news, let me add my slender links to the royal family. Not least being Prince Charles's contribution that covered the cost of casting my sculpture for the town of Sowerby Bridge. The article that accompanied the above press cutting reads:

The sceptics said that a small Yorkshire mill town would never be able to raise the money to pay for the sculpture - but it did! The money came from all over the place: the dentist, the sweet shop, the bobby on the beat and the old ladies who dipped into their savings. The town's newsagent has a vested interest in the lockkeeper's boot laces: after all, his contribution paid for them. When Prince Charles got wind of what we were doing, he also chipped in handsomely. He didn't sell off his football boots, but someone in Sowerby Bridge did, and the proceeds went towards the Sculpture Fund.

The sculpture went on to win the 2000 National Trust Award for Public Sculpture. From one of the old ladies that dipped into their savings, I received a letter that read:

I don't know much about art, but I do know that your sculpture will always be loved by the people of this town.

Incidentally, Prince Charles (now the King) shares many of my views on art and architecture. The Prince's Foundation School of Traditional Arts stresses the importance of working from live model, and his Regeneration Through Heritage initiative recognizes the merits of architecture linked to the Industrial Revolution.   

Expectations

Annabelle Sleeping

I perhaps have too greater expectations for the work of others, and hence my disappointment in ninety percent of what's out there. Valid criticism is replaced by "say something nice". I am my most stringent critic and only rarely do I meet my own expectations,. Today's painting dates from an halcyon period twenty years ago. It is one that I wish to be remembered by.

Education Through Art

A recent photo of the new British Virgin Island High School which was scheduled for completion in September 2022.

Regardless of the predictable constructional delay, the "new" BVI High School building is already outdated in terms of its ability to accommodate the new concepts that are desperately needed in education.

Actually, the "new concepts" are not all that new. They date back to when Herbert Read published his ground-breaking book "Education Through Art" eighty years ago.

The Caribbean is rich in natural resources but lacking in the one essential human resource that is needed to benefit from this abundance: that is, the ability to think and work creatively.

Research indicates that children are born with 98% the creative potential of genius. However, as they go through life, the figure falls dramatically.  At the age of eight, the percentage has dropped to 32%.  By the time they reach thirteen, peer pressure has brought it down to 10%, and by adulthood, conformity has reduced it to less than 2%.

Given the importance of creativity and the fact that at least 50% of children are creatively, rather than academically inclined, we would benefit if our schools and colleges gave more attention to the subject.

Nor should it be limited to what is perceived art. My work as an engineer demands just as much creative input as does my work as a sculptor and painter.  Creative thinking enhances academic qualifications but it is not necessarily dependent on them.

Apart from a technical block (presumably focused towards motor mechanics) and a small amphitheater, the new building appears to be a warren of regimented classrooms. I see nothing in the plans that caters for the creative arts in general: music, dance, fashion design, architecture, theatre, ceramics, painting, sculpture, carpentry, etc.

To think and work creatively demands courage, vision, initiative, innovation and resourcefulness. It thrives on doing rather than theorizing. Creativity fosters individuality and resists regimentation. Specialization and rote learning hamper the all-embracing aspect of creativity and committees are its death knell.

Perhaps the new school was designed by a committee!

On my own terms

A page from my book Notes on the Nude

My book Notes on the Nude has languished in the side bar of this blog for almost four years. Three years ago, I promised that I was working on it.  But then everything ground to a halt due to social media's horror of nakedness. All publishers have fought shy of the content, which is nothing more shocking than the page that illustrates this post. 

But enough is enough, and rather than modify the book to suit their prudish community guidelines, I will publish it on my own terms as an in house eBook. This makes sense in that the followers of this blog are scattered throughout the world. Many of them are art students and the cost of a hard copy would be beyond their means. Furthermore, since the 2017 hurricane, we have had no postal service from my island in the Caribbean - other than the prohibitive cost of sending by courier. 

Once again, I'm working on it. 

O muse. wherefore art thou.

Figures, palms and ruins, Caneel Bay, St John, 1989. 

The ravages of time has diminished the ebullience of the opening watercolour, but the lyrical quality that remains can be directly attributed to the influence of my muse. 

In an article about the role of the artist's muse, Germaine Greer writes:

A muse is anything but a paid model. The muse in her purest aspect is the feminine part of the male artist, with which he must have intercourse if he is to bring into being a new work. She is the anima to his animus, except that, in a reversal of gender roles, she penetrates or inspires him and he gestates and brings forth, from the womb of the mind...Artists have painted their wives over and over again, but their wives were their subjects rather than their muses.

At its best, the relationship between the artist and his muse is a platonic love affair. It is not dependent intellectual understanding, nor of conscious influence. The muse has no desire to create of her own accord. She displays none of the censoring influence of those who want to create but can't. She is that compassionate smile that leads the artist's unsuspecting heart on a merry chase.

O muse. wherefore art thou.

Missing but not forgotten

Alice. Seated with head resting on hands.

While searching through hundreds of colour slides and prints I found faded photographs of these two drawings from my 1989 BVI exhibition "A Portrait of Alice". The exhibition served to highlight the natural beauty of the Afro-Caribbean woman - Alice my model and assistant was from the island of St. Vincent. None of the drawings sold, and all but these two remain in my collection. The two that are missing but not forgotten, were given as gifts; one to Alice, and one to the manager of the hotel that bravely sponsored the exhibition.

The year that I worked with Alice marked a turning point in my work; from the popularity of palm fringed beaches to the beauty and profundity of the human form. 

Alice. Seated with hands resting on back of chair.

Alice. Portrait Bust.

My portrait bust of Alice was also included in the exhibition and has pride and place in my studio.

Beauty that goes abegging

 

Portrait, Denise 1992

After highlighting the depths of depravity in my last post, as witnessed in images of the British Virgin Island's August Festival, I now substitute the gross, course and hideous with this early portrait of my wife Denise. 

It's my attempt to put the record straight and reclaim beauty that goes abegging. 

Differentiating between nude and lewd

British Virgin Island August Festival Celebrations (Photo Credit BVI News Online)

My comments on differentiating between nude and lewd were first posted on this blog over four years ago. Nothing has changed. Whereas social media has no problem with the opening picture, they find the following photograph of work in progress on my life-size sculpture of the reclining nude violates their community guidelines.

 

Upon impossibility

 

As with Andrew Marvell's poem The Definition of Love, capturing the model as she turns from one position to another, verges upon impossibility. 

It has taken me a lifetime to say what I have to say in that never to be repeated split second with the minimum of lines and washes.

I can't remember which of my models was the subject of the painting that illustrates this post and my models are usually equally at a lose in identifying themselves in my work. But that in itself speaks of the universal and timeless beauty of the nude. Andrew Marvell's poem dates from the 17th century; my painting from the 21st.

The essence of romance

 Annabelle reclining.

The essence of romance is uncertainty. (Oscar Wilde)

And that relates to the uncertainty of painting from the live model. The chances of both model and artist simultaneously reaching a creative high are a thousand to one. But when it happens nothing can compare. In all the years that Annabelle was my model, she never once failed to inspire. 

Whereas the last painting on my previous post was a failure, my painting of Annabelle goes someway towards capturing the profound beauty of the nude.

Frustrated first sittings

The model's nervousness at her first sitting.

Charcoal on faded newsprint (17" x 13")

All first sittings are memorable, some for the promise of inspirational sessions to come and others for shear frustration. Recently, I have had more than my fair share of the latter. 

A first sitting lasts for one hour but only 15 minutes of that time is spent painting or sketching from the model. The remainder is spent explaining how I work with a model and the message that I hope to convey through my paintings. 

The opening drawing is of a young lady I had known for years, first as a student at my life classes. I was surprised when she expressed an interest in modelling. At my classes she had always appeared embarrassed at even viewing the nude figure. Other than that, she had all the attributes I need in a model: a lithe figure and natural charms. But on the day she arrived for her first sitting nervousness had crept in and although I did manage the one brief sketch, it was clear that modelling was definitely not her forte. 

At my most recent attempt at painting a first sitting, it was not the model's nerves but the frustration of cancellations and a late arrival that threw me. My muse went out of the door and laughed at my painful attempt to capture the subtleties of the nude. The model also laughed, she thought my painting was an hilarious joke. 

The painting the model thought was an hilarious joke. Watercolour (15" x 21")

Perhaps in her mind my model was echoing Yvette Guilbert’s response to a painting Toulouse-Lautrec had made of the cabaret performer: “You horrible little man”. But maybe I should be flattered that my work excited ridicule and hilarity, for after all this was the fate of the artists from past that I admire. 

Yvette Guilbert by Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901)

First sittings

Alice. 1st Sitting 1989

I could mount an entire exhibition of the sketches and paintings I've made of my models at their first sitting. The first sitting is the artist's first perception of the model and the model's first perception of the artist. First impressions are important, and for that reason I spend more time preparing for first sittings than I do for regular sittings. 

Alice's first sitting led to her working as my studio assistant for a year. That year marked a turning point. Throughout the 1980's my work had been at an impasse. With Alice's gentle support I was able to create anew.  

The only first sittings that disappoint are the ones where the model fails to show up, as happened to me yesterday.

When viewed through a different lens

 

Today's picture is the first painting that I've photographed with my "new" camera. I say "new" whereas actually it's a fifteen year old Olympus E -500 SLR. It has interchangeable lenses and a host of settings that I have yet to get used to. 

The background to my figure paintings is the white of the watercolour paper, and this is something that gives digital cameras a problem. Fortunately the Olympus E -500 SLR has the means of getting around this - when I've figured out how to set its sophisticated "white balance" features.  

With lenses and accessories, it is not the camera you would want to carry on a twenty-mile hike - I took my son along to help me carry it home from the shipping company - but on a tripod in the studio it's size and weight is not a problem. 

Since writing this post I've been able to delve deeper into the camera's 216 page Users Manual. The picture below is of a painting from eight years ago. It has been restored since suffering water damage in the hurricane. I photographed today without having to remove it from its frame. The challenge it to avoid reflections.

Jessica reading

 

My Olympus E - 500 SLR

Since you left...

The footpath that led from Doty to Wind Hill before it was blasted and bulldozed.

Soon after I left the British Virgin Islands in 1995 I had a call from an island friend begging me to return with the words: Since you left the government think they can get away with anything! She was referring to my efforts to preserve the island's intrinsic identity. 

Those efforts came to my mind yesterday when the editor of the island's newspapers sent me a copy of one of my many "Letters to the Editor" that they published over thirty years ago.

My letter was headed "Lamentations" and it read as follows:

On the last day of 1988 it was my miserable task to view the remains of a loved one. Her innocent beauty was the victim of a cruel crime. The features that I had known so well were mangled and mutilated beyond recognition. I speak of the footpath that led from Doty to Windy Hill – the footpath that has recently been blasted and bulldozed into a road.

I was not told of her impending doom, although I understand it had been premeditated for years. And after all, I had no legal right to her: she did not belong to me. My status was simply that of an illicit lover, and on quite afternoons we enjoyed our secret affair together.

But those to whom she was vowed did not cherish her. Her charms were lost on them, even though their very ancestors had labouriously fashioned her beauty. Did they know, or care, about the unique paved section, about the ruins at Arundel, about her flora and fauna?

But don’t mistake my lament. People should have the right to access their land. The concept of freehold is, to me, as inviolable as the concept of free speech. It must be so. In our economy, taxis and tourists have to be catered for. I am no more in favour of turning the whole island into a National Park, than I am bent on seeing it smothered in concrete. But oh, for some sensitivity and long-term planning to temper our materialistic short-term gains.  Alas, these virtues seem deplorably absent.

Land ripe for development! What will you bid? Thirty years ago, my (ex)wife’s grandfather sold his best land at Greenbank for $17.14 an acre. He laughed because he thought he’d done well on the deal. At today’s price an acre of land, with road access, above Ballast Bay could well fetch $250.000*. But the deal would be no better.

Your grandchildren my inherit the earth and fly to the moon – a miserable place by all accounts – but if they cannot savour the sweet and simple delights of the walk from Doty to Windy Hill, they will have profited nothing. They will be that much impoverished.

Some years ago, Sheila Hyndman, a young Virgin Islander, eloquently expressed her doubts for the future of these islands. I quote from her poem:

They will come with tools and machines.

            They will bring to light your secret places,

            They will demand your mysteries.

            They will destroy, build up.

            They will dilute your treasures,

            And rob you of your chastity.

            They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel.

*I have adjusted this figure to indicate the 2022 value. 

From father, to daughter, to grandson

Zeke

My daughters are intent on keeping the family image alive long after my time. Here is my daughter Trina, her partner Gary and my latest grandson Zeke. Trina tells me that he is already showing signs of being a very practical young man and one worthy to follow in his grandfather's footsteps. 

Here's Trina when she was not much older than Zeke.

The picture below is from our early days in Dominica. Trina is on the right, Tania on the left and my son Tristan in the middle. Tristan is now a strapping twenty year old. He is my helper in the workshop and the solver of all my computer problems. 

Paradise Lost

 

Puerto Rican tourists at a Christmas in July promotion in the British Virgin Islands.

Photo Credit Caribbean Journal.

I submitted the commentary below to a BVI news site two weeks ago. As yet, it has not been acknowledged or published. However, the same news site published the above photograph today in relation to an event that is currently being promoted. I am left to wonder how the promotion reflects the image of the BVI being "One of Nature's Little Secrets".

Paradise Lost

In 1975, while sailing north through the Caribbean, stormy weather caused me to take shelter in the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage off Road Town was exposed and uncomfortable and I was told of a sheltered cove a few miles along the coast. Its entrance was narrow but once inside the surrounding reef offered perfect protection. My intention was to continue on my way as soon as the weather improved.

The weather did improve but I stayed on, and that idyllic cove became my home port for the next twenty years.

In the BVI much is made about Belonger Status. However, Somerset Maugham in his book “The Moon and Sixpence” speaks about a deeper sense of belonging: 

Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth.

I collected the material for my book “Virgin Island Sketches” during the early years of my stay. It celebrates the way of life of the islanders and my sketches now serve as a reminder of those halcyon times past.  

While I was busy preserving scenes from the past, Virgin Island poet Sheila Hyndman (1958-1991) was prophesizing the future.

            They will come with tools and machines.

            They will bring to light your secret places,

            They will demand your mysteries.

            They will destroy, build up.

            They will dilute your treasures,

            And rob you of your chastity.

            They will adorn you like ancient Jezebel.

‘Till all that’s left of your true self

Will be an old and forgotten poem

Like mine.

I shared Sheila’s love of her homeland and in the years that followed I contributed my own work to that end.

But as the 1980’s progressed I found it increasingly difficult to relate the past to the future. The maxim “Yes, We’re Different” was being cast aside in favour of being the same as everywhere else. I began to realize that much of the development taking place was for the benefit of foreign entities. It had begun with the Wickams Cay reclamation project in the 1960’s and more recently, financial services and mass tourism. Although the islands are undoubtedly financially better off than when I first knew them, in the process of acquiring that transient wealth, Virgin Islanders have lost more than they gained.

My disillusionment of what was perceived as progress became all the more acute in the year that I travelled the region in search of material for my book “Caribbean Sketches”. As with my earlier book, I was working against the clock in attempting to capture each island before it degenerated into being the same as everywhere else. Cruise ship passengers step ashore to the same spurious scene as at every other port of call. We tend to forget that the individuality of places reflects the individuality of ourselves.

As my journey through the region progressed, I found that the fundamental problem faced by Caribbean small island states was not one of self-governance, but one of self-sufficiency. Even on islands that have claimed independence and that are rich in natural resources, the islanders themselves have not benefitted. Rather than farming the land, the present generation prefer to sit at a desk or serve tourists. To finance an alien lifestyle, their governments sell passports to foreigners and become deeply beholden to the People’s Republic of China. In real terms, these islands are less independent now than they were a hundred years ago.  

Self-sufficiency for small island states relates to lifestyle expectations. Three generations ago hard work was the order of the day and the islanders lived within their means. Since then, there has been a hankering for a westernized lifestyle and a reliance of wealth generated by foreign economies.

The fundamental challenge at this point in time is to seriously question the direction that the Virgin Islands and the region in general has taken. We need to re-evaluate the past in order to determine if what was originally perceived as "development" has in fact been in the best long-term interest of the islanders.

To correct the mistakes of the past and to start all over again verges on the impossible. In more ways than one, the past is set in concrete - and concrete is a difficult material to break down. Nevertheless, a re-assessment of values is a necessary first step towards rediscovering a paradise lost.

For otherwise, as Sheila wrote: “…all that’s left of your true self will be an old and forgotten poem like mine.”