A market pie in the sky…

The recent Burnett brother’s theme on markets set me thinking about plan that I devised for the West Yorkshire town of Sowerby Bridge some years ago.  The linier town centre is blighted by a road, along which passes every truck in the North of England.  Over the years various by-pass schemes fell through, the most recent of which was being discussed one day as I queued at the Post Office.   The lady ahead of me chipped in with her six pennyworth, “Nay love, if they can’t move the road, why the heck don’t we move the town?”

Accustomed as I am to moving mountains, her remark fell on fertile ground.  It tied in beautifully with a government regeneration plan which, according to a brief from the Deputy Prime Minister, had to be “initiative led, not funding fed”. 

As I developed the idea of moving the town 300 years to the south (incidentally, it was wonderful press for slow news days) one thing led to another.  I gained the potential of a quarter mile river frontage and it was along that strip of derelict land that I proposed an indoor market to end all markets.  It took the form of a five-storey glass fronted promenade - think on the lines of a linier Crystal Palace - with shops and stall vendors at ground level and balconied restaurants, offices and residential accommodation on the floors above.   My imagination ran riot: trees and exotic plants, a small theatre, a bandstand, some pubs and a church.  Here, within easy reach of the cities of Leeds and Manchester, would be a vibrant living, working and recreational space, summer and winter alike. 

Here are the preliminary drawings for my market “pie in the sky”.

Now dear brother, if you can come up with a compilation photograph to illustrate my scheme, you’ve won!  

Been there, done that…

A couple of days ago my brother featured a photograph of Halifax indoor market (See http://newsfromnowhere1948.blogspot.com/) a glorious listed building that is equal to a couple of cathedrals. 

Not to be out done, here are a couple of sketches I made of the market.  The first is from the very same vantage point as my brother’s photograph and the second, shows the market’s grandiose entrance arcade.  As my regular followers know, I have a great love for markets - and all the more so when they housed within fine buildings. 



Fire engines and an Institute for the Arts…

Yesterday I attended a meeting to discuss the formation of an Institute for the Arts and I spent today machining parts for one of the island’s fire engines.  In this day and age, I doubt if work can be more varied than that. 

A few generations ago, a craftsman turned his hand to all manner of things.  My grandfather was just as much at home repairing clocks and fairground traction engines as he was cleaning windows.  I could sense his ghost – and that of my father - looking over my shoulder as I successfully completed a very tricky piece of machining to an accuracy of 1/10^th the diameter of a human hair.  In turn, I told my son Tristan, you’d better watch carefully, you might never see the likes of this again.  Maybe one day, all three of us will be looking over his shoulder.

Incidentally, in today’s picture is one of my grandfather’s micrometers.  It’s a hundred years old and still in daily use.  Also, my father’s depth gauge - now going on eighty.  Both instruments bear their initials.   

These things are sent to try us…

When struggling with some intractable mechanical problem my father used to say, “These things are sent to try us.”  His words came to mind today after assembling a complicated gearbox many times over because nothing went together as it should. 

At sea, it can be equally frustrating when squalls demand one sail change after another.  After three days and three nights of sail changing, single-handed sailor Dan Bowen's nicely summed it up with the words, “Rog, that sail’s been up and down like a pair of whore’s drawers!”

And why did the gearbox give me problems…at the end of the day I found that the manufacturer had sent the wrong instruction manual!

With a dead camera battery there’s no picture of the gear box.  This sketch of a tramcar is about as close as I can get to something mechanical. 

Models and life-long friends…

Without exception, all of my models have become life-long friends.  Just as they came to my aid when I desperately needed them, I try to repay their help when ever I can.  When we left England for Dominica I hung onto my Volvo Estate car until the very last day.  Then, just before leaving for the airport, I telephoned Dave (who didn't have a car, but for months had faithfully modelled for my sculpture of the lockkeeper) to tell him I’d made him a present of the car.  

When my models need a reference for a job, they usually call on me.  I’m not sure how being an artist’s model equips you for the army, but with somewhere within the womens’ fighting forces, thanks to a glowing reference, there’s one of my models!

I still owe Ganeen (the model for one of my controversial NHS figures – see diary entry for August 22nd) the promised favour that one day, when her figure is cast in bronze, she’ll have a copy.  Sorry Ganeen but I’m still waiting for a rich buyer.  In the meantime, here is your plaster master cast, safe in my studio.  What’s more, it’s warmer here so you don’t need that circle of blow heaters!



Have you a big one mister…

At a meeting tomorrow, I will be presenting some of my ideas on market places in general and street markets in particular.  Since my childhood days, markets have always fascinated me and over the years, I have done my fair share selling from the pavement.  I enjoy the challenge of making a sale against all odds.  Non-stop patter and a ready quip are a stallholder’s best bait. 

To that end, no quip could beat the wry look a stallholder gave my mother when, looking over small to medium size tins of brown boot polish, she asked: “Have you a big one mister!”

Today’s sketch is of a street vendor in Santa Domingo selling freshly squeezed orange juice from his tricycle. 

A near perfect cast…

The polymer plaster cast of the bas-relief that I began months ago finally emerged from its wax mould today.  Breaking a mould to reveal the cast is always a nerve-racking process.  If there is a significant flaw, all is lost.  Thankfully, the cast was near perfect. 

Photographing the cast with a dud camera battery demanded the speed of a ten-second sketch.  From charger, to camera, to pressing the shutter – just a matter of seconds before the battery dies on me.

Sketch away…

In recent weeks, these diary pages have neglected my first love – the figure – and more especially, the figurative sketch.  I believe it was Degas, who named one of his models “Sketch Away” in recognition of the inspirational input she gave to his work.  Such is the gift of an inspired model.  This sketch goes back to the early heady days sketching a young lady from Grenada who became both my wife and model. 

Note:  For the time being, I will have to resort to digging in my photographic archives while my digital camera awaits a replacement battery pack, courtesy of my brother in England. 

Faded photographs…

Those of you who are regular follower of my brother’s “belles-blogs”
http://newsfromnowhere1948.blogspot.com/
will know that his thread of old photographs titled, Sepia Saturday is coming up to its 100^th entry. 

Many of the posts originate from the Burnett family albums and here and there, you will find images of a much younger me.  However, there is one photograph that brother does not have.  It is hand-tinted rather than sepia, but I believe it qualifies none the less.  Here is me again, at about the age of two. 

I can remember catching the tram to have the photograph taken in the studio of Brown Muff’s department store, Bradford - once known as the “Harrods of the North”.  I can also remember nervously chewing the collar of the coat I was wearing.  It tasted good!

Incidentally, from what I can make out, the pencil inscription on the mount is an abbreviation of “Brown Muff’s Studio”. 

My first one man show…

There’s a score of tales to tell about my first one man show.  How do I select and where do I begin? 

The year was 1971 and the place, Kings Lynn, Norfolk.  I had intended the show to be a low-key fringe event at the Kings Lynn Arts Festival.  However, a week before the show opened the key signature changed from minor to major. 

Being arrested for a good cause helped.  My crime…I pasted a protest sticker over the council’s notice of closure for one of the town’s historic alleyways.  This brought public attention the series of thirty paintings I had made of the town’s rich historical heritage – including a painting of the threatened alleyway.  The show opened at 10.00 on the Saturday morning and by mid-day ninety per cent of the paintings had sold!    

Over the remaining ten days of the exhibition, there was a constant stream of visitors.  By midweek, I was getting suspicious of two smartly dressed fellows that repeatedly made the rounds.  Just before the weekend, they revealed their crested identity cards.  They were checking out the festival in readiness for a visit of the Queen Mother.  Out of all that was on offer, they thought my exhibition would be right up her street. 

Alas, there was no way that the festival organisers were going to let an upshot artist on the fringe steal the limelight and I had to wait another thirty years for my Royal Patronage.  But that’s another story.  For now, here’s the exhibition poster and a photo of a photo of one of the paintings.

The glitter of romance as seen from afar…

It was through the early morning mist, and from a couple of miles offshore, that I first set eyes on the Portuguese city of Porto.  The scene more than compensated for a worrisome night spent dodging fishing boats and I vowed that one day I would visit the city by land rather than see it in passing from the deck of a sailing boat. 

It was a vow that I kept twenty-years later.  This sketch is one of many that I made of the city.  But you know what…all the city squares, all the fine buildings and all the back alleys put together could not compete with the glitter of romance that I saw from afar.



Bricks and mortar…

When painting scenes from my native West Riding of Yorkshire, I have learnt that possession is nine-tenths the likelihood of finding a buyer.   In other words, my fellow countrymen like to buy what’s theirs.  If it’s a house it has to be their house; a field, their field.  One of my best paintings of Shibden Valley - the vale of my youth – would have been bought by the owner of the farmhouse in the middle distance, were it not for the fact that the field in the foreground was his neighbours, not his!

Likewise, when I offered a distinguished patron of the arts the first choice from a collection of paintings of his home town, he selected a mediocre sketch of his own property.   The painting shown below, one of the best in the collection, also shows his property.  However, in this painting, his building is an indiscernible one-tenth wash in the background and hence, it didn’t make a sale. 

Falling off the top of Blackpool Tower…

To continue from where I left off yesterday:

My brother has always claimed, that if I fell off the top of Blackpool Tower I’d land on my feet.  Yesterday, my walk down to the river certainly substantiated his theory. At the same time cancelled out what must surely be the last of my nine lives. 

Just before setting off I decided to check if any messages had come through for me.  There was just one and it only took a few seconds to read.   It wished me a pleasant day and ended with the words “take care”.  With those good wishes i went on my way.  Just as I reached my favourite stretch of riverbank, a huge tree fell without warning and its trunk crashed on very spot where I was about to sit down. 

If I have not taken those few seconds to read my “take care” message; I would now be sculpting a couple of angels for either side of the heavenly gates! 

Even for me, that was enough excitement for one day.  I climb back up the hill and with shaking hands set to work on completing the mould for my bas relief.  Yes, finally I’m back to my art work. 

I took today’s picture just after I had removed the clay from the wax mould that I had earlier made from the relief.

Why me…

I should have posted this diary page yesterday but instead my time was spent removing hundreds of spam messages from my email In Box.   According to my brother, “It sounds as if you are suffering from what is called spoofing - spam is being sent out using your e-mail address as a return address.”  According to Cable & Wireless (my email service provider) we don’t often experience it in the Caribbean. 

To that, I'm tempted to say - as one of my West Indian friends said when, at a crowded cricket test match, a bird flow over and shit on him, WHY ME! 

By special request, here is a picture of my three-legged chair Mark II.  If you remember, Mk I was washed away in the floods.  I made it from odds and ends of various Dominican hard woods – hence its coat of many colours.  Yesterday afternoon, after taking this picture, I set out to carry down to the riverside… and there I came closer to meeting my maker than I have ever done in fifty years of sailing the high seas.  But I’ll save that thrilling instalment for another day!

Creole Day…

Yesterday was Creole Day here in Dominica.  It is a day when, to celebrate Independence, the whole island turns out in National Dress.  Here is the parade in the capital Roseau.  Also, our oldest daughter Tania (19) and our son Tristan (9) doing their bit. 

I promise, next year I’ll put a madras band around my best hat.

 Photo Credit DNO

Romance…

Early this month, legendary Master Mariner and owner of the Brigantine Romance, Arthur Kimberly, died at the age of 89. 

I was first met Art Kimberly while at anchor in Road Harbour, British Virgin Islands, in the 1980’s.  His ship was anchored close to my gaff cutter Born Free.  Capt. Kimberly slowly rowed around my vessel and cast a critical eye over her. 

On completing his circuit he hailed me with the words, “Who designed her?”   
Nervously I replied, “I did”. 

He made a second circuit and asked, “Who built her?” 

With trepidation I answered, “I did”. 

He scrutinised my vessel all the more critically on his third circuit and asked, “Who rigged her?”  Apologetically I answered, “I did”. 

His parting words were, “My God, she’s beautiful!”

Soon afterwards I learnt that Romance was for sale.  She was a ship I was prepared to give everything I possessed for, including my right arm and the shirt off my back.  I asked my good sailing friend Fritz Seyfarth, to come and look over her with me.  Fritz, normally more romantically inclined than even I, brought me to my senses with the words, “Roger, she’s a mistress that neither of us can afford.”

I painted a picture of her when she was hauled out for repairs.  It sold, like the ship, to her new owner.  Sadly, I don’t have a copy but here’s her photograph.

                                Wrap me up in my oilskins and jumper

                                No more on the docks I'll be seen

                               Just tell me old shipmates

                               I'm taking a trip mates

                               I'll see you someday in Fiddler's Green 

Football isn’t life and death…

Simon Barnes, chief sports writer for the Times Newspaper, began one of his commentaries with the words, “Football isn’t life and death - it’s more important than that!”

Our nineteen-year-old daughter Tania, a member of the Dominica women’s football team, would certainly agree.  If interests are inherited, she must have picked that one up from her mother or grandfather, certainly not from me.  I can proudly boast that I have never been to a football match in my life.

On the other hand, Tania and I share a love for poetry.  Maybe she picked that up from me, but where did I pick it up?  Apart from the rhyme schemes of Toby Twirl, the only poem my father taught me was Rudyard Kipling’s If.  I can still remember every line and today these particular lines came to mind:

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools…

The reason being, I was making a replacement chair for the one washed away by the floods a few weeks ago.  So, washed away rather than broken and tools as sharp and true as ever.  Nevertheless, it hurts to loose something that you have given loving care to. 

Here are the chair parts, in an assortment of local hardwoods, ready for the spokeshave and lathe.

A beard and bold ink lines…

Around the world there must be thousands of photographs, taken by onlookers, of me painting.  Some of them will go back to my time on the pavements of France and others to my early days in the Caribbean.  At the end of the day, I go home with the painting and someone unknown to me goes home with the photograph.  

The exceptions are photographs taken by members of my own family and in particular, those taken by my brother, an exceptionally talented photographer. You will find examples of his work at http://newsfromnowhere1948.blogspot.com/  

This particular faded photograph dates from 1972 and was taken when my studio was based in Southern Ireland.  The painting, as shown below, is still in my collection.  Since then, the beard has gone along with the bold ink lines, both distinctive features of me and my work in those far off days.



Patina with use…

The dictionary defines patina as, a surface appearance of something grown beautiful, especially with age or use. 

Bronze casts are given an instant patina at the foundry by the application of chemicals.   This gives them a head start in terms of aging.  However, patina with use cannot be easily achieved by artificial means.  Furthermore, patina with use is not always considered advantageous. 

In the entrance to Leeds City Art Gallery there is (or was) a beautiful life-size reclining female nude figure.  She’s been around for about a century and her black patina has worn thin where thousands of hands have lovingly caressed her form.   Thus, her nipples glow with the warmth of yellowed bronze.  Some years ago, there was a move afoot to have her re-patinated in order to obliterate this assault on her person.  I strongly objected, as I considered that the figure had grown more beautiful with use.

Given my frequent clashes with the Leeds Henry Moore Institute, I am honoured that they keep me on their mailing list.  Their most recent on-line newsletter is a picture showing the surface texture of Henry Moore’s Knife Edge: Two Piece.  A sculpture that is sited outside the Houses of Parliament.  On closer inspection I realised that the “patina of age” was, in this case, the work of many pen-knife incisions over the years. 

Dare I say that I think it adds the work? 

Drat, I’m sure that my name has just been deleted from their mailing list!

Conformity vs. Individualism…

            They’re all made out of tick tacky

            And they all look the same…

So sang Pete Seeger at about the time when I decided to try my luck as an artist on the pavements of France.  Looking back over the years since then, the memories I cherish are the individuals I met along the way.  Indeed, it seems I have made a point of meeting up with nothing but individuals.  The doctors and lawyers, and business executives didn’t move in my circles.

One such loveable individual came to mind today when it was suggested that we might get copies of National Trail Guide Book shipped  to Dominica at a cheaper rate if we consolidate the packages with other cargoes.

This is exactly what my dear departed friend Fritz Seyforth had in mind when, in order to ship down copies of his book Tales of the Caribbean, he arranged to share a container with a local supermarket.  I remember driving Fritz down to the dock where we waited for the container to be off-loaded.   Unfortunately, his good deal had a slight flaw: the books had been loaded into a refrigerated container.  Fritz rightly claimed to be the only author in the world selling frozen books!

On another occasion, Fritz helped me out of a difficult situation.  I always tell those who buy my paintings that, if they change their mind, send it back and I’ll give a full refund.  It’s only happened once, and that was in the Bahamas way back in the 1970’s.  I carried the offending letter to Fritz.  He put it back in its envelop and rooted in a draw for what he called his “termination stamp”.  After inking and applying, the envelop then read, “Deceased Return to Sender”.

Here’s a sketch I made of Fritz, long ago and far away.

Alas, no decorative cartouche…

Since four o’clock this morning, I’ve been working on the maps for the National Trail Guide.  The job was made all the more difficult because the map I was using for reference was to a different scale.  As I could not get it scanned and enlarged electronically until Tuesday, I set about doing it by hand the hard way – grid square by grid square. 

Maybe the French mapmaker, who made this map of the neighbouring island of Martinique in 1732, looked down on my labours with a wry smile.  After all, he had no electronic aids either.  The hand coloured copper plate engraving puts today’s computer generated maps to shame.  Alas, there will be no decorative cartouche or compass rose embellishments on my trail maps.

Love…

Forget the prestigious awards, the accolade I cherish above all others is when someone says they “love” my work.  I find the simpler the words, the more sincere the meaning.  I am all the more touched when the message comes from someone not necessarily schooled in the arts.

Like the old lady who sent me a letter on flowery notepaper soon after the unveiling of my figures for Sowerby Bridge saying…Your sculpture will always be loved by the people of this town.

A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from one of my life class students saying…Don’t give up, your classes make life so much more bearable.

And, just yesterday a text message to say…Thank you so much. I love the painting, I love it!

I suppose, like the poet Robert Service, I’m just a lowbrow and hence attracted to his poem:

To show you how lowbrow I am,

I’ll readily admit,

When reading Mary and her Lamb,

I wish I’d written it.

Likewise, the simpler the sketch the more profound the meaning…like this one.

Ten years ago in the pouring rain…

Ten years ago in the pouring rain my bronze figures for the city of Leeds arrived from the foundry.  By the time they were off loaded and hoisted in position, I was wet through to the skin.  Moreover, Leeds rain is cold rain, not like the warm showers that fall on Dominica. 

The look of anxiety on my face reflects the tension that accompanies this final moment of truth.  Up to then, the figures had only been seen by a select few, either in the confines of my studio or amongst the clutter of the foundry floor.  Now they are out in the open and exposed to the gaze to their rightful owners – the man, woman and child in the street.

Against all odds…

A week ago, I mentioned the impossibility of keeping a two-year-old still.  Well, against all odds, here she is sat (for two seconds) on her mother’s knee. 

In my mind's eye, this is the first step towards a sculpture on the same theme: the heads of mother and child nestled together.  For that step, if it ever materialises, there will be no need for my sitter to stay still…well, at least not for more than two seconds.  As a sculptor, I can work from a glance and a measurement at a time.  The only thing is - it takes time.

Thank you Jillian and Jaylah, hope you enjoy your portrait.



The saws in my life…

Here’s the collection of panel saws, hand saws, rip saws and tenon saws that have served me well for over half a century.  They have built boats, made furniture and restored buildings.

Two of them (5 & 6 counting from left to right) date back to the 1930’s and were handed down to me a few years ago. 

The second saw from the left was one that I bought out my pocket money while still at school.  It is still in daily use.  

Number 4 and the tenon saw on the far right been around almost as long.  They have weathered two Atlantic crossings, made repairs after numerous storms at sea and three hurricanes on land. 

Saws 3 and 7 date from the 1970’s and were bought to ease the work load of some of the older members of my crew - although the old timers are still going strong.

Most recent, is the tenon saw on the left that I ordered from Spear & Jackson just before leaving England.  It was reputed to be the finest in their range.  But when it arrived, my heart sank.  Its clumsy handle was that of a log saw rather than that of a saw intended for the most delicate and precise work.  When I questioned this, the makers told me that EU regulations stipulate that the users of all saws must wear work gloves!  The handle you see in the picture is one that I made – to fit the bare palm of my hand.

Most saws made today are throwaway things.  So as you might guess, I’m keeping a tight hold my mine…we still have a lot to work to do.

Tearing my hair out…

Today’s picture is of me tearing my hair out at a recent National Trail team meeting.  As these days I can only tear my hair out figuratively, my facial expression suggests that, in order to get my point across, I’ve taken up weeping and wailing instead.

Regardless of an artist’s failing to capture a likeness, the painted or sculpted portrait is kinder to the subject than the flick of the camera shutter.  Take for example my wife and model Denise.  She hates being photographed, but has no qualms about modelling.

Yell at me with colour…

That’s the advice Charles Hawthorne* gave to his students when they worked in water colour. 

It seems that I was intent on heeding the master’s advice when I made this sketch of seagrapes on a beach in the Virgin Islands.  Washes that seem almost too bold when first thrown onto the page appear insipid when dry.  It is necessary to apply more colour than you dare…then, add some more.  

*Charles Hawthorn Hawthorne On Painting

Impossibilities…

In his poem Freedom and Love Thomas Campbell lists the following impossibilities:

            Bind the sea to slumber stilly,

            Bind its odour to the lily,

            Bind the aspen ne’er to quiver,

            Then, bind love to last forever.

Between aspen and love, I might add:

Bind a two-year-old to sit still for two seconds.

This is what Jillian, the mother of Jaylah, my two-year-old sitter, Denise and I collectively failed to do this afternoon.  I can hear my life drawing students saying, “that’ll teach him”….he’s always telling us that you can’t expect the model to sit still!

I once demonstrated how draw from life in ten seconds.  Here’s how to do it in less than two!

Dipping my pen in a bottle of Scotch…

Eight years ago, for the closing chapter of a book about the regeneration of five towns in the North of England, the lead consultant asked me to dip my pen in a bottle of Scotch and come up with something lyrical. 

That I did, and I now need to come up with something equally lyrical to entice walkers from around the world to visit Dominica and sample what is surely one of the world’s premier trails.  This time around, I’ll dip my pen in a bottle of pure cane juice rum: the kind of intoxicating spirit that would have been brewed at the trail-side sugar works shown in today’s picture one hundred and fifty years ago.   

The day that the rains came down…

Yesterday, parts of Dominica (in particular our part) had the highest rainfall in living memory.  Our loss was limited to the water pipe intake that leads from the river and the three-legged chair that I made some months ago (See diary entry for June 1^st).  The flood swept both of them away.  As can be seen in today’s picture, a village down river from us did not fair as well.  

We’ve only just had electricity restored, so busy catching up on many things. 

Photo Credit DNO

The Call Of The Wild…

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on…?

So asked Robert Service in his poem The Call Of The Wild. 

How I wish I was gazing on the naked grandeur of Dominica’s Waitukubuli National Trail rather than spending my days cooped up in the studio writing about it.   Alas, in the time I have available for putting together the guidebook for the trail, there’s no time for walking. 

Working from notes made by others – as I’m having to do - is like trying to paint a picture from a photograph.  I need to smell, see and feel the real thing in all weathers from beginning to end.  To fuel my frustration I am constantly being seduced by the beautiful 2.5” to the mile OS maps that cover every inch of the trail. 

Today’s picture shows a small segment of the trail on one such map.  The trail is the broken green line highlighted in yellow.  As you can see, at this point the trail splits into two alternative routes.  The contours and romantic place names have me spell bound.  In my imagination at least, I’m out there, picking my way over a boulder strewn footpaths, wading rivers and walking through dense rain forests.