A Creative Health Warning

  

A detail from a painting in my pregnancy series.

An overdose of instructional videos on "How to Paint in Watercolour" can seriously damage your creative health. This health warning has been brought about by looking at too many carefully contrived, tame insipidies that have been drearily painted to rule. They lack very essence of the medium: that being spontaneity and freedom.

I remember one such regimented practitioner shaking his head in despair at my work. His advice was that I should use a smaller brush, less water and paint more carefully. 

The Colour of her Soul

 Raw Sienna, Indian Red and Ivory Black.

At one of Dominica's Literary Festivals my daughter and I were competing against each other in the poetry category. Tania's poem was The Colour of her Soul and mine, The Colour Black. Both poems related to the range of skin tones found in the Daughters of the Caribbean Sun.

The same subtle colours are mirrored in the island's vegetation. The picture below is of a variety of banana known locally as Cou Cou. The bananas that grow in the grounds surrounding my studio are different to those that are grown commercially. Ours come in all shapes, sizes and flavours, and they grow in abundance. 

Today's crop of Cou Cou. In  Raw Sienna, Indian Red and Ivory Black.

The indignity of being sold - yet again!

The Jamaican Girl 

A life-size bronze sculpture by Enzo Plazzotta.

My love affair with the nude dates back to 1971. In that year I was seduced by Enzo Plazzotta’s sculpture, Jamaican Girl. The infatuation was such that I followed my temptress to the land of her birth, and thereafter, the Caribbean became my adopted home. Little did I realise that, in my search for my seductress, she had sought me in my native land. 

But alas, my seductress, like her African forefathers, has yet again suffered the indignity of being sold. This time around, it's the Yorkshire Sculpture Park that has put her on the market for thirty-six thousand pounds inc. vat. They in turn acquired her at auction in 2019.

One a brighter note, the sculpture was originally cast as an edition of nine and I understand, from one of my models, that the University of the West Indies has one of the casts. I hope they ensure that she remains in the region of her birth.

Regrettably, I never met Enzo Plazzotta's model for the Jamaican Girl, but over the last fifty years I have had the good fortune of working with equally inspirational models from most of the Caribbean Islands. They are depicted in hundreds of paintings and scores of sculptures in my series Daughters of the Caribbean Sun. The image below shows my clay sketch for a life-size sculpture of my Dominican model Annabelle.

Tribal Decoration

 

Hans Silvester's images and the following account from his book Natural Fashion: Tribal Decorations from East African puts our westernised dull concept of fashion in the shade.

Body painting, as practiced here in East Africa, the cradle of humanity, seems to me to represent a way of life that dates from prehistory and once enabled humankind to overcome the hostility of nature. Art was then a means of survival.

The images above are of the Surma and Mursi peoples, two of the fifteen Ethiopian tribes indigenous to the Omo Valley in Southern Ethiopia. Both nomadic communities living close to and with nature, and placing great importance on decoration of the body over the spatial environment. Bright minerals for paint to embellish the skin, flora and fauna for ephemeral adornments . Whereas the Surma often draw from the varied “closet” of the plant world, the Mursi predominately adorn themselves with items derived from the hunt such as tusks, skins, shells and the like.

As Silvester describes in his book Natural Fashion: Tribal Decoration from Africa, no underlying systems seem to exist. Mothers begin painting infants, and from there adolescence frolic in this pastime avidly dedicating themselves to this activity. One’s skill at bodily adornment is not judged by viewing ones own reflection as these are communities that are said to live in the absence of mirrors. Not even the waters of the Omo river provide a reflection in their muddy waters. The image of self, in particular, the adroit body ornamentation is deemed through the reaction it elicits in others, thus body painting amongst the Surma and Mursi is a group activity. Often boys will paint boys and girls, girls or one might paint themselves several times within a day. Lounging by the river, applying expressive, gestural quick strokes with natural pigments of red ochre, yellow sulfur, white kaolin and grey ash in a multitude of patterns and combinations. Motifs emblematic of families exist.

This ephemeral art form elevates and celebrates the body making it the ultimate canvas. The dextrous individual is the one that sees beyond the obvious, that perceives a leaf can transform to become a hat or a necklace, a reed becomes a ribbon, a branch with pods rather a head ornament. 

A man I am proud to have known.

Peter Penfold CMG OBE (1944-2023)

I quote from my forthcoming book "For the Sake of the Children".

"After a further three months in limbo, we decided to sail back to the Virgin Islands and challenge the immigration ruling in the High Court. As no lawyers in the British Virgin Islands would represent me, our only way forward was with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, my Member of Parliament in England and the Governor’s Office. We were fortunate that Peter Penfold, a man of courage and high principles, was at that time the Governor of the territory. With the help of his aide Alan Penrith, he ensured we received fair treatment. 

After serving as Governor of the British Virgin Islands Peter Penfold was appointed High Commissioner to Sierra Leone where he was widely considered a hero for his controversial role in restoring Kabbah. While he was giving evidence to the UK inquiry, 20,000 people took part in a demonstration demanding his return to Sierra Leone, and upon his arrival he was appointed an honorary Paramount Chief."

Peter Penfold is a man I am proud to have known. I deeply appreciate his courage to stand by me during my fight for access to my children. Ironically, my stand for a basic human right in the British Virgin Islands, and Peter Penfold's stand for human rights in Sierra Leone, resulted in us both being deemed persona non grata in some quarters. 

The world has lost a remarkable man, to whom the Times Obituary gives deserved credit.

To delight the senses, arouse the passion and excite the imagination...

Detail from one of my painting of the nude figure.

 

I get terribly bored viewing most paintings of the nude. Although they may be anatomically correct in every detail, they lack what Sir Walter Scott claimed for the artistry of the 13th century troubadours: 

To delight the senses, arouse the passion and excite the imagination.

If the artist is devoid of passion, there is no way that his work can arouse the senses in others. The painting that illustrates this post was motivated by the passion and presence of my live model. 

He'll finish it better when he gets home.

 

A page from my book "Caribbean Sketches"

My book "Caribbean Sketches" records a journey I made through the Caribbean thirty-five years ago. It comprises of hundreds of pen and ink sketches that I jotted down in the heat of the moment. To the uninitiated viewer they are hard to fathom. Hence the comment from one onlooker to another: "He'll finish it better when he gets home."

Flattery will get you nowhere

Alice relaxing after a modelling session.

Today's sketch is of a modelling session from over thirty years ago. The subject is Alice, the very first model in my series "Daughters of the Caribbean Sun". The sketch was accomplished in less than 30 seconds and it captures the mood of the moment. Please note: my crayon hasn't had time to leave the paper.

The sketch came to mind a few days ago when I was glancing through the results of an art group's first session with a live nude model. Their stilted attempts were towards likeness and by extension, flattery. They failed miserably on both counts. My advice would have been: forget the likeness, forget the flattery, but passionately fall in love with the model and powerfully express your love a matter of seconds. 

Maybe I will add this advice to my forthcoming book, "Notes for Life Class Students and Models".

Times have changed

Milk Churns, Ballygub, Ireland. 1972

In the early 1970's my studio was what once a village school in County Kilkenny, Southern Ireland. We lived in on classroom and I taught art classes in the other. Our land led down to the River Nore and we were surrounded by green fields for miles around. The milk churns were awaiting collection at the gate of the farm next door. 

Out of curiosity I looked up the location a few evenings ago on google earth. It took me a long time to recognise what had once been familiar landmarks. Our next door neighbour's small farm is now a huge commercial undertaking and alongside the path that led down to the river is what appears to be a car-breaker's yard. Times have changed!

Fit for human consumption

 

Sketched in seconds on the beach (circ. 1980)

The novelist Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) writing with reference to an author's rough notes says:

If they are interesting enough when enlarged to the size of an article, what must they have been like in their concentrated form? Pure rectified spirit, above proof; before it is lowered to be fit for human consumption.

That is all the more true with a sketch before it becomes modified as a finished painting. 

The bare minimum

My model sleeping

 

The bare minimum applies to the sketch as it does to my concept of dress. A few lines says it all. With the patina that fifty years gives to a random sheet of cheap paper, the effect is all the more enhanced. 

Father and Son

Father and Son 

From a series of sketches I made in the 1990's 

of families on the beach.

When I look through my portfolios of past work, I occasional find a forgotten sketch that makes me exclaim: "I did paint that!", I find it is the same with my literary endeavours over the years.

For a forthcoming book, I have been delving through my 1990's literary contributions to the British Virgin Island press. The following commentary was prompted by a news item that read: 

The majority of babies born in the Virgin Islands in 1991 were born out of wedlock, and the number of births to teenagers rose 47 percent last year, according to statistics from the Development Planning Unit. A total of 169 babies, or 58 percent of all births, were born out of wedlock last year, up from 153 in 1990.

The image and reality of the West Indian father.

There can be few images saintlier than that of a West Indian father and child. It conjures up hope that the inherent good in man will survive against overwhelming odds. There are those who claim that the vision is a rare sight, and others who scathingly dismiss as an illusion. But as always, the greatest condemnation comes from those who prudishly hold themselves aloof.

Generally, the West Indian mother who has been through the mill is less critical. Through practical experience, sees her man in a kindlier light. Understanding is the crux of the matter.

First, we must understand and come to terms with a terrible fact: At least 95 percent of all West Indian children are unwanted at the time they are conceived. The lyrics of the popular Trinidadian song tell a lie: “I wanna have a baby with you” is not a sentiment of the West Indian man. Sex, yes; a child, no! The West Indian woman shares his needs and his aversion. Her body, like his, urgently wants the one but not the other. Within a month the baby in her womb has become a hateful thing to them both.

The seed that they carelessly planted becomes a barrier between them. Their relationship cools considerably. There is no real love to sustain it, only a fleeting ecstasy which soon gives way to shame, anger and - so often for her - sexual revulsion. Other than a tacit understanding that she is pregnant with his child, they do not talk about it. The tension heightens as the weeks go by. Their main worry is that of revealing the pregnancy and the reaction of others. For that reason, no one must know, or at least not until the secret can be concealed no longer.

But not much escapes the notice of the West Indian extended family, least of all a pregnancy in the confines of a yard space. The father is found out, rather than proclaimed by his own initiative. Any strength that the couple may have found in each other is soon invalidated by domineering parents or siblings. Instead of insisting that the father be accountable, they collectively undermine his responsibilities. Marriage is rarely considered by anyone as a way forward.

Fathering children within a happy marriage is the ideal, but in this region not the reality. If a marriage fails the court can ruthlessly deprive the father of any function other than that of providing money. He can be denied all reasonable contact with the child. His love is not considered a necessity.

In a society where marriage is the exception rather than the rule, the accidental pregnancy that we have so far assumed should not go unchallenged. More often than is realised, fathering a child is intentionally used as a means of securing a woman without the commitment or complication of marriage. This form of bondage uses the child as a means to its end and is vulnerable to the father abandoning, or threatening to abandon, his support if the relationship breaks down.

From such troublesome beginnings, the West Indian father must materialize. He does so, but slowly and grudgingly. In the months before the birth, he does not take the girl out any more, and even if he offered, she would be reluctant to be seen in public. Her belly is an embarrassment to them both. He might occasionally drive her to the doctor or clinic, providing that it does not interfere with anything he had planned to do with his friends. He would not consider staying by her side for the visit itself. He will give her money to buy things for the baby, but not help her shop for them. At the time she goes into labour he may not be found.

With the birth of the child there emerges the first timid assertion of the man as a father. He visits the hospital. He feels awkward and conspicuous and can think of nothing meaningful to say. There doesn't seem to be much he can do. Her family have attended to her needs. He does not stay long, but before he goes, he gives the mother a small screwed up paper bag that forever redeems him. It contains a present for his child.

In an attempt to pick up life where she left off, the mother returns to work as soon as she can. That is assuming that she is fortunate enough to have a job to go back to. Her family looks after the baby. The father's life continues without interruption. His family may help with minding the child when it gets older. In the meantime, he contributes money toward the child's upbringing. The amounts vary. In true West Indian fashion, the arrangement has no hard and fast rules. They rekindle their feelings for one another, and from each develops a love for the child.

It is from this period that we owe the saint-like image of the West Indian father. In reality, his role as a father leaves a lot to be desired. His love tends to be possessive. The child that began as their child, in conflict becomes her child or his child. His commitment is minimal; his understanding is sometimes shallow; his support spasmodic; his interest in the child’s schooling is often slight.

But at the end of the day, the miracle is, not so much that a child is born, but somehow, out of the most unlikely set of circumstances, a father evolves.

In life we don't work like that!

Camille Claudel

 

There are two films about the sculptress Camille Claudel. One that has won the awards and one that hasn't. Of the two, the latter is true to life and the former, a portrayal devised for box office success. As you might guess, box office success is all the more readily attainable if you throw in sex and action. But when the sex predominates and the action resorts to scenes that in terms of accuracy are laughable, then the total effect is lost. With a multi-million dollar budget, you'd think that they could employ a sculptor to advise on working methods.

I find that most films that depict artists at work suffer from the same defect. In life we don't work like that!

Below are the films: watch them and judge for yourself.

A pleasant surprise

My Goddaughter Oceana at her Christening 34 years ago. 

 

Alice was the very first model in my series Daughters of the Caribbean Sun. She then worked for a year as my studio assistant. During the course of that year her daughter Oceana was born and I became her Godfather. The pleasant surprise is that after all those years I'm back in touch again with both mother and daughter.

My portrait bust of Alice.

80 years ago

 When the world was young.

 

By this time tomorrow, I will have been on this earth for eighty years. My life began in the back of an ambulance in the middle of a WWII air raid and has since taken many adventurous turns; almost all of which have been for the better, with only a few for the worse. In the words of Henry David Thoreau: 

My life has been the poem I would have writ, but I could not both live and utter it.

Just occasionally

Ceramic and textile by the Italian sculptor Matteo Lucca.

Just occasionally I come across work by other contemporary sculptors that stops me in my tracks. Matteo Lucca's ceramic and textile portrait deserves my greatest compliment, that being: I wish I had made that. His fragmented figures and portraits are in a league by themselves. They urge me to create.

I can't be sure

Ayodel, maybe? (Circ 2013)

I'm not sure which is the worst; discarding a painting or discarding a model. In this instance I regret them both. I think today's painting is one that I made of Ayodel on her first session, but I can't be sure. She modelled for me only once: for the second session she slept in. 

I ruthlessly discard models when they fail to keep their appointments and I sometimes foolishly discard paintings that I perceive to be failures. I rescued this painting from a pile that I had set aside to reduce to pulp for my papermaking. I wish now that I could rescue the model, for she had all the attributes I need for my work.

The rapid paintings I make during the first session with a model are exploratory. They allow me to explore the model's natural stance and features. 

Born Free

 

One of many paintings that I made of my three children almost forty years ago.

Court documents relating to my fight for their right to a father.

My last week has been spent monitoring the track tropical storm Bret and wading through a stack of court papers that relate to the children of my previous marriage. 

There are millions of similar parental alienation cases worldwide, but mine has the distinction of being one of the worst on record. The fact that it happened in what are perceived to be the idyllic British Virgin Islands, doesn’t help matters. In 1990 I published a small booklet that told of my experience under the Guardianship of Infants Act, Cap 233. My children were then aged two, four and five. For the the sake of others in the same predicament, I am urged by human rights organisations to bring the story up to date.

The UK study on Parental Alienation  is essential further reading.

Exhausting all possibilities

Portrait by Leonardo da Vinci (Circ. 1506/8)

Leonardo da Vinci's portrait of a young woman with dishevelled hair (hence its nickname, scapigliata) dates from when he was devoting most of his time to inventions. Art critics have bemoaned that in his later years he neglected painting in preference for other pursuits. But I can understand that he may have felt to have exhausted all possibilities. I feel the same about pursuing further my paintings in the series Daughters of the Caribbean Sun. 

Within the creative soul there is the need to move on.

The Creation of Eve in a Caribbean Garden of Eden

This short video, The Creation of Eve in a Caribbean Garden of Eden, begins with the sculpture I made of my model Verlena and ends with the same model, in the same pose, for the segments of a painted screen.  

We're both too old...

Me and my 50+ year old Land Rover

I have before me a book titled: The Maintenance and Running Repairs of Motor Cars by Eric W. Walford. It dates from 1915 and the author intended it for those of modest means who cannot employ a chauffeur. I'm not sure how it came to be handed to me. My father was only four years old at the time of publication, but my grandfather Enoch - a man of many parts - may have been the original owner. 

The book came to mind last week in my attempts to insure and tax my 50+ year old Land Rover. For the insurance companies, either the vehicle was too old, or I - at approaching 80 - was too old, or collectively, we were both too old. At the eleventh hour, one company relented and we're good to go for another year. I did better when I drove into the testing bay. The examiner waved my through with the words, "A vehicle that looks as good as that doesn't need testing!".

If given the tender loving care she deserves my Land Rover will still be on the road long after my time, and long after today's imported vehicles are on the scrap heap.

Eric Walford's book covers wooden spoked wheels. It's a pity I was not around 100+ years ago, as the making of wooden spoked wheels is within my capabilities, as shown in the picture below.

A 30" diameter wooden spoked wheel that I made for a traditional handcart.

They have cradled you in custom...

Carved lifesize figure by the Italian sculptor Aron Demetz.

The title of today's post is taken from Robert Service's poem,The Call of the Wild.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, 

They have soaked you in convention through and through;

They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching....

It came to my mind when reading the following comment by "W.E.Man" on the BVI News on Line:

Why do children have to wear a school uniform in this day and age? It makes them all look the same, just split into two genders. Children grow up blindly following established rules and social norms. They should instead be encouraged at an early age to explore their creative side and learn to express themselves as individuals...

The outrage it provoked from other readers could not have been worse had he suggested burning down schools and doing away with education altogether.  

A comment I submitted in response,and in support of creative individuals, was firmly blocked by the website's moderator! 

This surely supports the need for creative artists blessed with a different way of seeing. The work of the Italian sculptor Aron Demetz being a good example. 

As a footnote: The anonymity allowed to contributors on social media sites allows free rein for abuse. And all the more so, if moderators turn a blind eye.

Termites have taste. Part Two

My studio bookshelf that has a magnetic attraction for ants and termites.

Seven years ago I posted on how termites had developed a taste for my collection of jazz LPs. Last week I discovered that the same creatures also have literary taste. There were many lesser volumes that they could have got their teeth into, but as with my record collection, they only go after the best.

I has taken me five days to evict the unwanted guests and rebuild the bookshelves. The only redeeming factor was that they considered my own books to be of literary merit. The picture below shows their attempt to devour one of the diaries I made while travelling the Caribbean forty years ago in search of material for my book Caribbean Sketches. 

A running commentary

The audience at Dominica's Jazz n Creole Festival.

If my life was limited to painting pictures I would have no problem illustrating these posts. But only a fraction of my time is spent doing that. Every day my mind travels from one thing to another. It becomes a running commentary on all things.

In addition to doing essential building maintenance in readiness for the hurricane season the last week has been spent writing on subjects that range from jazz - that definitely isn't jazz - to civil engineering that comprises of a catalogue of blunders. Not to mention, with a dose of education reform squeezed between the two.

At the end of the day (week) maybe pictures say it clearer than the written word. The one above shows Dominica's jazz devotees(sic) and the one below shows Dominica's main east/west highway. 

Dominica's Imperial Highway at the point where it passes the entrance to my studio. 

The following is my say on the first picture:

In terms of attendance and income, the Dominica Festivals Committee could do even better by changing the name of the event. May I suggest: “Dominica Popular Music Festival, et al.”. This would definitely draw the crowds and at the same time prevent the genre of jazz being dumbed down into something it is not.

With a separate event devoted to jazz and its creole influence we could begin to foster an appreciation for one of the world’s most profound art forms, and moreover, an understanding in young Dominicans that this art form was created by those of African and Creole descent. Such an event may not initially draw the crowds but it would in time appeal to the cognoscenti, as the success of real jazz festivals throughout the world have proven.

As my say on the second picture extends to a 4,000 word report I'll save it for another slow news week in terms of my work as a painter and sculptor. Instead, I'll close with Billie Holiday reminding us of what real jazz if all about. 

This recording of Billie Holiday singing "Fine and Mellow" includes: Ben Webster - tenor saxophone, Lester Young - tenor saxophone, Vic Dickenson - trombone, Gerry Mulligan - baritone saxophone, Coleman Hawkins - tenor saxophone, Roy Eldridge - trumpet, Doc Cheatham - trumpet, Danny Barker - guitar, Milt Hinton - double bass, Mal Waldron - piano and Osie Johnson - drums.

She's got more balls than me!

 

My wife Denise crawling between the inner and outer glass roofs of what was, 

in the 1990's, my studio in the UK.

The above picture shows that spectacular roof after ten years of restoration. 

I was up at the first light of dawn this morning working on the roof of the studio. The roof is flat concrete and nowhere near as spectacular as the roof of what was our studio in the UK. Before I climbed the ladder, I told Denise, if anyone's looking for me, I'm up on the roof. Those words brought to mind many Burnett family stories about working on roofs.

While Denise was perched fifty feet above the studio floor, cleaning 120 years of soot that had accumulated between the inner and outer glass roof shown above, the delivery man came with our gas bottles. He looked aloft in amazement and said, "Rog, there's someone up in your roof". When I told him it's only the wife, he responded, "She's got more balls than me!"

In the early years of the last century, a Yorkshire newspaper sent a reporter to interview one of my great aunts on her 100th birthday. On arriving he found the front door of her house open. He called out Mrs. Burnett and got the answer, "I'm up here". Thinking that the poor old dear was bedridden, he climbed the stairs only to find her bed empty. He called out again and this time realised that the response, "I'm up here", came from outside. On going into the street he looked up. And there she was, on the roof with a bucket of mortar pointing the chimney!

He must have also echoed the words: She's got more balls than me!

By God it moves!

Forgotten video footage of work in progress on a sculpture of my son Tristan.

My new camera has enabled me to view and edit a box of video tapes that I took twenty years ago. The tapes had been put away and all but forgotten about. One of them records work in progress on a sculpture of my son Tristan. Tristan had no means of knowing at nine months old that he'd be the brains behind editing the video twenty-one later.

I can now say, as Dylan Thomas said of poetry: By God it moves...and so by God it does!

Follow this link to view the video: https://youtu.be/x4hx0qHWDI0

Footnote:

This is the first of many work in progress videos that I have in mind. The quality of the presentations will improve with time, so bare with me. The User Manual for the editing program I'm using runs to 586 pages and that for my still and video cameras run to an additional 347 pages. That's a lot for my dyslexic brain to absorb. Fortunately, I have my computer savvy son on board to get me out of difficulties.

The nuance of newsprint

Denise: A demonstration sketch for lifeclass students.

The drawers of my drawing cabinet contain sheets of the finest all rag, all acid free paper. They cost a fortune and are seldom used. On the other hand, I am forever having to replenish my pile of cheap newsprint. I can relax before a 22" x 28" sheet of newsprint in the knowledge that a mistake will only cost me a few cents. Furthermore, I like the nuance of the subtle sepia shades it develops over a period of time. True enough, it's not archive material, but then again neither are my sketches - especially those I make as a demonstration for lifeclass students. 

What might have been.

The artist at age twenty, unaware of what the future held in store.

The opening photograph was spotted a member of my family on my brother's facebook page. Whilst I follow my brother's blog - it was my brother that introduced me to "blogging" in the 1990's - I am a person non grata on facebook. My paintings and sculptures of the female nude contravene their community guidelines. 

My brother's photograph set me thinking of what might have been, if I have been sane and sensible. Had I not turned my back on an engineer's drawing board in my twenties I might have risen through the ranks and for the last twenty years been bored to death in comfortable retirement. 

A second photograph on his facebook page brought home to me what commissions might have come my way had I pursued my work in public sculpture. But my sculptural passion led me towards the nude figure, which for the most part - that being the parts facebook objects to - is deemed unsuited for the public's gaze and detail is absent.   

A remarkably detailed sculpture by Andrew Sinclair MRBS 

recently unveiled in Halifax Town Centre.

When I was debating whether I should give up my job in engineering design, this quotation by Arthur Ransome tipped the scales in my favour:

Grab a chance and you won't be sorry for what might have been.

Thankfully, I grabbed the chance and have no regrets.

An invitation to share the creative process

I am always searching for ways that enable the viewer to enter the creative process. The finished work is one thing but the struggles that brought it about is quite another. This time around I'm attempting to do it by means of the moving image on film. I still use the word film even though nowadays it's video. Actually the word video is more accurate, for it's derived the the latin "to see". 

But I don't want the end result to be yet another "how to do it' instructional video. What I am after is the creative interplay between artist and model. It won't be easy to get this across. One needs to be superimposed on the other. The trials and errors of work in progress will need to be captured. 

I found the clue as to how to go about it, not from watching the attempts of other filmmakers, but by re-reading the novels of Jean Rhys. Her prose style is one of searching: of picking something up and putting it down again - often in mid sentence. And that is how the creative process works.

Annabelle as she is seen in my paintings.

My book "Notes on the Nude" contains a soliloquy that I murmured while working on one of my session with Annabelle. Perhaps similar murmured soliloquies from both artist and model could be the suggestive sound to go with the vision.

I’ve ten minutes left to save the day…Just relax in whichever way you choose…Where do I start…I’m seeing a line in silhouette that runs over the left breast and down to right thigh…Just one simple line with a hint of the rib cage…Now I can place the right breast and follow the curve to the hip…What a wonderful line that is…Keep it loose, don’t play about with detail…The face is largely hidden behind the left arm but that doesn’t make it easier…First I must let the chin fall into place…Now I can tie in the arms. The complication of the clasped hands I’ll leave to take care of themselves…Okay, stretch if you need to…No more line, just get the washes down, boldly, once and for all…My brush instinctively finds the earth colours I need…Leave the washes to find their own way…Keep the lights light and don’t be afraid of defining the darks around the face…The same touch of Indian Red serves for the lips and the nipples and the merest touch where the thighs meet…No time for background and it would be superfluous for what I am after…A glance at the clock tells me our time is up…To add more would be less.

There's no going back

 

The countryside of my childhood.

A few evenings ago I searched Goggle Earth for the countryside of my childhood. But my nostalgic trip down memory lane turned out to be a nightmare. Everything had changed beyond recognition. What I remembered as green fields are now housing estates. Alas, there's no going back.

On my wife's first visit to England, she got up at the crack of dawn and wondered through the countryside shown in the above painting. She came back to my parent's house clutching a bunch of dandelions. My mother pulled a face and told her that there were better flowers in the garden - they're just weeds. But to a West Indian, a dandelion is as exotic as the hibiscus or passion flower.

As a child I remember the "pop man" coming around with Dandelion and Burdock - a fermented drink made from the roots of the two plants - that he sold in returnable one gallon stone jars. 

Preaching to the Unconvertable

Pulpit. All Souls' Church, Halifax, Yorkshire (As I see it)

 

Pulpit. All Souls' Church, Halifax, Yorkshire (In reality)

The opening painting and photograph, speak of a lifetime's preaching to the unconvertable. What most people are after is an exact depiction, as against a different way of seeing. They just can't get their head around that which is divergent to the norm.

This post, in its brevity, gives you an insight as to what I'm up against - no matter what the subject or art form.

From a distance and down to earth

The opening photograph is a satellite image of my studio and surrounding countryside and the one below is of the same location down to earth.

Award winning novelist, Jean Rhys (1890-1979) was born and grew up in Dominica. The open scenes in her literary masterpiece Wild Sargasso, relate directly to the countryside that surrounds my studio. As she rightly remarks:

Too much blue, too much purple, too much green. The flowers too red, the mountains too high, the hills too near.

My week has likewise been spent reviewing work from a distance - that being forgotten videos taken thirty years ago of work in progress - and work accomplished in more recent times, as the subject for a video documentary on working from the live model. 

The extreme delicacy of form.

The veins of a leaf photographed against a deep red background.

 

My search for variations of the diaphanous for my Bare Minimum fashion label, led me to examine at close quarters, the veins of a leaf. As mentioned in an earlier post the dictionary defines diaphanous as:

"characterized by such fineness of texture as to permit seeing through", "extreme delicacy of form", and "insubstantial, vague".  

My challenge now is to replicate that delicate diaphanous structure into something that can be worn against the subtle dark skin tones of my models. 

 

From the dark areola of her breast, brown madder and yellow ochre merge. 

While sienna reds and blues subdued, in deep purple shadows converge.