Trudge

I have not felt like painting this week, when really it is in difficult times like this that I need more than anything to create something other, something that hopefully stands apart from all the shit, a beacon of truth amidst the confusion and a personal symbol of worth.

I was quite up for the idea of being positive. The plan was to get back to my art after the school holidays and not to moan for at least 24 hours, not even silently in my own head. To not even groan about having an aching, old person's tired body for as long as I can remember. Maybe if I could trick myself into behaving as if everything was great and fair, I could also trick the world and my body into giving me a break.

Alas, this is not the way life is, things are not as they are "supposed" to be, my ideals are just my ideals, not necessarily everyone elses. Imagining I have Snow White's birds fluttering above me whilst squirrels help me to wash the dishes is not going to change the reality that life is often a struggle. A nice cup of tea can help to distract you but it does not take away a  reality that needs attending. We have had a week of nostalgia brought about by Thatcher's death and all the bitterness that her memory stirs up for many people and the legacy she gave us, combined with atrocities and disasters in America. Ultimately, the events of this week and the discrepancies in the news coverage of the Boston bombings and subsequent manhunt have left me unable to believe anything I am told by the media. The exposing of familiar and trusted celebrities as pedophiles just adds to the fact that nothing is ever as it seems. Looking back to the nineties, I decided to re-watch the drama, Our Friends in the North, which brilliantly depicts our paths through time. It also highlights the sham of our society, whatever the government. On a lighter note it is worth watching to see the actors who will become the future Doctor Who and James Bond.

At the same time as these world events I found out that the nerve in my daughter's eye is pale and this could mean that her left eye will never be much use to her. They don't know for sure. With doctors it is always a case of wait and come back and tell us what happens. She is nearly 6, and has had regular eye tests since the age of 2, but they have only just noticed this. I now have to cover her good eye with a patch rendering her almost blind, combined with her hearing and balance problems. The hope is that her bad eye will improve. There is no guarantee due to the discovery of the pale nerve, but we have to try for her however difficult it may be in the short term. This news was quickly followed by a letter arriving saying I owe over £2000 due to an overpayment in child tax credit made by the government in 2009. This has been passed onto a debt company. This is a complete shock, and I don't think there is anything I can do to dispute it. 2009 seems so long ago to me it has become part of the Blur/Blair years. By that I mean I can no longer remember any details. I have had to work my way through repaying a lot of debts after the break up with an alcoholic partner and I believed I had got my family onto safe ground and the Tsunami of shit had passed. As I said, life is not as it is supposed to be. Our whole idea of what life is can be ripped apart at any moment and it is not easy to pick ourselves up again and again. I have fault lines caused by the trauma of life's events that reopen all too easily.

Should I be writing this? I don't know, but I have written it for two reasons. One is that hiding away in denial does not help and revealing all this helps me to break through the isolation of carrying these burdens alone. For example, it helps me to say out loud to you that I have been changing my daughter's nappies for nearly six years now and I am fed up of shit. This is not going to change anytime soon as she is still not able to adequately communicate. It's acceptable for me to feel this way. Most parents are fed up after two years of changing nappies. This is my lot, but speaking out enables me to look at my life with some perspective. Ideally I would climb to the top of a hill and scream at the landscape "I AM FED UP OF SHIT!" Ideally as a society we would shout out together. The second reason is in reaction to the coverups in our society and I would like my troubles to count for something. We are all walking through mud and plagued by varying degrees of shit. I hope my words help someone to trudge on.

As I am writing this my 4 year old son came to me with a flower. A dandelion he had found in the garden. Such a beautiful act, it brought tears to my eyes. My boyfriend has been in the kitchen and made an apple pie for us. Shall we put the kettle on then? I don't want to face things but tomorrow I will go to the Citizen's Advice Bureau and try to tackle this debt we can not afford, and begin the treatment with my daughter's patches. If I get chance I am going to begin working on a painting I have been wanting to do for some time entitled "Modern Bacchus". Again it is a testament to what can happen in life that is often hidden. Our circumstance is seldom chosen and never certain and there is often no justice for what happens. Shit happens. Art can be a way to document and make sense of things. A billboard of distress. A flower in the dirt.

Sketch for Modern Bacchus

Photoshop effects

 Above is a sketch working out colours and composition done in felt tip pen and then altered with Photoshop. I am interested in experimenting with this image using simple printmaking techniques. Now I had better go and wash the school uniforms which I should have done earlier.

Beyond the comfort zone.

I have just watched a YouTube video featuring the German artist Georg Baselitz. I was struck by the following things he said "Our yearning needs painting" and "The image must contain something that other paintings have never had. Something that has never yet been seen, that has never been solved. The eye must pursue an idea that has not been pursued, and that mostly means chaos." This strikes a chord with me because I am always striving to find some indefinable other, something beyond the ordinary, in my own and others paintings.

In the odd way that things can lead, these words inspired me to go back and tackle a painting I had shelved, that had pushed me far out of my comfort zone. It is the middle section of an eventual triptych based on a mother and child theme. The first panel will feature the "other mothers" the members of the medical profession you have to accept into your family when you have a disabled child. I hope to depict this with white shapes of nurses and bright red crosses emerging out of a tangle of grey corridors and a background of hospital green. The third panel will contain "the mother" about to step through the hospital curtain that separates her from her child.

Detail of wheel

 In the central panel I have tried to create the initial image I saw in my head of my future, as the consultant said "I'd like you to think about the words cerebral palsy" while he examined my baby daughter. The results of her MRI scan had revealed the extent of the brain hemorrhage she suffered whilst being kept alive in the neonatal ward . I have heard there is a poem about discovering your child will have special needs, likening the experience to being on a plane thinking you are going on holiday to Spain and then discovering you are going to Mexico for example. I like this analogy, it is not what you chose, but you do discover new things that you would never have come across. However, when you first hear about the change of destination, it feels like your plane has been hijacked and you are going to be landing by parachute, without a map or belongings.

Detail of face and arm.

I tried to paint this image without too much emphasis on thinking and let myself be guided more by feeling. I therefore have less idea as to whether the outcome is successful. It is not accurate, it was all about the wheel and a slumping figure of my full-grown child. I tried to disregard the usual warning barriers that spring up and direct me away from a crap result. So here it is, it could be crap or it could be something. There are parts I can take from this that can be used for a further attempt. Here it is:

Oil on canvas. 33 x 41 inch.

Maybe like Baselitz, I should turn it upside down...

Mausoleum of Motherhood.

I have not worked out yet whether I should explain my paintings or leave them for others to interpret on their own. As it is early days for me as a painter, I don't suppose it matters much either way. If it does, look away now.

  This painting happened suddenly and was my response to a bad day. I just got all the swirling images in my mind that were gathering and put them out of my head and onto the paper. Here I could see them clearly, writhing undefended for me to examine. That same day was turned around as I transferred my sketch onto canvas and began filling in.

 I was trying to come to terms with and integrate the gaping void between domestic imagery fed to us from the television and magazines, and the cold blooded reality of hard work and raw emotion as you fall into the role of motherhood.
 The only true advice I wish I had received before becoming a mother is "Expect the unexpected, nothing is ever as it seems.". We have little experience to prepare us before embarking on our personal journey into motherhood. Of course this is true of fatherhood as well. Our dislocated society separates the births and deaths from our sanitised and independent lives. Few of our new generation have memories of the birth of siblings at home, or the final preparing of the body of a deceased loved one, as an opportunity to say goodbye. These are not easy things to face but they do not go away by hiding them. When the time comes we are unprepared and have to face these experiences with little support, and it soon has to be hushed up again. We have lost the support and guidance of women in our community. Community is a rare treasure not many of us have known.

  So armed with our mothering magazines of perfect images we take our fragile selves into the labour wards like lambs to the slaughter. This may sound harsh, reality may be kind and often is, but babies are born prematurely everyday, many women don't have chance to consult their perfect birth plans as they are rushed into emergency caesareans. New mothers sink into the ambivalence of post natal depression and not everyone is fortunate enough to experience the spontaneous miracle of bonding with their child. Some parents replace their broken rose tinted glasses with an alcoholic haze.

The perfect ideal of a house in the country, in which we can be a domestic goddess is passed off to us through the media as "real", leaving the majority of us lacking. I love to watch these programmes and dream and have my fill of their virtual, vicarious pleasure. Equally it can lead to torment and dismay.
 There is a phrase, "Follow me home to know me.". The fake kitchens bursting with le crueset; flowery china and copper bottomed pans are purpose built fabrications and often not the celebrities actual homes. In real celebrity homes adultery and temptations can be prevalent.

 A cat curled up on a rug in front of an open fire turns into finding flea bites on your children's skin. The new cute kitten has defecated on your new comforting cushions, and left a dead bird behind the settee. Small mercy that the toddler didn't find it first. The open fire covers everything in dust and brings the extra job of cleaning up the ash and soot. We all have our dreams and then their are the practicalities never far away.
 The baby in the painting is copied from a real photo of my poorly daughter, born three months early. When tragedies occur, someone still has to wash the dishes that are mounting up, put the Christmas tree up, do the festivities and put the Christmas tree back. The beautiful flowers in a vase fade and die and have to be thrown away, the bacteria filled water in the vase poured away. These simple yet heroic acts that keep a family going are often the responsibility of mothers. The little things, the disgusting things, the boring, relentless, unnoticed and essential things.

 As I have got older I have learnt with great difficulty to let go of my Catherine Cookson ideals of how life should be, and to love the reality of what life actually is as it comes. A technicolour, 3D, scratch n sniff miracle. To turn chores into opportunities for contemplation and listening. We will all still have bad days but I try to face life clearly and openly and enjoy the miracles of having children and being alive.

 In my painting there is a butterfly that can momentarily break you out of an inward cage of depression as you turn to look at it's beauty. A Georgian shop window, full of the promise of wonderful things reflects the storm beyond. A cottage with roses around the door, leads on to a pretty chintz cup and saucer, or is it clouds gathering. Will the oncoming storm be only a storm in a teacup. Have a cup of tea and gain some perspective, you never know what your future might hold. The gladioli symbolises strength and preparedness, and moral integrity. Exactly what a mother needs for consistency and to be a guide by good example. They are also a symbol for love at first sight, how it should be when a mother first holds her child.

Mausoleum. Oil on canvas. 32"x24". 2012.

 I was brought up to care about what the neighbours think, to try to be nice and to please. These are good qualities in certain ways, to be conscientious and aware of your affect on others. It also leaves you particularly suggestible. I am learning to stand up for myself and believe in whatever I am, even if it does displease. This painting is not quite finished, I am going to work some more on the details, these are not good quality photos, but what does it matter. Until further notice I have put my cherished but sentimental notions in a mausoleum.

Self portrait as revelation.

  Well it has been a while since my last post.  Finishing my first year at university and being freed of deadlines resulted in me doing all things other than art and writing for the last few weeks.  My final piece was a self portrait.  Staring into a mirror for long periods of time, has prompted a new short haircut and a need to focus outwards for a while.
 I have found the process a great vehicle for developing my painting skills and will definitely continue to do more.  As I probably know the subject of my face better than any other thing, it freed me up, allowing me to place my full attention on the act of painting.

Self portrait. Pastel. A3. 2010.

 The versatility of the self portrait through history continues to unfold.  What was first used as an advertisement of an artist's ability, portraying the artist as they wished to be perceived has evolved into an act of therapy, an emotional outpouring.  Focusing intently upon our own image can build an intensity not always found in other subject matter.  Self portraits by female artists can be particularly cathartic and revealing.  Finding the work of Shani Rhys James has been a fantastic discovery.

 Honesty in art and in life is greatly important to me.  I have a tendency to dissociate, which is probably why I am unnerved by others who live their lives under a veil of denial and deception.  There is only limited joy in winning a game through cheating.  We do not have long to live our lives so why cheat ourselves, though I understand the appeal when faced with a joyless reality.  I like to see experience as a process of refinement, revealing our authentic selves, as a pebble is polished by the sea.

Painting outside really helped me to see. The light was incredible.

 Confessional art attempts to disclose an undisguised, autobiographical experience.  It can communicate the pain and violence of life but it is also criticised for being self-indulgent and voyeuristic.  Tracey Emin is renowned in this art form.  Possibly the ultimate extreme of the self portrait, Emin herself has become the art.  This "victim" art is often denounced, as it's pitying effect can short-circuit criticism and it's ability to shock can divert us from the quality of it's artistry.  Regardless of the caliber of artwork, I admire the bravery and honesty of Tracey Emin.  I take from it a moment of undiluted expression.  The intimacy may be illusory, like the familiarity of celebrities, we don't really know, but it can be held up as a mirror to our own experience, as the artist of the self portrait holds a mirror to their face.  There is a danger to avoid of turning ourselves into commodities, but to share the absolute truth of what it means to be human is an admirable pursuit. Any dissolution of the public mask is a worthy cause.

 In my self portrait I tried to show a progression of my identity.  It is based on an old style, photobooth photo.  It isn't finished, I know I will go back to it to work on the lower portrait, but it needed handing in and time to dry, before being hung up for the end of year exhibition.  The first image is "The mask", the outer self protecting the inner unknown self, the eyes are the "tell" revealing unease.  The second image is "Self-conscious", the beginning of self-awareness mixed with shyness and uncertainty. The third image represents "Subconscious", the place of the unknown where inner demons lurk before they are confronted. The morphing of the orange curtain into a tiger was not planned, and was a revelation to me, as the tiger is a symbol of no fear. The final image is "Integration".  The acceptance and serenity that comes with the knowledge of "Here I am, take it or leave it.".   I roll out my soul and let life soften it's edges.

On the wall. Oil. 68"x13". 2011. 

Why I paint...

 Throughout my life I have questioned myself as to why I paint. I have pummeled my mind mercilessly needing to justify and validate my existence, never mind my art.  That is until yesterday, when I saw a pattern in my behavior, and moved closer to an answer. 
 Although slow and sporadic my artistic inclinations have never truly left me.  I first turned to art as a release from childhood boredom. Long days with an active mind and nothing much to do, but swing back and forth on the garden gate looking at stones on the pavement and passing cars. I was a shy and serious child so had limited means of expression. While my mother toiled with her hot-tub and mangle, I would create imaginary worlds on paper, lose myself in colours, or copy from Disney cartoon characters and nature books.
 The next time I turned to art I was a teenager. A combination of zero revision and loosing touch with the relevance of school, resulted in mediocre O'level results and failing mathematics.  In a state of quiet fury and hurt pride, my immediate response was to march up to the art shop and purchase materials for painting. Internally voicing the words, " I'll show you what I can do." I spent what I had on four tubes of oil paint: red, yellow, white and black and a Daler art board. I returned to my bedroom and put all my feelings into my first oil painting.  The subject was a tiger, the image taken from the front cover of an animal encyclopaedia, a source of my earlier childhood drawings.

Oil on board. A2. 1985.

 At the time I was not aware of the option to thin down paint using turps or linseed, and manipulated the paint as best I could, straight from the tube. I went back later to buy blue when I had more money.
 The tiger painting led to my friend asking me for a painting of a castle by the sea. We were what was known as "goths", which explains the imagery of the painting and our attire.

My friend and I in the back garden.

All I have of this painting now is an old photograph, but I particularly loved how by moving my brush I could create a sky.

Oil on board. A2. 1986.

My next attempt at painting was aged twenty, my boyfriend at the time was at art college. I worked as a waitress to pay the rent and was feeling increasingly trapped and dispirited watching students being creative as I went off to fester in a monotonous job. Remembering my passion for capturing the sky in my friend's painting, I began on a very small canvas about A4 in size, and tried to recreate the power, the movement and the beauty of the sea against a night sky. I put all of what I was, that had no outlet or freedom in my real life, into that small space. Students visiting remarked on it. I gave it away and have no knowledge of what became of it.
 Art again took a back seat, instead I worked until the birth of my first child when I was 25. It was the death of my father when I was 27, awaiting the funeral in my childhood bedroom, that brought about my next reach for expression through art. Finding only a pencil and a scrap of paper, I felt an irrepressible need to channel my mounting feelings of grief, out of myself and into an image.  It was also the only way I felt able to keep hold of him, before my eyes last vision slipped away, only to be seen again in photographs.

Pencil on paper. A4. 1997.

It was the first artwork I had done that I was really pleased with, I felt I had managed to capture something of his spirit in my marks, and it consoled me somewhat during that difficult time.  Looking back, this pattern of turning to art in times of need is the answer I've been looking for.  I paint to connect my inner world with my outer experience of reality. A means of integration and connection.

  Hopefully along the way, I may also communicate and be understood, and ultimately through sharing who I am, help others.