The grey surfaces. I have been painting them. I have been trying to think about ‘theory’. I don’t have one/any. I just do it. It keeps bothering me that I just do it and cannot justify it. I keep wittering on about this kind of thing, but I just have to continue until I work it out of my system. Maybe it is a necessary anxiety that drives a search. I could just write it to myself and then burn it, but the idea that it is released into virtual space and just hangs around actually generates a perverse kind of pleasure. There are two elements to the thinking about it and the making of it. One concerns the formal attributes of the painting. The second is the subject-matter. A related possibility is that the form is the subject. I like doing it. I spent a large part of yesterday painting narrow lines on grey surfaces. They look like they ought to mean something. But then again perhaps it is just a matter of enjoying the experience. At times I quite envy artists who have a project. There may be security in the knowledge that a project is in progress. Perhaps my surfaces could be anchored to reality with one big meaningful word? Having no project and still painting may necessarily result in a lowest common denominator of painting like grey surfaces or nice still life work. I have no desire to make nice still life work, or to paint landscapes. It might even be arguable that almost having no project is the essential foundation of what I do. Grey surfaces are a comfortable way to sidestep the construction and research involved in having a project. I don’t mind my work being profoundly uncertain, that would achieve something. I don’t want it to be a monumental misunderstanding. (Although at least a lifelong misunderstanding would never reveal itself.)
I read an obituary of Charles Harrison recently and was inspired to buy Art in Theory 1900 – 2000 which he edited with Paul Wood. I expect that younger artists are familiar with it through their art education. It’s full of interesting ideas. Some of them might help. And yesterday Arsenal threw away a two-goal lead at West Ham.
A little stocktaking. It is almost a year now since I began writing this blog. I just read all my posts with some relief that there is not too much repetition. I intend to wander on.
Some of what I have written has been a look at what I feared, projecting what I am afraid of onto what I am looking at. Surface as a concept is deeply puzzling, but surface as an object can seem unproblematic ‘easy’ and this in turn connects with posts recently regarding value judgements – good/bad. I have been thinking that I shall make some paintings that are surfaces, resisting the urge to ‘validate’ them with figurative references. I was looking at some work by Sean Scully and Jackson Pollock. The problem is there with much abstract work, that its great pretensions are vulnerable to mere decorative conclusions. But in reading my blogs, the thought occurs that I might ditch some ‘pretensions’ and have a good time.
Looking at my grey surfaces, brought to mind the late Fred Dibnah who when demolishing a chimney stack, took great pains to do it in a traditional manner by weakening the structure sufficiently for it to collapse when wooden supports placed in holes he had made in the structure burned away. It was time consuming, hard physical work. Fred argued that the effort required to construct the chimney should be paid due respect in its demolition. This is a statement of value. Implicit in Fred’s attitude was a concern for tradition and for something concerning standards. But a ton of explosive might have made him giggle?
One of my avoidance strategies is to go cycling. I went out on Friday.
Half a mile down the road I passed a young man on a mountain bike, earphones engaged, with tyres that would grace a tractor, and looking like he should be in school. I rode swiftly past him and on up the hill. Seconds later, agricultural tyres buzzing, the young man passed me. My heartrate monitor had palpitations and my lycra took immediate exception. It was being being overtaken by a pair of grey trousers and black walking shoes. It took off in pursuit and swept past him. I managed to smile and say “Is this a race?” “If you like.” he replied, smiling back. He was swiftly dispatched and was expected to resume attendance to his earphones. I cycled on. A mile later, another hill, another attack. The black shoes had not understood, and powered past me a second time. Too much for the lycra’s pride. It accepted the challenge. This time on passing him I indicated that lycra cannot tolerate humiliation. He must now have understood; I did not see him again. Sometimes the trivial is a delight. What it all means I have no idea, but I think I’m quite good at making things hard work.
