“Emerging” as an Artist…

I have that feeling burning inside me…right now I need to look at paintings, I need to paint. It’s hard to describe, unless you know it well. It’s an energy, an emotion. It’s the act of painting, putting paint to canvas and mark-making. Watching as the paint moves and behaves. As a feeling of expression nothing can come close for me, not a singular limited moment of capturing a photo, not a solitary moment of listening to a song, not a tortured passage of personal writing; for me nothing is like the process of creating a picture, of seeing it form. Of the tiny dash of paint that creates a harmonious balance. And of that moment when I know to stop painting.

How I got banned from Sothebys.

February 16, 2010:

I decided to write this up as a record for myself. I wanted a reminder of a quite strange chain of events. Feel free to read on, or not :D

The idea to visit Sotherby’s was introduced to me the previous Thursday, by a friend who suggested he could get us in and that I’d enjoy seeing an art auction up close. So off I went, ever in search of adventures and excited by the prospect of this new environment, with its fabled stories of record breaking sales. As it happened we chanced upon a Francis Bacon triptych, an expertly painted set of three portraits of Lucien Freud against a deep red crimson background. The bidding had reached an incredible 10 million as we stepped in to the room. I absorbed the atmosphere and picked up a catalogue – this was already 3 million more than the catalogue had suggested. The bidding moved swiftly to the 20 million mark…we watched in awe as “20.5” was called out. I remember wondering how a painting could ever be worth this – save for the obvious financial benefits of Art investments, or as a means of circulating wealth. “Do I hear 21”? Somebody tried to bid 20.8 million and was strongly rebuffed by the auctioneer about the importance of seriousness, a phrase I’d later learn to be a very apt one.

A beautiful Richter painting, a large abstract filled with amazing textures and overlaying colours, hung on the opposite wall beside a poster for the next Contemporary Art Auction – the following Tuesday. I wondered if I’d be able to get in on my own, and put it to the back of my mind. A few days passed before I decided I would indeed try to visit Sothebys again. I attempted to entice my dad to come, thinking his love of art would encourage him. However when he couldn’t make it I tried a few friends whilst driving in to London, though in truth I felt it a very personal experience to do alone. Earlier I’d been looking through the catalogue and chanced upon a few paintings deeply inspiring to me, not least as some were by Artists whose work I’ve been learning more about. This left me excited by the prospect of seeing the paintings in person, experiencing the texture and deciphering the techniques used.

It took a while to find…I walked to the door of Sotheby’s, wondering how I’d be greeted. In front of me were two Oriental looking ladies, who walked in with a polite “hello” and nod to the bouncer. He was a short man, reminding me of a stocky Phil Collins! The bouncer assumed I was with the ladies and addressed us all at once about where to find the auction hall. Out of politeness I asked him if he wasn’t going to check my camera bag, with the thought that I should behave with formality and reserve. He smiled and off I went to experience the atmosphere, up the stairs only to stop at a beautiful (almost photographic) painting of some giant flowers – like an O’Keefe in its intricate detail.

I walked in to the auction hall and turned left (studies show most people do when entering a room). I went in search of the paintings I’d pinpointed previously, as they sometimes have them hanging on the wall – though I was aware that the exhibition of the paintings had already ended. The paintings were not hanging, only two that did not interest me as much. I went in search of the catalogue, stopping to ask a member of staff (in hindsight not a good idea, as I looked a complete novice) and then ventured to the reception where I knew the catalogues were kept. Watching the auction this time felt different, the room was much more crowded and it was almost impossible to catch a glimpse of the paintings at the front – I quickly became bored, visibly so. I went to reception and asked if the paintings were still hanging, they weren’t. I wandered, read the signs on the walls and observed the ‘clients’.

To be continued…

Visiting Art Studios in Glasgow.

October 20, 2007:

“Room by room, picture by picture an image was painted in my mind. Some had larger spaces than others, some more organised spaces…others a collage of mess, spreading itself across the floor as if trying to escape the melancholy of its confined space of forced creativity. Still the pictures insisted on invading my consciousness, some for the wrong reasons altogether. Some were more memorable than others. However each space had a common denominator, a denomination I simply do not have; namely the resident artist had the means and social standing to have captured his den. And the time to practice their craft; though admittedly some seemed to use this gift more thoughtfully than others. Time is a gift that once granted can not be recaptured I reminded myself.

And do any of them have a skill that I do not have. No, rather most seemed to be numbed by a lack of vitality to their work; as if in constant conflict between producing work to please their own selves or to please their audience. A delicate balance, one which every artist struggles with – until they find a part of them that reasons that it is better to produce art that they themself would like to see hanging on their wall…after all, if the art does not sell at least their home will be decorated to their taste.

Yet most seem trapped by the confines of modern taste. And then there were those that upset even my sensibilities. I mean, it is surely self indulgent to the extreme to paint metal boards in plain colours and even have the audacity to name them, as if trying to attach a hidden meaning to the “paintings”. These were arranged in a uniform line, outside the artist’s space…presumably to lure viewers in. Rather to lure art lovers in to the false acceptance that this represents a worthy effort to produce “art work”. I felt I should maybe confront the young man in question, but then the sympathy and solidarity I feel to people striving to make a living from what they have a love for held me back. In retrospect it should not have…the man had made a mockery of any true effort other artists make in pursuit of their passion.

I moved on, saddened by what I had seen…yet the general malaise inspired in me the realisation that I could produce work that was more interesting and engaging than most of what I had seen. Suddenly, my work had a new found relevance. And to think some of these artists had a studio space, at the expense of new graduates or seasoned “tryers” – those that would really, truly, appreciate the silent hub this provided.

The previous day I had visited the open exhibition at Project Ability – a dedicated studio for those with mental difficulties. Now there was true inspiration and effort, instigated through suffering. Somehow the art was far more creative and displayed far more vigour, as if seemingly not being aware of, or being able to conform, to conventional social thought processes freed the artists, freed their minds to flow imaginatively past the dullness and sameness of Sunday’s art.

And the work that struck me most was not a painting, rather it was an ordinary wall clock attached to a plain white wall. Ordinary, until I noticed of course it was anything but. Replacing the minute timers were bright red pills, the kind which are cylindrical and as shiny as new buttons, as if offering a shining hope to the sufferer. These were given relevance by the minute timer, which was in fact a needle; used to administer hope to the minds of the “mentally disturbed”. Maybe art could be seen as their medicine, or at least their release…like an antidote released in their bloodstream. A cure from social exclusion. Suddenly they were accepted into a world where only those who can demonstrate formal training are taken seriously, a world where ordinary passers by somehow feel compelled to ask the artist where they have studied – as if this somehow frames their enjoyment, or not, of an image. “I studied whilst receiving treatment for mental disorder” is probably not a reply often heard. So Project Ability was able to transcend barriers, and seemingly numb the barriers of pain the artists had undoubtedly suffered in their lives.”

Visiting Art Studios in Glasgow. An Intro:

To blog or not to blog; I am posting this as my first entry, as an introduction to my path as a practising Artist…as it really illustrates my own personal journey in the last few years. Every Artist is on their own path… We may be on the right track but if we keep still we may get run over, to paraphrase a famous saying.

Reading back through this entry shows me how I’ve struggled through to discover my artistic identity over the last few years… like a drop of paint meandering down a painting, to it’s final resting spot. It also brings back not only memories but the intense emotions I was feeling as I wrote my thoughts. It’s strange how life takes its turns… some of the feelings I touched upon, of visiting studios, of seeing unused spaces are now experiences I’ve had first-hand. I know what it feels like to have taken the step to work from a studio space.

I hope to share some of those emotions with you as this blog takes shape. For now, this is both my retrospective glance to my mind and a window to how I still feel. Part 2 to follow…