Painting In Public

One sunny day, I wandered outside to paint. I am not an expert and am practicing, or stumbling through basic watercolour use and abuse; not always pretty but always productive. I’m learning – usually daubing and making shapes, nothing more, but it’s great to see some sunlight while I mess around.

I settled down by seafront, where there was an inspiring sky: grey clouds shot with pinkish light and dotted with fluffy white baby clouds. Oblivious to much else, I started to paint and soon a small knot of people were openly staring at me and my work.

It didn’t occur to English-speakers that I am English, or to others that I speak several languages. Diligent readers might recall that one of the stated aims on starting this blog was to hear someone say of my work: “a bloody two-year old could do better than that.” Within minutes, I had achieved one of my ambitions, although that said, they were fine words from a man with breasts larger than my own wearing knee-length socks with open-toed sandals.

Everyone assumed I was painting for their entertainment, and that it was perfectly acceptable to peer over my shoulder and comment loudly, even tilting my sketch pad so they could see my painting. It’s also intriguing that my work was being assessed solely for how much it might be worth. Some observers made it clear that they believe all artists are paid Damien Hirst-amounts of money, when I want to shout that I make no money at all.

They discussed the art they show at home, which - intriguingly - was often acquired on holiday or while travelling. I thought: make me an offer, which I know is unlikely as I am playing with colour, experimenting with contrasts and combinations. ‘I like that one,’ smiled a German woman, hurried away by her husband with the word ‘bier’ pre-imminent in his destination.

Next I tried mixing colours, while some slightly more appreciative Dutch pensioners smiled politely. It was unnerving. I felt unable to play. I gathered my pots and stuff to sit elsewhere, but it was like art-busking. I ran out of water, and moved on the fill my cup under the beach shower, but someone followed me. I put some distance between myself and my ‘fans,’ settled down and started to paint again. Because people had to make an effort, and couldn’t just sticky-beak as they pass, I found some peace and quiet. When I looked up, however, three more passers-by were staring. They  obviously felt they had the right to watch, as if I should actually move round so they can see. Still, at least they were quiet.

And then at last, a Russian billionaire arrived. Well, I say billionaire, but I mean a daft bloke with a orange plastic blonde to impress. He asked how much to buy my paintings. I said he can’t afford it. He offered five hundred Euros. I said, come back with three hundred in cash and it’s yours. Off they went.

I never saw him again. I am sure you are as shocked as I was.

Sculpture

I was really looking forward to the sculpture experiment part of this innocent artistry mission, partly because I think sculptors are mad. I used to go to the club-night in an art school years ago and the following day, the dance-floor was usually littered with blood and body parts: for some reason all those rugged sculpture boys (and they were boys) were the meatheads of the place, and wouldn’t stop fighting. Maybe all that carrying and carving lumps of wood and rock had knocked the sense out of them.

I can’t see myself using marble (oh come on – how the hell…?) Nor can I picture myself standing enraptured in front of a rock waiting for its spirit guide to communicate, or for the shape to emerge. Predictably, when male artists ask the stone what it wants to be, the answer is often a naked lady.

Also, I loathe most of those awful mannered marble efforts, like Cannova’s creations, finding them prissy. As for classical Greek sculpture, I want to replenish their original gaudy colours, because they are too pure and soulless without it.

I will not be forcing massive ingots of metal through a grinder, or nailing forests together. I must accept the limitations I am working with. I can’t see why sculptures must be massive, or even made of stone (despite that making the majority of purchases for the those fantastic new outdoor sculpture parks) so I decided to make some micro-sculptures.

As for materials, well I am still travelling, and will always remember the joy of luscious Mediterranean fruit, sometimes standing over the sink as the delicious juice ran down my wrist. I wanted to use, and channel this image, while evoking the legend of Persephone and the pomegranate pips. I began by saving and scrubbing all my fruit stones, and consulted my talented friend Sybren Renema  who had the following advice:

(1) The back is just as important as the front

(2) The sculpture tells you when it is finished

Wise, useful and inspiring words.

I’ve bought some metallic ink along. While researching icons, I was reminded that we now associate precious metal, especially gold, with being tacky, and with bling, and with nouveau riche notions of value. It’s easy to forget that gold is appreciated not just because of its price, but because it is beautiful. It glints in the sun.

I assembled some stones, and encased them in metallic thread. It was the most intricate to achieve, and took the most forward planning. You can see the result above.

When every task is over, I must decide what to do with anything I produced. I can’t possibly carry all of my creations, but I’m pleased with this piece, and I might try sculpture again. I think the setting contributed to the work, and having seen it glistening in the sun on crystal sands, the ocean sparkling in the background, I can’t imagine that it would look effective on rainy concrete. I might keep it, just to make sure.

Photography

Carrying out the philosophy of this blog (that is trying any which way of making art) I freely admit that photography is the one studio-practice, discipline, endeavour or ‘thing’ I’ve been most dreading.

My fear is caused by the little box called a camera. It’s technology, which to outsiders might seem extreme (‘can she really be that inept?’) but please remember that for me, a door is a complex piece of machinery operated by invisible wizards. As for cameras… In order for my camera to obey me, I might sacrifice a goat to appease its spirit, or something. That camera can sense my fear. I approach it respectfully.

First, I need some subjects, but people ruin pictures by being difficult or ugly, and I include myself in that: in real life, I am a foxy babe, but whenever someone takes my photo, an obese angry nonagerian babushka jaunts in from a bygone age to stand in front of me while scowling at the lens. I have long admired those photographers who can, in one instant, capture not just a person as others see them, but something more, something deeper – a sense of what’s in their soul. I dream of doing that.

But on my bog-standard camera, people will seem like dots and landscapes will never seem sweeping and majestic, but distant, hazy and vague. Animals? Oh perr-lease. Staged tableaux? At some point maybe. Random stuff it is then.

I wander round the city, snapping whatever takes my fancy, following my friend’s wise advice to have fun, and oh – it’s like a Visconti film: camera in hand, artistic face, distracted air. I try buildings (small ones – skyscrapers are notoriously hard). My already immense respect for proper photographers increases with every picture taken.

I seek advice: my friend Ian Tilton who says: “The 'old school' advice in amateur photo magazines was to shoot with the sun always behind you. Well this just ain't right,’

Grammar Ian, grammar…

‘Backlight can often be best. You will have to increase your exposure if the light source is in your picture (or if it's just out of shot even), but your photographs will have beautiful atmosphere and depth. And the captured flare effects from extraneous light bouncing around your lens can be ethereal, psychedelic and heavenly.”

But this is me, wrangling with electrical equipment.

“Go against this "Old School Rule" and capture the spirit of God's lovely light. Let me hear y'say hallelluja, my Sister and Brother photographers ! Play, play, play. Xxx” 

And Ian should know. He’s taken some of the best portraits in the past twenty-five years.

I follow both his advice and his spirited encouragement, and visit  a beach. It’s slightly overcast albeit with bursts of the sun. There is a beautiful and tempestuous sea, and I take some wild-card snaps of still-life (ie rotting seaweed) but it just doesn’t work. I take pictures of my friend who is painting – which turn out, alright, I suppose. Then we get bored with sitting still, and go for a paddle. The result is infused with backlight. I like the sense of movement, and the composition.

Ian, your career is safe.