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Cutting my teeth here, with the tune of a lullaby I created to carry a poem I wrote about loss.

Lullaby for March

Martin Bentham

This is a bit of a catch-up from the beginning of October.

I went to the RWA for lunch and found that Mendip painter Martin Bentham was exhibiting his oil paintings in the New Gallery.

As is my way, I didn't read the gumph on the way in and set to studying the pieces for what I could get out of them (as I do).  Working clockwise from the door, I observed that his small canvasses didn't quite succeed with the bold, thick-textured technique he utilised.  They seemed very muddy and, well - a mess.  Much more rewarding were the larger canvasses, where the technique was in proportion with the space.  The more paintings I looked at (and the dates they were painted), the more I realised that what I was witnessing was a developing style in the artist, which was moving away from 'fine art' to a more abstract form of expression.  This room was roughly the fruits of five years work.

I enjoyed his large paintings, rural scenes, moss covered dry stone walls and skies painted seemingly from Van Gogh's colour palette.

On my way out I passed a smiling man ascending the stairs - judging from the self-portrait on the gallery wall I'd just left, it had to be Martin Bentham!  I stopped to thank him for the exhibition and ended up joining him back in the gallery to discuss aspects of his work.  He seemed really delighted to answer my questions.

I especially liked his 'The Apiarist 2' (the image below is borrowed from the blog Beyond The Frame)

I told him I could appreciate it is a composite of several strong elements -

• The bramble infused hedge
• The dry stone wall
• The hives and boxes
• The complex, flower strewn grass

Martin explained that he finds working in 'plein air' difficult, due to changing light conditions.  He prefers to use photographs and sketches.  He brought in the dry stone wall element to balance the picture.  The inspiration for the carpet of flowers is drawn from his own back garden.

On the subject of the growing abstract nature of his later works - he uses a palette knife.  Martin found that using brushes influenced him to draw with them, whereas the palette knives don't affect him in the same way.  Martin prefers oil paint, as it dries slowly and permits him to rework his paintings the day after he has started.  In addition he likes to work directly from the tube of paint, as mixing paint on the canvas has an immediacy and a chaotic nature that appeals to him :)

Martin Bentham is a lovely chap. He also has the most extraordinarily rough skin on his hands, which made for a memorable farewell handshake!

River

I've been regularly enjoying playing the piano.  Taught myself to play to a reasonable standard over the last year.  I already know how to read music, so it wasn't like I was starting from scratch.  The knock-on effect has been that my sight-reading has improved too - I know the bass clef well enough now, I don't to have to look up what the notes are anymore :)

I'm an avid charity shop scavenger of piano tidbits these days, as well as recently discovering the joys of digital downloads.   I have to watch out for song arrangements that carry the tune in the piano treble clef as well as provide the vocal line.  I think it's unnecessary if you sing along.  I prefer to have the piano provide the harmony alone and not the tune as well.  I like to think I can sing that part myself!

I decided that this winter I would learn pieces that mark the season, so aside from xmas carols, I'm studying Winter by Tori Amos, What Are You Doing This New Year's Eve by Frank Loesser and River by Joni Mitchell.

River is the first one I'm tackling, 'cause I love Joni Mitchell's music so much.  I've already had a go at Rainy Night House.  Bought a book of her music, entitled Anthology, but this was disappointing as all the glorious piano introductions are truncated AND each piece carries the tune in the piano accompaniment (tsk...).  Thankfully, I bought it from Amazon for £5, so it's no financial loss.

Downloaded better arrangements from Music Notes, though there are still segues from verse to verse that don't follow the recording.  I've been pasting portions of blank manuscript over these and correcting the piano part to what I hear on the album.  Reading the blurb on the digital manuscript, this action is illegal. Hmmm...

SS - a sketch

I was working with clients on their Cotswolds holiday last week and on one particular day, a visit to Worcester Cathedral, I forgot to pack the camera.  However, 'cause I carry my sketchbook everywhere, I attempted a quick portrait.  I think it's kosher to do that, right?  I'm not broadcasting his identity, I'm not breaking confidentiality, am I?  If I am, tell me so.  Anyway, here it is.  I'm proud of this sketch.

Magpie - Natural History Museum, London

I travelled by train to London on 5th September, specifically to go see a play Up4AMeet in Waterloo.  I also thought I'd visit the Natural History Museum for the FIRST TIME in my life and check out their magpie exhibit.

On the train, I tried to draw a stylised dandelion head.  Work in progress, it looks a bit like an allium...

I don't know how to convey what a thrill it was to enter the building.  Its already impressive red stone façade doesn't prepare you for the delights inside.  I couldn't wipe the smile off my face, taking in its vaulted ceilings, carved wooden interiors.  I sat eating my lunch in the café, gazing up at the ceiling of plant genuses.  A beautiful, magical place.

I followed the signs to the bird exhibits and the first reference to a magpie was a tail in a cabinet of bird portions (how else would you describe it?): heads, wings, claws and this tail section.

I took out my sketch book and pencil, dropped my bag to the floor between my feet and began to sketch those feathers.  Can I say at this juncture - the cabinet was bathed in natural light, no poking around in the dark here, thank you very much (take note, Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery).

Halfway through drawing that magpie tail, tiny stroke after tiny stroke, studying the light, I shed a tear. I was overcome with the concentration and the reward of seeing what I was creating come to life.  I surprised myself, truly I did. Around me the chatter of passing people became almost rhythmic - thanks to movie influences - as penguins, owls and parrots were routinely pointed out to young children...

A few people stopped to chat or to compliment my work, which was nice.  I had a lovely chat with a spanish student who asked me intelligent questions and conveyed her own interest in drawing people and fabric folds.  She looked through my sketchbook and it was one of those moments you feel understood.  Yeah, understood.

A surprise was to bump into Michelle Cioccoloni, whom I knew from Bristol Drawing Club. I didn't know she'd moved to London - and there we were together!

After drawing non-stop for TWO AND A HALF HOURS (I hadn't noticed the passage of time, so engrossed I had become) I packed up my stuff and stepped outside into brilliant sunshine.  It was there that I burst into tears.  It took a while to compose myself. I must have looked an idiot, leant over the wall sobbing into my hands.  Something in that period of time had moved me.  Some process other than drawing had occurred and I couldn't work it out.

Finally pulled myself together to order a coffee and a cake and sat in the sunshine.  Michelle found me again.  She told me a bit about the exhibition she'd been to - the one with plastinated, stripped down animals (Gunther Von Hagen).  I tried to explain the effect drawing the magpie tail had had one me.  I'm not religious, but it was a spiritual experience, in a way it fed my soul to immerse myself in studying and sketching for that period of time.  For the second time that day, it was so good to talk with someone who understands where you're coming from.

Ok, here's the sketch.

I'm definitely going back to the Natural History Museum.

More daisy duty

The following day, Sunday 19th August, I sketched more of the same daisies, this time from my own garden.

A couple of weeks later, I visited the scene of the crime, looking at architectural features I could include in the background of 'Minnie'.  Time wasn't on my side, so I'll have to revisit the gardens another time.

See No Evil & Magpie

I spent quite a bit of Saturday 18th August engaged in art.  First of all, I visited this year's See No Evil in Nelson Street.  It's not all new stuff, some of the superior pieces have been saved, while the new ones continue their quality, raising the overall calibre of art from last year - in my opinion.

I left there to climb Park Street and visit the stuffed animals in Bristol's Museum and Art Gallery.  I was seeking a magpie to sketch, to understand its structure more, but what I found was a bit disappointing.  The light is dreadfully low around the exhibits, so it was impossible to capture much detail.  It was hard work to focus in such low light conditions,  I suppose it's to protect the specimens (though, visiting London's Natural History museum later in the year, I had cause to question that as the reason...)

Flowers - Daisies

I was visiting Dad three days later and entered the garden to sketch flowers.  The garden holds very much Mum's choice of plants.  I sketched the daisies, trying to grasp a stylised version of them, rather than be slavishly true to their construction. It is difficult, though I've seen many artists render daisies very simply and effectively - you know that you're looking at daisies!

I surrounded them with thick lines, throwing the off white petals into relief.  I think it's a throwback from creating linocuts :)  I experimented with a little watercolour.

Flowers will form a frame around Mum and me, claustrophobic, symbolic.

Minnie the Moocher

I had my first idea for the format of the painting on 9th August.  Mum is reaching for the poppy head, her handbag poised to conceal her treasure.  Initially I was blindfolded, but at the time I was shocked by her action and fearful of getting caught, so I need to communicate that.

Joey Arias

The main event for my day in London, August 8th, was to finally see the New York cabaret artist Joey Arias perform his Billie Holiday act as an invited guest at Antony Hegarty's Southbank Meltdown.

I first witnessed his mannered impersonation of the black american jazz singer a long time ago, during one music segment of GaytimeTV on BBC2 (early 90s?) - Good Morning Heartache was the song and his delivery was spot on and SPOOKY.

So, twenty years (and then some) down the line, I'm no longer the young guy getting a buzz from having gay topics broadcast on national tv, I'm fifty-something, drunk on two (or three) large glasses of white wine, and I'm sat in the Queen Elizabeth Hall, with Lou Reed and Kim Cattrall almost breathing down my neck in the row behind me (stop looking back at them).

The lights go down after Antony takes his seat in my row (stop looking over at him) and the trio of drums, piano and upright bass stir us up for Joey's arrival on stage.  He walks on in a black, extremely close-fitting fish-tailed gown - a more statuesque figure I've never seen - a gives a bravura performance.  Well worth the wait.  The only concession to more modern material is to include The Beatles(!), but he excels in reviving the Lady in Satin's back catalogue.

He got a very warm reception.  Obviously some queens got a bit out of hand shouting how much they love him, but then - who hasn't done that?

Joey Arias has pedigree, there is no doubt when you see him perform.  He even has, in the past, sung back up vocals for David Bowie - in the company of Klaus Nomi, no less.  Unfortunately the entire Saturday Night Live performance has disappeared from YouTube and we're left with this snippet.

BP Portrait Award 2012

Earlier that day, I went to the National Portrait gallery to see the finalists and prize-winners of the BP Portraits Award.

There were a lot of photo-realistic portraits, as usual on enormous canvasses.  Some too clever for their own good - there's a point when you can no longer 'ooh...' each moist eye, short depth of field image.  I am continually swinging between favouring loose interpretations of a subject and pin-sharp representations.

I will say I liked 'The skateboarder' by Erik Olson for its broad bold execution and that it is a piece broken down by zones of light and shadow.

Ben Ashton's 'Lindsay Lohan' has delicate detail and fine brushwork to produce a small, but photo-realistic self-portrait.

Ian Cumberland's unsettling portrait (of domestic abuse?) 'Today You Were Far Away'.

Lastly, Jean-Paul Tibbles 'Self-Portrait'

This was one of several paintings that was accompanied by a description of the process of creating a piece from drawings, preliminary sketches, photographs and sittings before the final painting is attempted.  As a novice I found that really helpful information.  Naive to think they'd sit down and rattle off a self-portrait without research and preparation...

I am struggling with the concept of using photos.  Where do you draw the line between letting a photo influence your creativity?  I suspect the photo-realistic paintings go too far, for my taste.  Or am I jealous of the skill that result requires?

Edvard Munch at Tate Modern

I also visited the Edvard Munch exhibition, the same day as the Hirst exhibition.  A great deal of self portraits charting a lifetime preoccupation of his, and the development of a handful of other works that became repetitious and led to my boredom.  Lots of things to take in, too much as usual.  Of the few paintings in the exhibition I saw style and colour similarities with the impressionist movement and specifically Van Gogh.  Other than that, I found myself ploughing through.  This skimming was exacerbated by desire to remove myself from the intrusion of people taking photos where they were requested not to - I found this enormously distracting and frustrating.

Tate Modern and a bit more about Hirst

I took a day trip to London on 8th August, specifically to see Joey Arias perform at Antony Hegarty's Southbank Meltdown (more of that later) and to visit Tate Modern.  I've mentioned Damien Hirst already, but I have to say something about the exhibition sizes at Tate Modern.

Quite often I find the major exhibitions at the Modern too much to take in.  They are immense and the stimulation is too great.  I stop seeing when my eyes have had enough.  It happened with the Paul Gaugain exhibition, amongst others.  The Damien Hirst was no exception.

I went into the exhibition expecting to understand Hirst better.  After I had visited the Francis Bacon exhibition at Tate Britain, I felt I was more familiar with Bacon's expressive style, felt more in tune, felt able to let him in, make contact with what he was presenting.  I didn't get that impression by the end of the Hirst exhibition.  For a start there was a sense of progress in what Bacon was achieving through his art.  I wasn't aware of that at the Hirst exhibition.  In addition, art that is the arrangement of items produced by others leaves me cold.

Oh, the loose threads

I'm working on another catch-up for the blog today, which will be useful in documenting recent exposure to other people's activities and those of my own.  Forgive the back-pedalling, but I think it'll be useful for moving on.

I think Antony Hegarty read my mind.

A project, which may take some time

I've started work on a project - probably a painting, which draws on an experience I once had with my Mum.  I think it will have humour and pathos.

I took my mother to the university botanical gardens one day in late Summer.  We had a great time taking tea in the café, looking at her favourite plants, leading her in her wheelchair, around the paths.  We came across a bed of poppies, some of which had reached the stage where they've lost their petals and grown a hard seed case.  Mum had me position her as close to the bed as was possible, considering the wheelchair, the gravel and the metal edge of the path.  Her speaking voice changed its quality, became soft and seductive "aw, would you look at that..., isn't that beautiful..., have you ever seen..." as she caressed a poppy seed case in a rather fawning way, then swiftly snapped it off and secreted it into her handbag!  My uncle, her brother had told me about 'minnie the moocher', but Mum had never let her guard down before.  My mother - the thief.

I'm collecting sketches: plants, aspects of architecture of the garden we had visited, thinking about metaphors.  I'm off to the museum to sketch a stuffed magpie...

Damien Hirst

I caught the Tate Modern exhibition yesterday - the cases of bisected beasts in formaldehyde, the freshly butchered cow head and the flies, the surgical steel and pharmaceutical arrangements.  I went to see if I might understand the artist better.  After 14 rooms inc. one with live chrysalises and butterflies commanding the space and dictating where you take each step (but, hell - I know two butterfly farms in close proximity to Bristol).  I think I 'get it', but don't find it inspiring.

If anything, and this in itself is not unique, Hirst provides a critique of art - if art preserves a moment, if art attempts to capture the natural world, why not use formaldehyde to do that?  If art is a careful arrangement of colour and form, then a wall of tablets and capsules satisfies the same criteria.  A video interview contained shots of his own naive skill with paint.  I think Hirst admitted he could play with colour ad infinitum.  It was evident a paintbrush wasn't going to the weapon of choice for long...

Look at some people on Facebook, for example.  Thousands upon thousands of unedited photos lie in burgeoning albums: no editorship.  It's as if a digital camera vomited its contents onto the web.  Devoid of objectivity (or even subjectivity), we are presented with the blurred, subject-less, repetitive, unimaginative 'snaps'.  If a single second of effort is made leading the viewer's eye, communicating something that is greater than the components of the image, one could consider a photo as art.

Perhaps I've learnt something after all.

'Life'

I've just finished reading Keith Richards' autobiography 'Life'.  It manages successfully to present (to my eye) a cohesive picture of a musician's development and what it takes to be a member of The Rolling Stones.

What fascinated me the most was the progress of 'Keef' in finding the music that turned him on.  There is his interest in what made that music tick.  The book describes the long hours he spent teasing apart the threads of that music, when the group's initial aim was to simply bring American R'n'B to the attention of their audience.

There are bits where I knew exactly what he meant about the creative process.  Keef comes up with a tune and the lyric is not entirely clear, but he knows the sound of it - the line has to end with an 'ay' sound, or an 'aw' sound to be right.  I've been there.  I think, in all creative fields, one should never be afraid to experiment, dabble, have a go, leave it, come back to it, let the thing grow piecemeal if it must.  Don't expect to have something creative arrive intact, perfect.  The fear of imperfection is a bloody great hurdle to creativity, I think.

Reading Keef's exploits, they both attract and repel me.  He's a bon viveur and that has led him into some intriguing and terrifying scrapes.  He mentions projects outside the Rolling Stones which interested me and led me to pursue recordings I'd never known of before.  He makes friends with anyone he feels an affinity with.  He says something in the book like 'I'll trust you until you let me down', which I admire.  He details his close working relationship with Mick Jagger - that's a tough job.  I think Keef would be a great guy to chill with, but on the other hand I'd never want to piss him off!

I enjoyed the book a great deal.  It had been on my shelf a good year or so and took me about two weeks to eventually read.  At the end of it (an abrupt end, I have to say - took me completely by surprise) I felt that sense of loss, the thing you feel when you reach the final pages of a book and want it to go on forever.  That's a bittersweet feeling, but a good thing.

I'd recommend 'Life' to anyone who loves real music and a free spirit.

Life drawing at the Tobacco Factory

I attended my first two-hour life-drawing session at the Tobacco Factory, Ashton Gate, organised by Michelle Cioccoloni.  Straight after an 11½ hour shift, I wasn't sure I'd have enough energy to meet the challenge.  However, after a plate of mezze and carbs (not to mention a pint of milk stout) I was ready to have a go.

The room was reasonably small (got a trifle warm, which I guess was more comfortable for the nude model).  From what others said, the present group of around 10, is not representative of the larger attendance this session generally attracts.

The session was made up of six varied 10 minute poses dictated by a model, a break of quarter of an hour, then a 45 minute pose to round off the evening.

Here are the best sketches from my 10 minute studies.

Finally, the 45 minute study.

I enjoyed the challenge of the 10 minute studies, but was grateful for the long study at the end.

I used a HB pencil and a stubby graphite block on ordinary cartridge paper.

I look forward to doing this again, sometime.

Father's Day Card

I'm trying to keep a promise to myself not to buy cards, but make them :S It's Father's Day today and I've left it to the last minute. I decided that I'd make a card with a theme that means something to dad and to me. I sketched my old walking boots. Decades of reliability, a companion to the highs and lows of life - you can see where this is going... I drew the boots five times, trying different styles.

Next, I tried excruciating detail, but that was taking too long and where do you stop...?

  Abstract...

  I finally chose a cartoon-style, finished in watercolour.

Happy Father's Day, Pop! x

Its Getting Better

All I Have To Do Is Dream

Mum (again)

Mum died this morning, just before half ten.  We were all there, as usual - chatting together and involving mum although she was by then in a comatose state from the pain relief.  Suddenly her breathing changed and we knew it was time.  We stood around her bed, in her home, holding her hands, holding our hands, a circle of family, of grief and love.  Mum gave a couple more short breaths and was gone.

A few days earlier, I had tried sketching her weary eyes.

I couldn't bring myself to sketch her after she'd passed away.

The rest of the day was very busy.  Mum's body wasn't collected from the house til late afternoon.  We got used to having our mother's shell in the place.  We talked to her, tidied her up for the funeral directors and got on with the arrangements for her funeral.  In the weeks prior to mum's death, we'd had some time to come to terms with what was happening.

I stumbled on some photos late in the afternoon - mum as a young woman in a black and white shot smiling in the company of a youthful dad.  I cried uncontrollably for the first time in ages.  Where has all that life gone?  Anyone?

Mum

My Mum has fought thyroid cancer for decades.  It has spread to her torso.  At the age of almost 77, she has decided to stop fighting it.  With the support of my sisters, I help Dad to get a night's sleep every night by sleeping over and staying alert to Mum's needs: nausea, vomiting, discomfort, toileting.  No two nights are hardly ever alike.  Thankfully, we have the support of the palliative care team, district nurses, O/T for equipment, CHC funded services to provide personal care in the early evening - and lately, local hospice support, which will increase in its importance as Mum's health declines further.

In the late evening, once Dad has gone to bed, I sit with Mum, administer her last meds, then wait for her to settle.  You never know if the nausea will come, or she may need the loo again, or her position might need adjusting.  Mum mumbles things I can't quite make out, a mix of reality and confused dreams.  She can no longer move, but she dreams of walking in the Lake District (I think BBC Wainwright series is the cause of that!)

Last night I tried to sketch her as she prepared to sleep.

Oil pastels

I tried my hand at oil pastels this afternoon.  I like the way they blend.