Just added this to my new Art Vault.
Been steering clear of it for two years: for obvious reasons.
But it’s still propped up against the wall in the studio, staring back at me.
I’m not being facile or glib conflating Auschwitz and Broadmoor.
When I painted this, almost the first of these “flat paintings”, a couple of years ago, I wasn’t thinking about making any sort of public statement at all — it actually crystallised from a vivid, terrifying and haunting, recurring dream from my past, jumbling competing, overlapping fears. In that way alone it was real. It is only about what I felt, feared.
It’s not stupid, ignorant or childish: it was never intended to say anything about the people who devote their lives to caring for the fractured and fragile minds inside and it doesn’t. It only accidentally became caught up in my anger at what Jimmy Savile had been allowed to get away with and the other stories of abuse of inmates.
I’m still not certain whether or not it should be public or private but I just want to be honest. Oh well.