Holy Cow
Holy Cow

Perhaps Aaron was right: find yourself lost in the wilderness and you offer your prayers to anyone who’ll listen.
Perhaps not.

Either way — no deals. All these gods have had thousands of years to hone their negotiating tactics. No quid pro quo.

Perhaps it’s a problem we have.

Stalked by Poussin again it seems.

The Night Watch

The Night Watch
The Night Watch

Narrative painting is anathema to me. Absolutely. Totally. The curse of English Art as Francis Bacon believed. He never painted a narrative painting in his life. Bollocks. All of it.
Literary painting, yes. Illustrating limp tales of limp knights and soft porn nymphs and moist snaggle-haired witches on damp nights. Yep.

Great Art is great because it is universal, self-contained, self-sufficient … sounds like self-abuse to me.

But I never thought I would make an image that was set somewhere, never mind one that took in time.
Cave paintings, royal hunts, bible stories, Buddhist monks, manga, rebellious Gauls … OK, fair enough — it’s all been there all along.

But these people seem to have taken charge, writing and directing, choreographing, improvising, playing games. My job is to just record. OK, fair enough.

Perhaps Corona dreams are a thing after all.

Added to my Sketches page.

Twilight’s Last Gleaming

Picnic Dance
Picnic Dance

It was a long day … in all sorts of ways.

Well, I added them to my rolling list.

Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe

the picnic
The Picnic

Or a Picnic at Hanging Rock … I don’t know.

It’s been a long time coming … again.

And it is good in parts, parts of it are excellent, parts not.

They were there, they are there and the there is Zennor Hill and it is.
The immediate objective is achieved but the quest is yet to be fulfilled. Progress.

So — What’s next?

I added it to my Sketches page.

Elephantine Gestation

Anput Leading the Way
Anput Leading the Way

She was a long time coming …

Somehow a darker version seemed more apposite … I have no idea why.

Now to keep moving. Somehow

Happy Vernal Equinox

Acephale Spinning
Acephale Spinning

Just added to my sketches again.

Seem to have been infected with the mood … Seeing people at their best and at their worst … slow motion but relentless …

Spinning the thread of life I suppose.

Headless Chickens

Dancing Acephale
Dancing Acephale

Me, rather than this fella. As in running around like … that sort of week.
Not sure where he surfaced from … apart from that hypnopompic dozy time before you’re fully awake.

Just a few new additions in a week of work.

Social Media

The Archivist
The Archivist

There I was about to write an erudite, apposite, and any other sort of ite, post about the ways in which social media are corrupting our relationships and poisoning our conversations, if not actually having much real effect on our political world, (with quotes and percentages and all) while paradoxically enriching our connectiveness and widening our world views … and then I thought: I’m tired, I’ve had a lovely relaxing day, thinking of nothing more strenuous than chickens and how to enrich their diet and ironically a new twist on chicken chasseur, which worked beautifully by the way, and luxuriating in cheap wine and warm fire and good company and I thought: sod it, I’m going to read a book and fall asleep and dream of paradises as yet unimagined, works as yet untried, triumphs as yet untasted and … well … that’s private.

Sleep well. Sweet dreams.

Oh, and I’ve added this sketch to my rolling page too. Enjoy.

Moving on …

Mary Fletcher reviewed my show at Redwing and I thought I needed to reply.

I live down here, out on the raggedy edge, in Penwith — witchy and wild, beautiful and hard and a long long way from any metropolis.

Why would I try to evoke the atmospheric landscape, why would I want to wallow in expressionist, material, slippy sloppy slidey, sweeping, oily paint. It’s all too easy and all too hard — impossible. Been there. Got lost and lonely and felt the strength draining from my hand.
Sunrise can take your breath away, the thundering surf can inspire real awe, the hard undertow of riptide and granite batholith beneath your feet can unnerve you, one false step … the wind can scour and the wide skies drown you, beauty is real and terrifying, so what can I do, say, about that? And why would I want to? There’s more to life than this.


Be honest. Be simple. Be modest. How modest can you be?

I make things. Decorative panels to decorate. That’s all.
And that’s a lot. I am confident, skilled, still and hard. I know what I’m doing. I think.
And the subject matter is arbitrary. Stuff.
And not. Surreal in that it bubbles up, crystallises, makes real dream images.
Nothing, no-one is blank … we can’t pretend to be … we are moved by forces bigger, deeper than us. I deal with it, OK. I want to be blanker so I take what I’m given.
Then work.


It can be grand in terms of culture but does anyone care that the Lamassus were the guardian spirits of Mesopotamia? That Reapers are hunting them down?

What do I think about our alienation from the natural world, “real” food, “authentic” poverty? How do I react to the fetishising of weapons, to the visceral fear and hatred of the dispossessed? How do I feel about the abuse of power and the immunity of privilege?
It’s complicated.
I am furious and raging and impotent and confused … glamour is glamour, power is power, the world as it is is all we have, and we are just what we are. I want to look it all in the face … and try to understand, not lash out and condemn — I know what I believe but who am I to judge?
The English are implacably binary: if it turns you on it’s porn, if not it’s erotica. If an image of heroism doesn’t inspire, conjure up, illicit heart pounding, wide eyed pride, what’s the point. If an image of fear and despair doesn’t unnerve you, disarm you, crush you a little, what’s it for. If an image of something powerful doesn’t give you a moment of swaggering, arrogant superiority, why bother? Good drugs make you feel good, no?
I am ambivalent. Implicated. Guilty. And sad. And angry and full of joy and fear like all of us.
And busy … making images.

Red Flag

Banksy does what Banksy does and does it brilliantly but I have no interest in easy scores, in polemic, lectures, stand-up … one-liners. All I ask, I suppose, is that you stop.
Stop and think. Question. Pause.

silly sisters

Every minute you spend with a painting, a work of art, is a minute you are not being bought, sold to, exploited, working for someone else … it’s a minute for you, your time. So precious.


And so I’m drawing like crazy. Searching for a theme, a guiding star.

I’m so unsure that I need a head of steam, can I do it, is there enough, does it make sense, is it strong and true, does anyone care? And so … getting there.

Smile - Ferry Crossing

So the plan is … a sketch a day … a theme will emerge. Ideas are already accreting: Doing, Women … we’ll see.

And then … today … I didn’t get to finish anything.

Except this …

Social Disease

Opening Party

Andy Warhol had “social disease” — he’d go to the opening of a toilet seat.

Me too.

Still haven’t quite come down. Been busy making prints and renovating my fixer-upper website but still grooving on the amazing support and encouragement from all our friends last week.

I’ve only just noticed that everyone kept their coats on — it was that cold? And people are reading?

Thanks N … it was lovely.