blackpaint 3

I never see anyone else with canvases or paintings on the tube; am I the only painter in London who takes canvases home or delivers paintings on the Underground?   I swathe them in bubblewrap, keep the painted side towards me and keep to the end of the carriage, so as not to obstruct the seats.  I had to cart two 26 stops to the other end of the Northern line last week – worth the journey, however.

I finished the red and grey one last night, and it came out just like another from a couple of months ago – only different colours.  So, that pretty much bears out what I was writing yesterday about how I paint, and it has made me determined to change my method.  I buy canvas in twin packs, so from now on, I’m going to do one according to a predetermined plan and a sketch and stick to it, however crap I think it’s turning out – and the other one using my old “method” .  So, first plan is to have large expanse of canvas one colour with no significant markings and the rest crowded with some sort of motif(s).

The Saatchi thing on TV was interesting – the deserted “zoo” with the pathetic canvas rock was judged best, even though it got the lowest public vote (60 something per cent though – probably a lot more than most pieces of public sculpture would get, if not tied to a TV programme).  I liked the self – doubt on display; the lad building the rock looked at it dolefully at one point and said “Sometimes I don’t think I’m an artist – more like some sort of eccentric builder” – or words to that effect.  It makes a change from people on these programmes insisting how passionate they are about this and that.  The British are  not supposed to be passionate, in public anyway.

I thought the public were surprisingly positive towards the various efforts; in my experience, most people want a painting or sculpture to be figurative.  Anything else is dismissed with a crisp “load of rubbish!” or a more polite “I don’t like modern art, it doesn’t look like anything”.  This lot were getting approval ratings of 80, 90 per cent.  maybe it was a nice day, or they’d all had a few beers, or they saw the cameras – or maybe they’ve just got a lot more receptive to conceptual art suddenly.

Listening to Elder ID Beck, “Poor Pilgrim of Sorrow” and Bessie Smith, “House rent Blues”

“Sometimes I’m tossed and I’m driven

And I know not where to roam;

But I’ve heard of a city called  Heaven,

And I’ve started to make Heaven my home.”


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