Blackpaint 36


I finally managed to get to the pub where my paintings were on show today, to take them down, a week late.  As I was loading them into the car, the next painter turned up with his work wrapped in a towel, just like mine.  We exchanged pleasantries.  Well over a month on show, and I’ve sold just two.  Still, I’ve got a few still up in another pub and another lot going up in another pub next Thursday.

It’s funny to have them back home again – they look fresher and brighter somehow, more interesting than I’d thought; I suppose it’s just that they are new to me again.

Attacked that pastel ice cream abortion last night with great swathes of dirty grey, blood red and slashes of black.  It doesn’t look pastel anymore!  Stuck it on the wall and surprised to see it looks great from the right hand side, looking in from the hallway.  From the front it looks shit, unfortunately.

From the Taschen Abstract Art, found the argument that an abstract painting is more “authentic” than a figurative one – in the sense that a figurative picture is only a representation of reality, can never be more than a copy, and hence a fiction, whereas an abstract painting is the real thing; the colours, shapes, marks are themselves, not representations (unless you think they are representations of your inner self, emotions and suchlike).  I assume this is old hat for those who have been to art school or done courses in art history, but it’s a new idea, or rather, new expression of an old idea for me.

Listened to Eisenhower Blues, by JB Lenoir, and Finlandia and 2nd Symphony, Sibelius.  I have to say that at times it reminded me of film music, a touch melodramatic – but then, so does Mahler, here and there ( his 2nd, the Resurrection,  in particular).



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