Toads
No time to write much today; I’ve got some new paint, so I’m working. I find everything gets really highly colourful when I get new paint, so I end up having to grey or black it all down again, to give it that authentic, gritty, British, fifties/sixties, St.Ives-y feel that is my “comfort zone”.
I’m looking at red, orange, pink and ochre patches, set in a desert of khaki and grey, linked by a thick, black, tree-like canal on a sky-blue coastline – metaphorical tree, canal and coastline, of course. and yes, it does look as horrible as it sounds. Where’s the black paint and messy charcoal?
It strikes me that we (minor artists, trying to get bigger) are like those tree frogs and toads that you see on Attenborough programmes, the ones that blow themselves up like huge bladders at mating time to get attention; the more minor we are, the more stuff we seem to have on the web, trying to attract attention – like a blog, I suppose.
I checked out Bacon hands and feet – I think Richardson has a point. The only pair of hands clearly on view were those of the wicket keeper in the cricket painting (did he only do one?); straight, fat fingers-gloves, I suppose. As for the pope gripping the chair, hands are sort of blurred. Who cares, though?
Listening to:
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle (Pogues’ version, of course!); and LA Woman, the Doors.
“Then we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
And it started all over again”.
“Cruisin’ down your freeway,
Midnight alleys moan:
Cops in cars, the topless bars,
Never seen a woman,
So alone…”
Blackpaint
Blackpaint's Blog 