The God of Light

4 October 2023

The God of Light

 Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 11 April 2024, oil on canvas board, 30 X 25 cm

“Light doesn’t know itself until it comes into a room.” Louis Kahn, architect, 1901 - 1974

Who could not love this lyrical quote by Louis Kahn? Personally, I like how it relates to my own pictures, which  despite their size, are full of unbridled light. What comes to mind particularly in this regard is that the canvas board, at a mere 30 X 25 cm, is the room, and it's both the structure and the restraint holding in the light. 

Louis Kahn was a brilliant architect and creator (who also made two separate families concurrently, unbeknowst to either one of them). So, evidently he had a few quirks going on, but he was nonetheless very successful and a heavyweight in architectural circles. His buildings were rather masculine and muscular, and he used a lot of cement in his career to prove it. He worked around the world, and one of my favorites buildings is the library which he made for Philips Exeter Academy, though I’ve actually only seen it from photos.

But in any event, this quote rings a bell for me personally, because I didn’t know what light was until I arrived in the South of France as a student and began painting there. I had been there before as a child, and I’d certainly seen works by Cezanne, Gauguin, Van Gogh and Monet in museums, but I hadn’t actually seen what they saw until I began to paint there for myself. To be really truthful, I didn’t know myself until I became a painter.

To take this allusion further, I wonder if perhaps God didn't even know herself until humankind created her through Art. 

One can see this everywhere around the vast and complicated world, but mostly in those cultures that still feel gratitude for a deity at having created them. In today’s revisionist culture, isn’t it tricky to have to wade into all this murkiness to find light? But I do, because I myself, share this feeling of gratitude. God is a complicated idea to even mention in polite society. I’ve been a fan of the cryptic notion that ‘God is a mystery, and that only through mystery can we know God’. 

One might need an imagination to swim naked in this realm of philosophy. Would it not perhaps be the same inspiration that engages us whenever we walk through our favourite museum? In fact, I sense that if more of us made the time to lean into our own imagination, the happier and more creative we’d all be, imagine that? 

So, OK, what I really want to say is that this quote of Kahn’s, like a Freudian slip, indicates something that relates to his own feelings about humankind’s relationship to Nature. 

Does Kahn believe that humanity completes God’s incomplete vision for this world? Or does God need humankind to complete its vision’? If so, I like this the best because it speaks to so many churches, temples, mosques, and all other holy sites around the world. But despite this, and however one thinks of God, it has little to do with religion or the Church, though many might not agree. For me, like I said, God lives in the creative realm of imagination, not in the world of humankind’s construct of religions and doctrines. That humankind has created these places in which to worship and pray seems already extraordinary to me. They had to have been first imagined, then constructed, in order to please their chosen deities. But actually, I certainly didn’t wish to wade into all this except to say that I’ve always loved the spaces of churches, temples and mosques, in my small travels around the world. But, I'll add that every space on earth can possess the sacred if we are invested that particular belief. Everyday, we humans walk around naked in the sacred, whether we know it or not.

But there are extraordinary places where the sacred and the profane all converge. I remember visiting the Romanesque church of Vézelay a few years back. Inside, it felt like a large and lively space full of sunlight. A few weeks later I visited the small austere church in the village of Conques, finished in the 12th century. In extreme constrast to Vézelay which had felt to me like a vast and sumptuous living room in the home of some very happy British family, this dim compact Romanesque church gave me the feeling of being locked inside a crypt. And yet it too, also held for me an air of the sacred. It’s stained glass windows were updated in 1994 by the French artist Pierre Soulages, which at the time created a great commotion due to his ultra simple ‘modernist’ design in pale off-white and greyish nuances that emptied the church of colour. I’ve never been moved by his paintings or drawings, his oeuvre leaves me cold, but in France, he still holds a high place in the pantheon of Contemporary Art. That said, I absolutely loved what he did for this small church, and it’s a reminder to me that every space houses a unique tonal structure of its own. 

To clarify why I think of all religious sites as both sacred and profane, it’s because they were built by humans, perhaps with high ideals, but humans nonetheless. And the Middle Ages, let’s be honest, were dark ages, and dark instincts. It would have been an especially grim time to be a craftsman working on a church all one's life for the sake of the Church.  

That said, in a perfect world, wouldn’t it be enough for humankind to makes its mark upon this heavenly earth by manifesting a purposeful meaning through each unique life? We call this Human Rights and it's a shockingly recent idea. 

In Artistic terms, I think this would mean that for artists to create, it would be to both celebrate Life, but Nature too. Speaking as a painter, I need this modern and contrapuntal idea of a Picture that manifests this gift of Nature solely through the use of an abstract means with which to re-create it. Didn’t Claude Monet, after all, need to splice open the French countryside so the rest of us could also see God’s poppy fields? And didn’t Giorgio Morandi open us all up to the quiet Modernist but familial charm of a few cups and bottles intimately placed together? What I do know is that Vincent Van Gogh invented the Sunflower and unleashed it upon the world like he was the first Instagram influencer. He subsequently  took over our calendars, postcards and bookshops the whole world-over.

Either way, in the end, isn’t all creation about how we give beauty back to God, however which way we understand it, her, him, they? I know it’s not fashionable to articulate any of this in Contemporary Art circles, but after all, isn’t all Indigenous Art everywhere around the world all about that? Have we Modernists in the West missed something?

But anyway, I suspect that in this Contemporary World of Art, we’ve sadly become a little too clever and vain to admit this sort of thing even to ourselves late at night when we’re all alone with our thoughts.

So, this very friendly-looking picture from a few nights ago surprises me today as I take notes. It was one of two studies from a blank sky that bloomed suddenly toward the very end of the session. The sea had been yellow, but almost in an instant, it turned blood red, then on to purple, as I tried to follow it into nightfall. 

An empty canvas board is simply white noise. But fill it with paint and it becomes a room, will it be dark or full of light? Will it be sacred or profane? All these things depend upon the craft and vision of the artist.  

As can often happen life today, I am asked once in a while if I believe in God, or am I religious, or spiritual? I usually respond that because I’m a painter, I mostly believe in Light, whether or not it’s found in a church, a temple, or on a tennis court. If there’s light somewhere, I’m all in.

Grace in all her forms

14 April 2024

Grace in all her forms

 Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 11 April 2024, oil on canvas board, 30 X 25 cm

Despite my secular demeanor, I confess (sotto voce) that I have an angel in my life whom I call Grace. She circles around me somewhat invisibly I think at all hours. She’s 24/7, like an Emergency Room and she is available for a chat, zoom, or interrogation at any moment of the day. She’s omniscient, but not an omnivore so there’s no problem there. She’s not shy about showing up at moments when I least expect it and she'll always come when I call out. For example, when I’m about to serve at the baseline on the tennis court, I'm down 0-40 and in a pickle, I’ve often asked her (politely) “Grace, give me an ace. To my surprising, she frequently obliges me. I don’t believe in God but I have come to believe in angels.  

The other evening at the beach she showed up as a magpie, but the day before, as a young bush turkey who hung around me for almost the entire session, snooping around my backpack but believe me, I’m not the superstitious type, not paranoid, nor narcissist or conspiracist. I’m just a painter who has faith in what the Greek poets used to call the ‘Muses’. We mortals have the paws and claws to navigate the hills and dales of earth but they hold the wisdom in the wind.

That said, Grace, for all her generous wisdom and strange beauty, has a voice like Wilma Flintstone. Coffee Cake! She calls me out, while chiding me gently with her hoarse and coarse voice, but bowing my head I take it like a novice monk. She’s calm but stern, and she shows exasperation in any number of ways when I don’t pay attention. Though I‘m a grown man, she appraises me with irony like I'm a six year old after spilling jam all over my Sunday best. But that’s just the way it is for us mortals, it’s a contractal thing, I think. We just have to take it. But for my part I'm all in.

But that’s only one of the many sides of her, for she is joyful too, like when I’ve done something well, especially on the dunes after a productive session. And she’s full of mirth too, at times with the mouth of a union guy from the Bronx. Her humour is wicked, because I couldn’t abide by an angel all stony and cold like in the churches of my youth. But, to be frank, I haven’t quite figured all this out yet. It’s still kind of new for me, and I’m just going with each moment because I see that my life runs smoother with an angel hovering overhead.

This study is the second one of two pictures from a few nights ago. Though I don’t generally spend a lot of time on these things, each of these two, took about twenty minutes each, which is a lot for me. Both are a little more developed than usual because I’m piling on more pigment in layers. I’m throwing paint over wet paint which is somewhat tricky. Some are quite skilled at this way of painting but I’ve never been, not in a quick session anyway.  

It was a magnificent ‘Bloom’ but it didn’t last long. When I began it looked like it might it stretch into the night but it petered-out quickly, probably due to the half moon which was watching benevolently overhead. Still, I’m happy with it. It's more developed than much of what I've done in the series. Maybe I’ve developed more trust that I won’t lose my way in the picture? There is alway so little time to catch something and make it work. Perhaps I need more confidence and faith in myself. 

But to be out again and painting at the beach is both a great pleasure and privilege. After so much rain these weeks (and months), Grace continually reminds me not only to be grateful, but graceful too. And this I find funny because it’s an adverb that few of my friends would attribute to me. I’ve always been a bit maladroit due to my uncertainties of living in this lanky body. Her reminders are heeded. I know they're not admonishments but more like gentle mantras whispered in my ear when she is the wind.

“Man!, you hadda be there!”

6 June 2020

“Man!, you hadda be there!”

 Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 1 August 2024, oil on canvas board, 30 X 25 cm

There are some days when I paint feel like I’ve taken mushrooms but forget that I’ve taken them. These kitschy colourful skies, like confectionery, look edible and delicious even, as if found on a shelf at the candy shop.

At some point in my youth, I discovered the works of Maxfield Parrish who was an American painter and illustrator. He lived a long and very successful creative life, and his paintings and book illustrations were extremely popular in the 20th century. His colour harmonies are kind of 

over-the-top and quite surreal, fantastical even, such were my feeling as a kid. Because he was an illustrator his pictures were often loaded with dreamy-looking damsels in distress and young men dressed as brave handsome white knights. Looking at them today, I see they lean in towards the Pre-Raphaelite school, but one that had ingested psychodelics. 

So, curiously enough, this painting from the other night reminds me not of the greatest colourist of the 20th century, Vincent Van Gogh, but of the Maxfield Parrish of my youth. And like any figurative painter, I’ll try to convince you that the sea and sky from the other evening really, really, did look like this (I swear!). But of course, I’d be exaggerating because it’s really just a painting, an illusion like Maxfield Parrish’s whole oeuvre. Just like all art of every sort, it’s just an interpretation, an invention created out of curiosity by a painter.

But indeed, the other night was rather exceptional I admit. It was a clean polished sky of unusual clarity and I tried to do it justice. This was the second of two studies. Honestly, just being out there on the frigid and desolate dunes while working from these crazy twilight colours, I felt completely perfect. I could have died and all would be good on earth, as it might also be in heaven too.

While writing, I have been listening to the film work of Gabriel Yared all month these past months. Over and over again, the same scores seep their way right into my heart.Like most of his oeuvre, it’s extremely sensual. I gone through everything many times over, the ones I really like even more. It’s perfect music to write by. This week I’ve been listening to the English Patient. I know many people like to hate it but frankly, being in Tuscany with Juliettte Binoche is 

pretty well worth the ticket price. Then there is the delicious scene in the San Franscisco basilica in Arrezzo when Juliette is hoisted up by the nimble Sikh to look to see Piero della Francesca frescoes up close with flashlight. Lots of writers prefer 

silence to write by. I like everything, especially rain, but even the noise of bustling train station is OK. When I have an idea nothing impedes it. 

So, anyway, the other evening was great, and the pictures came up easily to my surprise. Like the surfers say, “Man, you hadda be there!”

Red, White and Blue

30 May 2020

Red, White and Blue

Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 28 May 2020, oil on canvas board, 25 X 20 cm

Chilly nights are here but happily, the days have been warm and full of colour. There is a small moon which doesn’t appear to impede the ‘Bloom’.

Australia is opening up and the beach is full of people, and like everywhere it seems they’re out and about, socialising as if the pandemic never existed. But the virus is still around, and I suppose the tourists will apparently make sure it stays around for a while longer. Honestly, it’s become such a political and social divide that I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. But happily, I’ve still been able to avoid it so far. 

From two nights ago came this study which brought me much joy. It was the second of two and yes, in a way, there is a strong verisimilitude to it, but if so, it’s purely by chance because as is always the case, it only came together in the last few moments. Nothing is ever planned out in advance in these quick studies, the final act always comes to me as a surprise. 

This quick way of working creates the right space for spontaneity and it also allows me to find an unambiguous response to a specific instance during this hour when the sky seems so full of charged energy.

At this beach a painter can (and should) ask what it is they are after in these skies. In fact a painter should even ask why indeed they are painting the sky at all? Let’s be honest, it’s a dangerous subject for anyone. One can fall down too easily in front of so much potential kitsch. But hey! It’s fun. Isn’t that enough?

Anyway, because I can be such homebody, I’m always after anything that pushes me outside of my boundaries and painting is a great vehicle and built for speed. There are periods when the sky can often ressemble photo copies of itself even at the twilight hour. On certain evenings the sky can follow its usual colour format giving off the impression that all twilight skies are pretty similar, but of course they’re not. One thing for sure is that similar or not, I will always paint them differently. This is because I’m both anxious and spontaneous, and I see new possibilities everywhere. At the same time, I’m always after a very particular instant. The trick for me is to capture a spontaneous sky and turn it into something both fixed but eternal too. I am not very good at making duplicates of any experience. So, I like this study of a fairly standard-looking twilight sky around here just because I enjoyed painting it so much. 

This week I watched Three Colours Trilogy, (Blue, White and Red) by Krzysztof Kieslowski which I’ve seen several times over the years. I first saw them out of order, but then in order, and now back to the order in which I first saw them; Red, Blue White. In all aspects of life I seem to have penchant for being loyal to my mistakes, the big, the small, and the stupid. But no matter, what a cinematic adventure are these three stories! Tonight, I am still a little hungover from all the nostalgia it evoked in me for Europe. 

 

Haiku for Halloween 31/10/25

Unfortunately,

I looked into the mirror 

This evening.

Agnes Varda, of snails and clouds

8 January 2021

Agnes Varda, of snails and clouds

Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 25 January 2021, oil on canvas board, 25 X 20 cm

This was the last of three done the other night. Like all these things, I think of them as souvenirs excised from a fragile moment like a small postcard missing a stamp but sent anyway from a beach somewhere. Because I painted them, they’re all souvenirs for me alone, first and foremost. At times, like long summer afternoons themselves, these may simply ressemble one another indistinguishably but nevertheless, they’re all are each built differently. The biggest thread running through them all is of course, me, and who I am at a specific time in space.

 

Everyday in a painter’s life, remarkable things happen to the senses when painting at this time of the evening. Shapes and colours of clouds are oscillating at the speed of snails. It is only me, who, while painting, moves quickly by grabbing clouds like a destructive child at play. 

Such clouds like these from the other night remind me of the opening sequence of a film by Agnes Varda, about the gleaners of France, aptly titled, The Gleaners and I (2000), which I just saw again last week. It’s a remarkable film which from a remarkable woman, an artist, film director, auteur, and humanist. There are clearly not enough adjectives to attach to this modest French artist of distinct eminence.

But the sequence I’m referring to is of her in the passenger seat of a car while she is filming with a small camera in her left hand. Her right hand, being filmed, is outside the window of the moving car and it gently surfs up and down in the wind. Every so often, she manages to catch her small hand opening up wide enough to briefly clasp a compact white cloud high in the sky as they drive along a small country road. While a dialogue goes on between her and the driver, she performed this repeatedly like when an infant discovers the power of its tiny fingers clasping cotton balls. It’s a remarkable sequence captured spontaneously with a small camcorder.

 

So naturally, I must also point out that in my own dreamy world, the element of grasping and pinching these untouchable clouds with my hands and fingers goes on rampantly here on the small dune but in a somewhat more stationary stance .

The other evening when I arrived, a gentle cloud bank was lying over the dark sea like an enormous seal. By the time I got to this last study everything had softened and dusk had dissolved the large cloud into a sea of smaller ones full of colour like tropical fish swimming through the thick twilight sky. Like Agnes Varda, I too, found myself freely playing around with these pastel colours that were ascending into the evening sky.  

Because I had run out of larger canvas boards I had to use this small one I found in my backpack. I was super happy to capture this palest of Prussian Blues that form at the very end of the bloom cycle. It’s really difficult and I almost never get it right but the other evening the defused colour harmonies let me in. 

Vincent haunts the Courtauld Institute

9 April 2021

Vincent haunts the Courtauld Institute

              Vincent Van Gogh, Arles, January 1889

When in London, I often visited the Courtauld Institute at Somerset House. If I were eighteen all over again and if I had even a fraction of the Art-bug I do today, I’d re-do my life and  enrol at this institute and learn everything about art history, art restoration and how to be a curator. It’s collection of paintings is well-rounded and top-notch. But my real interest is the self-portrait by Vincent Van Gogh which is hung on a wall by itself in a large room overlooking an immense courtyard.

On my last visit there it was somewhat empty and I had the place to myself, so I was able to completely plug into it. This amazing portrait must have been painted just days after Vincent cut off his ear. I know there is another version with a red background and also another one with a bandage, but it’s this one I find the most mesmerizing in every painterly way.

Here in this room are long and large windows with luminous thin shades pulled down to keep out the midday light. This seems only to accentuate the intensity of the cool harmonies in the picture. It’s a beautifully painted portrait of cool and disjunctive color harmonies emanating froma dominant lime yellow scheme. Van Gogh famously adored everything yellow to every extreme on the palette; from buttery rich cadmiums to these limey green hues. In this portrait particularly, he uses anusual combination of both warm and cool yellow tones to highlight the delicate shadowy relief in his face. It’s wild but harnessed. No one had ever done anything like it. And it’s flat! And yet it falls into line with everything traditional that had come before it. There is Holbein in it, and Rembrandt too. There is even Matisse in it, waiting to arrive.

It’s a complex painting too, despite its apparent simplicity. It’s so flat, and yet there is every indication of relief throughout its surface. I think he picked this up from the Japanese. The Prussian Blue hat which also figures in the other portrait with its black fringe, acts like a kind of black hole around which everything seems to gravitate. 

Well,.. for me it is extraordinary, beautiful, and yes; perfect. But I hate that I write that because I don’t generally 

believe in in any kind of perfection in Art and I gulp at the use of this adjective. Maybe I should qualify it by saying that it’s simply a truthful portrait, one that rivals his great hero, Rembrandt, but one illuminated by the new electric lighting in France. 

One can only imagine what the uncultured and equally uninspired folk of the 19th century might have seen: Ugliness! Brutality! Hideous insanity! But we know Baudelaire’ wisdom when he wrote that often new and original works of Art can look ugly on first viewing. A picture like this forces us (me) to be on our contemporary toes. Where are the Van Goghs of today? Would I be able to discern them with a fresh but cultured set of eyes? It is also a great reminder that none of us, both painters and the viewers, can afford to worry about outside opinions regarding out own work. 

As I left the institute and found myself on the busy streets of London, I realised that what had trapped me in front of his self-portrait for an hour was its humanity. As I wandered the city streets I found myself looking for humanity and finding it everywhere.It seemed to me that only a painter of such heroic humility could paint such a portrait. And yet remarkably, in it, isn’t a hint of sentimentality anywhere, just a plea perhaps to God, that he might be understood.