12 February 2021

cranking and wanking in fine homes and not



Here is a deceptively simple painting which I had not at all appreciated until the other day when I saw it suddenly hiding behind more glamorous-looking images on my desktop. 

Maybe it's boring, too boring to say boo to, but seeing it afresh after a month, I find truth in it which gives it validation, at least in my own eyes.

It has a layered feeling almost like wedding cake. And it feels flat which also appeals to me. 

Despite being done on a windy swept beach in front of the sea it almost feels like it could have been made on a large table in a studio by a long squeegee full of pre-mixed colours.  

And despite that there seems to be volume there.

I see that by turning out so many of these small studies on an almost daily basis, usually 2 or 3 at a time most days, I could imagine myself as a kind of sperm donor for small walls.

Maybe like for children, cranking out so many different little lives into the world, (though no wanking please! heavens!) is also a service of sorts.

Some will live long lives, while others will die shortly. 

Lucky ones will shine in large homes, full of light, and framed with grace. But sadly, others will hide within unhappy walls, cornered equally, between the dingy and unpainted. 

Yet still others will thrive in homes much loved and looked after in spite of divorces and deaths. Others will spend the rest of their lives entangled in cobwebs and some will hang at the end of a rope.

Some will be loved sentimentally, while not a  few, are studied with critical, but reverent eyes.

Even so, as a painter without children, I am apparently, a giver of Life, in the end.  

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