"How long did it take you to paint that?" It is a question that I am asked frequently and I never quite know how to answer. In the old days, I would say (with a smirk), “half a day and half a lifetime”. But that was me just trying to avoid the question. It was not true then, and it's not true now. My paintings are always like open-ended conversations. They start at some point after I begin with bravura* and end only when the painting leaves the studio. Tone, of course, is everything. Often the question sounds like an attempt at polite conversation . . . (which it is not). Like the question awkward adults often ask children . . “What class are you in at school?” Other times, it presents as a challenge.. . . If it costs this much, and it took you that long, "shouldn't we all have a go at this painting craic?" And yet, other times, the tone has a dollop of “All the same, isn’t it a great way for you to pass the time?” So, really, how long does it actually take me to paint a painting? I finished a commission recently so I should really be able to quantify it. Since December 1st, I have worked mostly on this one commission (although I have tried and failed to finish 3 other paintings as well). That’s about 9 weeks. In getting to the final piece, I used three large canvases (most bigger than myself). I knew what was the right size for the job, but in the Brexit / Covid climate,  But even then, as I discarded the one that was too small, and started on a larger one, the conversation turned slightly weird . . The image began to represent something not at all suitable for the living room of a couple starting out in life. And so it was a big brush and lots of white paint to pivot that conversation. That painting reminded me of a woman in the supermarket who explained to me in all seriousness that she can't wear a mask because she needs to lipread. I resisted pointing out that a mask would not cover her eyes and therefore would not interfere with lipreading. Instead, I just moved along. At last, I am learning to disengage with all the daft conversations that exist in my world. . . like the intense, earnest young man who asked me to teach him to paint “with his feet”, because he said he had “tried and tried and read all the books" and he still couldn't paint. He told me "Seriously, I really couldn’t manage it with my hands. I need your help" He had tried very hard. Now he wanted to try using his feet. He said I made it look "easy". Right. I confess I did look around for the hidden camera. But he was serious. I was, he said, his last shot. Would I not help him realise his dream of being an artist? As I said, it is really enough to have the paintings talking to me without him at it in that slightly too serious tone of voice. The conversation with the painting does not begin easily and certainly, not straight away. There is that awkward bit of making a start first. This ball is firmly in my court. I start really without knowing what to expect. But when it does begin, the talking back never stops. I can only get to appreciate the painting when I take it out of the studio and place it on what I call, “my breakfast wall”, my wall of contemplation (what I see before I try and do anything else in the morning). When on the contemplation wall, something changes. The conversation on both sides ceases. But back to the big painting I delivered recently. I had some instructions for the commission before I started. . . It had to be big. It had to light up a large 5-metre high dark wall. It had celebrate the colour orange and mark the start of this couple’s lives together. It does all this and more. Happy Valentines Day to you and yours, |
Bravura . . I had to look up the definition to make sure it meant what I intended and the answer is yes. "a show of daring or brilliance" |
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