The Art of Waffling on Zoom

Well, it hardly needs to be said that the Christmas tree still stands, mocking me as we head into summer.  I did struggle through 49 pages of colour theory and when it came to the bit to do the first practice, I stalled.  My materials are all lined up in a row, but I have not yet been able to lift a brush, not even to do a single stroke. 

That's how things are in these strange times. Like everyone else, I am adjusting to this new life. I am grateful to be able to do my bit by staying put, Fan sa Bhaile (if this is not  immediately understood by you, please see note below).

Of course, I would have imagined a situation like this would have provided me with masses of energy to write novels or paint massive pictures. But in reality, I can't even be bothered de-cluttering. I am however, enjoying the cleanliness of my desk.  Every day it is clean and bright.  It was a bit mystifying that this little nook, this cubby-hole I call my office, usually looks like a disaster zone, but for weeks now is nice and clean and orderly . . . all the time. Eventually it has dawned on my that this is because I am not using it. Beautiful.  

Donald Teskey and myself, during our talk at
The Mermaid Arts Centre in Bray in 2017.

To break the monotony, one of my favourite supporters suggested I should have an online exhibition.  How would that work?  I asked. I imagined, I confess something rather dull, like sprucing up my website (again).  Nooo she wrote . . . We could do it on Zoom, and we could all gather round our screens and  have a glass of wine and look at your paintings.  She had me at the glass of wine. . . . I was very, very interested then.  But it still seemed a bit odd, as it's not like I can hope that you'll actually buy any paintings, given that the world we now live in values one roll of toilet paper higher than a barrel of oil . . .In this new reality, I should be paying you to take them away. In fact, I briefly considered it as I am sequestered for the period with the contents of my studio cramming up this small house . . . (my old studio is being repaired and work has stalled).

So, I thought I'd offer to share with you one of my arty talks . . . I have done a few in my time . . . most recently at The Mermaid, in Bray . . .   about where I came from as an artist and how I got to be here.  

It was very well received. Apparently its entertaining and funny in places.  I love artist's talks myself, but as an attendee. Last time I was talking with Donald Teskey, and people asked if out had been recorded and it wasn't. There was time for loads of interesting questions about the process and the getting to this point as a painter.

I don't want to give too big a lead in as I am not at all sure what I am at . . .  but it is an experiment.  I am technically competent so I can promise you a shortish 20 minute talk with pictures . . .in the comfort of your own home. There will be a chance to chat and meet others if you want.  Bring a glass of wine and put your feet up.  If you want to ask questions, now is your opportunity . . . . If you are new to Zoom and want to join in, but are a bit intimidated, feel free to contact me first for a trial run. I'd love the practice. 

If you are a total techno phobe and don't want to know about Zoom or PCs or tablets, but would love to earwig in with what's going on, even you can join us using old technology, too. Using an ordinary landline you can hear the whole thing. 

Yes, even the pictures will be better (they'll be in your head). This is all possible and easy. 

With warmest regards to you and yours in these strange and difficult times,

Fan sa Bhaile (pron. fan sa wall-ya) means Stay at Home in Irish

Evidence of Extreme Tardiness or an Art Installation?

In spite of the challenge to floor space, the Christmas tree is still standing proudly in the corner, bedecked with twinkling lights. A visitor in late February commented that he thought it was an "art installation" (I thought it was fairly obviously a severe case of procrastination). 

But it is true that the tree is quite charming. It is a substantial, beautifully formed, bare limb of a lovely apple tree that was over-hanging the vegetable garden. 

It was threatening to topple onto the brassicas last summer, and against my better judgment, and behind my back, one day the limb was lopped off. 

The vegetable garden last summer

The tree survived, the brassicas thrived and this lop-sided limb was retrieved from under the hedge very later on Christmas Eve. 

Within seconds it was propped up in an old chimney pot, where it remains, to this day (one hundred days later). 

 But as the days get longer, and the more we are squeezed, tighter and tighter by the detritus of my studio life, I am looking longingly at the space this tree occupies. And as I stroke fondly my latest big garden purchase . . . a rechargeable and cute, small and efficient, recently sharpened chainsaw, I think the days of that twinkling 'art installation' are indeed, numbered. 

 

On SInging Happy Birthday to Myself...

I can't think of any reasonable excuse for not blogging for a very long time.  But the rot set in some time ago. I know that it began with the announcement of the GDPR. There was something terribly draconian about those requirements that has stifled my creativity in writing these missives from the studio.

Well, I have gritted my teeth this morning and decided to write one anyway, even if it is about nothing in particular. 

Of course, there is lots going on. A lot of banging and shouting and inexplicable holes in the ceiling. My studio is being renovated and I am deranged. I am so discombobulated that I pressed "send" on this email Monday morning last, just before I had my breakfast. It took me until now to realise that I hadn't actually sent it. 

Two days of silence. Usually my missives get a response of some kind, but this time I didn't take your lack of response personally, I just thought it's been so long since I last wrote that you have all moved on. 

It was only when realised that I forgot to include information about forthcoming annual exhibition of the Dublin Painting & Sketching Club, that was due to open at the weekend, that I realised my error. In the meantime, the event has been postponed (as a result of the Corona Virus).

Back to Monday morning . . . .

Yesterday (Sunday), I went on a walk. Himself and myself hit out about midday to a nearby spot known as The Breaches. It is not very far, but as we are both getting a tad slow, so we felt it important to have the mantra, "The Breeches or Bust".

Bust it turned out to be. It was a sunny day. Warm, spring-like with buds shooting up and birds twittering ("like car alarms", he said).

Heading off in sunshine, with neither hats nor coats, we made our destination easily enough, and as we turned back homeward, only then, we began to notice the change. . . The sky, once warm and blue, was now deep and dark and purple and thundering towards us. Before long the temperature dropped significantly and we were being pelted with hailstones. They were really sharp and very hard and more than a few hurt, quite a bit. I found it a challenge to keep moving, in the strong wind on uneven ground. 

The day had changed. We hardly recognised the place as we first sought shelter under a blowy piece of rusted corrugated iron, hanging on a willowy stick, loosely secured behind a fence post.

We took shelter under this rusty bit of iron

Even though my head was frozen, the rusted corrugated iron offered about as much shelter as a (folded) broadsheet newspaper, it was good, very good, to be even a little bit out of the bombardment. However, I was afraid that in that wind, our meagre cover would in time, decapitate both of us.

And so we pushed on.

The world around us once very familiar, had turned icy and hostile. We doubted this perception. We felt a very long way from home. We wondered how could this be? We pushed on, and eventually we turned away from the wind as we reached the shelter of the public road. A short time later (with a lift from a fellow walker), we were home and getting dry. But the experience has changed us. We were somewhere very different. We entered a different world.

I can't help feeling that the world has shifted off its axis. There is nothing new except The Virus. We are busily singing Happy Birthday* to ourselves as we soap up and sud up against impending doom.

And yet, I remember a quite similar (but very, very different) experience after which I painted this painting below, near the same spot where the world shimmied on its axis for us. The cold and hailstones were there, but it was without that extra edge of menace that we both felt on Sunday.

Rainbow double

And, as we dried our underwear and shoes (and everything else in between), we were treated to this double rainbow. 

And so, the old order is restored, confidence renewed, and we carry on regardless. ...

*Singing Happy Birthday twice is advice we are getting in these parts as being just long enough to wash "our hands". In
the spirit of community protection, I am busily washing my feet as many friends and neighbours are "toe-touching" in greeting and I am wondering if my scrubbing efforts are for nought?

Open Studio Etiquette & Wellies...

I keeled over with effort of painting this massive tryptich

Open Studio This Sunday 9th & Sunday 16th, 2pm-4pm 

Having had some studio days before I am no longer a novice at it.... but a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and so I have succeeded in simply terrifying myself.  Therefore I have been avoiding doing anything that needs doing . .  this blog for example  . . . . but I have been cooking . . inspired by Masterchef no less, I have been making ravioli. Needless to say, this is without the proper flour, or a pasta maker.  Jamie Oliver told me all I need is the biceps of an Italian Mama. So this is what I have been doing instead of preparation for the Open Studio Days. 

A bit bockety... but beautiful

Cooking is good for the soul, if not for my sleep, because, of course, it is in the middle of the night that I think of all the things I still want to do... Fix my website . . .  Especially the stuff I can't do myself . . .Chainsaw the tree from the driveway that's been there since the big storm last week. These are the tasks that haunt me in the early hours - the need to send emails, attend to orders and count the number of red mail bags left. 

Creeping into my night also comes the memory that I never shared with you as I promised, the little movie I made while I was waiting for my calendars to arrive. It will always be mystery to me how i managed to post it on facebook accidentally, but still can't share it by email.  You might be able to see it here

I also worry in the middle of the night that nobody turns up or worse, so many people turning up that there is traffic chaos on on the N11. And then there is the decking which can be slippy when wet and is currently covered in leaves. I don't want anyone sliding helter skelter into my lily pond, so more non-slip wire is down in most places (but not all), and a sign is going up at the gate (hopefully). I'll probably be wondering where my sparkly glasses got to as soon as my head hits the pillow tonight. 

But the more I think about the open studio (especially in the middle of the night), I think it might be useful to mention some etiquette. The main expectation is that it will be relaxed and easy going. There will be an opportunity to be sociable and have mulled wine and mince pies, (alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions) and pick up calendar orders (if you made one). You can wear whatever you like (except your shoes in the house), and wellies are recommended, considering the forecast.  There will be an opportunity to see some paintings and to buy if you like, but this is not an expectation. 

The first time I had an open studio someone asked me for a price list and I fell into a fluster. It never occurred to me, and my guests were confused.... wasn't this the point of an open studio?  I didn't think so, I said, as they walked away with a painting under each oxter. The second time I had the paintings and the list but no numbers to correspond with the paintings. I am very slow, people expect to see paintings in an artist's studio on open day. I'll do my best.  

What to bring? I'd say bring an umbrella, bring a friend if you like, and be prepared to kick off your shoes in the house (but not in the studio...it is so cold underfoot that my own toes nearly fall off). 

A final thing to be aware of, is safety. Take care to walk only on the decking that has wire on it.  Park in the driveway, if you can and leave the wheelchair access ramps clear.  If you don't like tight spaces and /or reversing, ask for help (hoot your horn).  Leave no valuables visible in your car if you park along the roadway as cars have been known to have their windows smashed (even out here). 

Shortly I will be heading off to the Christmas Fair at Newcastle Community Centre where I'll set up my stall, but not before I have a private word with the man of the moment, Santa. 

But for now, it's time for breakfast,

with many thanks, 

Why I can't listen to this...

Rebecca Crowell and Mary Duffy  discussing work in Ballinglen 

I can't bear listening to the Messy Studio's Podcast . . .It's not just that I have my own messy studio of course, and more mess is just too much . . No, it is not that.

In fact, each night for the last few weeks, I have been avidly listening to Rebecca's podcasts. Let's be clear. I love them. All of them,. Just can't be listening to this one. No, the podcast and variety of subjects is great. I particularly liked the discussions on abstraction and Rebecca's own journey (to pure abstraction).

I won't be listening to this week's podcast because the microphone was turned in my direction. Rebecca created a recording studio in my car as we sat in the windswept wilds of north Mayo, and that is why I won't be listening to this one . . I will save myself the sleepless nights and the "How can I be so incoherent / say something so stupid? (endless ranting)

However, without reservation, I can highly recommend it to you . . as each and everyone of the other podcasts is great, and this one should be no different (ouch).

Look, if you like, skip this latest one but do listen to the rest. They’re perfect. And don't forget to give the Messy Studio loads of stars if like me you rate it very highly.

For the moment, it is time for breakfast,

Listen HERE

Telling Tales by the Yarn

It's been a while since I wrote and there are no excuses. Soon it will be time to make new year's resolutions, but I am not going to wait until then. Enough said. 

After an exciting time with The Goose Field exhibition, the considerable dust has settled (for the moment at least). Along with many things I have neglected, my website has suffered in particular. Last August, in a rush to update it, I accidentally deleted everything.  The mistake has left me rigid staring into the empty space for months. 

In an effort to avoid the task, I beat a hasty retreat to the studio and I have been busy getting gloriously mucky and messy with masses of paint and wax and even more muck on a massive scale (for me, at least). It's been a great excuse to avoid touching my keyboard. But this is the morning, I am choosing to dust myself down and start again. I will be working hard to restore my website  . . . If you click on it now, it will look like it is still there and it looks just dandy . .  but it is stuck in a time warp and it is an enormous job to fix it.  If I were to press "make live now" the whole website would crumble away like a house of cards.  So, I must upload all the pictures again and label them all and get the sizes right and even after that there is, even more, to be done. 

This is only half of one big painting

On Wednesday, Nov 15, I will be on The Mermaid's stage with Donald Teskey with whom I have been engaged in a mentoring relationship for over a year now. If you would like to come and hear us talk about our big adventure, and see some pictures . .  it will be held in theatre of The Mermaid Arts Centre, Bray, Co Wicklow on the night of November 15 at 7pm. 

I have been painting for ten years now. I see myself at a point of transition. While still deeply interested in landscape, circumstances have led me to try to work more from my memory of places, rather than directly on site. This is so not what I am used to. I am used to the wind in my face and the rain on my palette. Early in 2014, I injured my neck. As someone already without arms, it affected my ability to do most things, and I became very incapacitated as a result. This limitation stopped me painting for some time and changed the way I approach a canvas. Now when I want to paint, I have to now plan it carefully, think long and hard, and then very fast, and very swiftly apply the paint. As a result, my paintings are different. And for me, better . . . and its not just because I love big brushes. Early in the morning has always been the best time for me. It offers the promise of magic to be achieved before breakfast. I often get up early , like I have this morning, driven by the promise (especially in winter) of the pre-dawn hour. But these days, I take this to extremes and I have gotten into a bad habit of getting up at 3am with a satisfied grin on my face and the promise never to do this again. However, it works. And that is what is so wrong with me. I like what works. So when all else fails, it is the middle of the night that I turn to to complete my projects. I have too many unfortunately . . . my toes are in too many puddles . . . I got totally immersed in writing a socio-economic profile - don't even ask what that was. But suffice to say, it was very interesting and totally absorbing, but after sixty pages of pictures and numbers I just had to stop, because even I know when, too much is, too much. Another middle of the night project was to write a few lines about Dubin of article about Dublin and artists on for a new UK based magazine for emerging artists . . When all three copies that came to Ireland hit the shelves they were gone by lunchtime. The magazine did a feature asking a number of artists to contribute their best tips for artists visiting Dublin for a few days. My top tip was to visit art shops in the city. Yes, I know. Probably as boring as hell to you who pass them every day but to me - sitting here with my view of the sunrise and the cattle across the Goose Field, mooching in an art shop is something to be savoured. This is not just because they are endangered species - real shops one can mooch in - but also places of real inspiration.