Oil on canvas, 18 x 16″, Nov 28 2020
This piece is about the experience, the performance, of a poor and sick 72 year old man, an unsung painter who, all alone, crosses the most treacherous and hazardous uneven sloping ground full of hidden potholes rocks broken branches and deep trenches, armed only with a canvas easel paints and brushes, in an icy north-easterly wind.
I think this piece, this daub, does that experience, that performance, justice.
Again, this thing, this rectangular object, smeared with coloured stuff, is a kind-of record, a log-book, perhaps, of a journey across a piece of waste land, or a voyage into a hinterland, and sure, it ain’t fluffy, it ain’t no pretty picture!
Whether it’s a painting or not one thing is for sure it’s definitely about me, a biological organism, reaching out, and the universe I am reaching out to.