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What happens when a woman falls in love with a UFO and the only thing they have keeping them together is this painting?

The city is Paris, the setting her small hat shop. He runs a very successful gallery. The painting is just a mere back drop or is it?

He will leave, she can’t follow. She asks him to stop playing games but by then things are too far gone.

It will all come to a head, and the only thing left standing is this painting propped against a lamp post outside a night time deserted metro station.

Shorty story anyone? It’s in the pipeline.

Meanwhile linger here a while.




Where does one start with a sketch book?

Everyone else’s, as in other online artists, their drawings seems refined and polished and perfect. Mine are a scurry of squiggles with the germ of an idea lost somewhere in the middle.

Where is Wally?

At least you’re sketching! The clutch for fast falling straws never dies. But it is true. Drawing anything is better than drawing nothing, every time.

You could apply the same to writing or any artistic endeavor. It’s getting it down, getting it out there that matters. The rest is just all smoke and the domain of the academics.

Some more of my work still lurking here.




In the absence of painting these last few weeks, I draw every other day. Scribble actually. Well, scrawl to be truthful.

I scrawl my way through lunchtime. Looking for worthy subjects is a vain enterprise. I’m not fast enough or have the requisite skill to parcel down the fleeting movements of a passerby. I wish I was. It would make my life easier.

Instead I work from memory.

Simple things, like withdrawing money from the ATM. Or standing in line to pay for a can of milk and half open packet of biscuits. Greedily munching away, despite the accusatory glances of the security guard.

‘I’m paying for them!!…Look…queue’ – a sweeping gesture of the arm. People move back slightly.

I don’t do that by the way.

But I can sketch it down with a blue biro or dulled stump of a pencil. It keeps the artistic brain moving, a small much underpowered motor within, keeping the brain waters swashing about.

Things have a habit of falling into place in their own time. It’s the same with paintings. Drawings or scratchings in my case build up to a final work somewhere in the not so distant future.

The secret is you keep turning up and doing the work.

Some of which can be readily viewed here.



Funny cat videos


I’m sure there is a place for them and we all need a little light heartedness in our lives. But seriously. I mean seriously talk about wasting your life even watching this stuff.

This isn’t about funny cat videos by the way, it’s about all the crap we consume just because we can. We get fat, and bloated, slow minded and dim witted with each available bite.

Eat something good for a change. This is the advice I give myself. Self-medication if you will.

‘But they’re so damn funny…look at its ears and funny little paws’

Don’t listen. Listen to this instead. Just 3000 views, what gives?

And after that you can head over here and look at these.

Not a funny cat video in site (or sight).

You can thank me later.


Stories and Paintings and back to stories again


I’m currently writing a story about this painting.

A story? What the hell is that about? Did he say ‘a story’?

Well, yes. The painting is a story. There seems to be a story there lurking somewhere. Okay the truth behind the painting might be somewhat more boring than the fictional account that I’m planning to write, but hey – that the joy of art – you create reality.

But is it really reality or just your imagination working overtime again?

What’s the difference? We see the world as we choose to see it. That implies a lot of responsibility and personal ownership. Maybe that’s too real.

Too much reality?

Heavy stuff, but hey it Thursday…if you can’t be heavy on Thursday then when can you be.

Mondays just don’t cut it in that regard.

Back to the painting. It just screams narrative.

But how I mumble, – why?

Maybe, simply because, you can. Fun. Remember that concept, when things could actually be F_U_N.

I remember working on that painting, I just wanted to go cubist, semi abstract, break my own self-imposed rules, granted a hundred years after Picasso decided to break then for everyone else. Art making paradoxically is a personal yet public journey. It implies an audience who will look at your work.

We will write and paint and then write about the painting and possibly paint about the writing and then combine the two. I guess that could be lazily labeled mixed media.

We’ll park the labels for now.

More of my work to be seen here.


Dr. Oliver Sacks RIP


I was very saddened to hear of the death of Dr. Oliver Sacks. I’ve written, I think more than a couple of posts about him here on this site.

When my wife told me he had died, I affected a strange indifference. A ‘life happens’ attitude. I have to confess having never actually read one of his books, though we did study him in College, in God knows what kind of course – philosophy of the human person.  I remember the lecturer was particularly fond of Sacks and his case studies, and I guess the interest piqued my interest in turn.

So this morning I was not thinking much of the good doctor’s passing. Then I found myself reading a couple of his obituaries – not very interesting, but they did segue-way into his own articles. His writing is always interesting. He’s a story teller. I like stories.

As I read his words, the thought of his passing struck me more forcibly. He’s gone and we are more the poorer for his passing. But the grave-yards are full of irreplaceable people. We will persevere but perhaps with just a little more sadness today at the loss but also a joy at having known him at least partially through his words.

I suppose there’s nothing like a marketing plug to bring us back to reality. You can check out my painting here.


True Democracy

The Muse

I like writing. Well, not so much like as see it as a personal necessity. It’s a way of processing. Very old school, nothing new there. But that’s the point! Everything is actually new when you write.

You re-invent the wheel in your own image and likeness, warts and all. You finally discover fire, despite living under a desert sun. It perhaps has no relevance to anyone but you, but you are worthy enough. Words have a magic.

Granted sometimes words fail. Maybe that’s where painting comes into play? Another road into the truth, ‘truth’, note lowercase ‘t’.

Poetry, Rap, Modernist Literature or just good old-fashion realist painting. Figures have glazed faces and unanimated clothes, clunky irregular sized limbs. We try to express how we feel. Our attempts to rage against the advancing night.

Thank God for the internet and all the wonderful artists it serves up and there’s even room for the not so wonderful as well. True democracy.


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