a gift from another

"Whatever keeps you from your work becomes your work"


Carolyn Forche, American poet.

This quotation was sent to me in an email from another American poet, Sheila Packa, whose work I had admired, and commented upon.

Samuel Beckett

"To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail....failure is his world..."


from Three Dialogues by Samuel Beckett and Georges Duthuit,  p 21 Samuel Beckett A Collection of Critical Essays edited by Martin Esslin. Published by Prentice Hall, 1965.

disavowal

Only if I disavow myself entirely of the notion that I am an artist, will I be able to approach the challenge of making art again.

anything could happen

anything could happen was the title of a drawing that I destroyed, and which I very much regret having done so. It dated from 2006, and I kept it until 2010, destroying it one afternoon, along with others, in an unremitting surge of self disapprobation.
It was small and slight in appearance; the silhouette of a shadowy dog with open mouth, made in pencil over the impression of a piece of broken slate that I had laid into damp paper. I made several such drawings at the time, using a rudimentary embossing process. Something about the profile of the broken slate seemed to be amusing, tongue in cheek, and I could not help but discern the open mouthed dog, poised as if waiting for something to happen. After some thought, I added a small circle of crimson felt to the drawing, placing it on a curved trajectory a short distance from what appeared to be the opened mouth of the dog. The drawing thus came together with an ease which astonished me, as did the title, seeming to describe the unexpectedness of the arrival of the drawing itself, the transformation and completion of the piece made possible by the addition of the red circle of felt.
I have no memory of the other drawings I destroyed that afternoon, except for the drawing of the accidental dog and the red ball. It's loss causes me pain; I should like to have it still, to remind me that a drawing can arise unexpectedly from the chance association of ideas, can be as light as air, can mean nothing at all, yet still possess the capacity to evoke a response in the viewer, if only a fleeting smile.

will there come a day?

 Will there come a day when I am filled with lightness?

anniversary dream

On the eve of the first anniversary of my father's death, I dreamed that he had returned to be with us, appearing suddenly during the afternoon amidst the apple trees in the back garden of my parent's house, where my mother, my sisters, and myself were building a bonfire on which to burn this year's prunings.
He was trim, upright, relaxed; upon his face was nothing of the fear and worry that had been written across it so painfully during the last days in hospital before his death, but instead, pleasure in seeing us, delight at being once again in his beloved garden.
We each ran to him, crying his name, eager to touch him, to hold him, to persuade ourselves that life ran once more through his veins; that death indeed held no dominion.

cloud formation drawing II

Like the previous image, this drawing would probably have been begun sometime in 2005, or 2006; I remember that I began working on it after my withdrawal from Winchester School of Art. However, it remained unresolved until January of this year; some six years later.
From time to time I take all of the unframed drawings from the boxes in which they are stored, and scrutinise them closely. I decide whether or not to keep them. This process is distinct from the episodes of blind destruction which I visit upon my work in less considered moments.
The drawing above had been on my mind for some months; I couldn't quite bring myself to destroy it, neither could I bring it to a close. Each time I looked at it, I was uneasy, possessed of the desire to resolve it, yet lacking the confidence to do so, unsure of its merits, and perhaps remembering the somewhat noncommittal reactions that had been evident on showing it to some others when I had only just begun working on it. ( How sensitized one becomes to the responses of others, how eager to please, and how much one suffers when approval is not forthcoming! )
In January, having taken the drawing from one of the boxes, I laid it on the floor in the back bedroom, where the boxes of drawings are kept, so that I could look upon it every day on entering the room. One day, I took courage, and removed the drawing downstairs, placing it on the end of the table at which I work when I am able ( alas, not the same carved and inlaid table that was the focus of creative life at the lodge, and at which my partner researched and wrote one of his books, but a modest foursquare construction with draw- leaf plastic top, patterned to look like wood grain) in order to attempt to revise it.
I found that I was quaking with nervousness; the pencil trembled between my fingers; I was conscious of mild palpitations and an uncomfortably dry mouth. The first marks that I made were more or less invisible; it was difficult to direct the pencil with any degree of certainty. I would touch the graphite tip to the surface of the paper hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed, anxious to take the drawing beyond its tentative beginnings, yet worried that I might unwittingly sabotage it.
After a while, I was able to relax, finding comfort in making short, light strokes on the paper, beginning to enjoy the sensation of drawing, the bite of the graphite against the soft, yielding cotton paper, the repetitive, unhurried movements of my hand and fingers. I worked for maybe an hour (it seemed far longer) before being able to decide that the drawing was 'finished', and at least a month elapsed before I felt confident enough to photograph it, and embrace it into the suite of cloud formation drawings, begun so many years ago, in such different circumstances.