Treatise (Monochrome).
Triptych. 2.4m x 3.66m. Oil-stick on Polished Steel.
141.15 minutes. 26th November 2009.

Treatise is the latest in a series of drawings that are made in response to a particular situation and bound by the specific duration of that event. In this case the 141 minutes and 15 seconds of Treatise by Cornelius Cardew (Hat [now] Art, February 15, 1998).

Marks swiftly accumulate in response to the music obliterating my mirrored presence in the polished surface. The self-awareness of being an artist making art is soon lost in this generative process and one enters a realm of timelessness, a sense of otherness where the interplay between the music and the drawing ‘dream’ each other into being. This is not a process of premeditation, transliteration or translation but one of awakening, of transforming, of instantaneous emotive thought generating form and substance and ultimately presence; where the tone, timbre and rhythm of the work is created by the process of becoming, in this particular iteration and this particular time.

After this ground is established a process of working through and against the primordial mass occurs with the purpose of ‘fixing’, capturing or giving form to this energy. From being enthralled and captivated by the process of becoming self-awareness re-emerges and a process of mutual reawakening takes place. This reawakening is articulated though one’s own particular interpretative (drawn) language and connects this work to all the works that have previously been made.

The scrapping away of the surface is a process of revelation. It reestablishes the presence of the viewer as an integral part of the experience – like Schrodinger’s Cat for a work to exist it has to be seen and experienced by others; given over, to be placed in the world, part of the process of culture, as evidence of the human condition – and like an archeologist sweeping the ground there is a revelation of hidden form, one that relates to ones own personal memory and culture. In the case of this particular drawing at this particular time it was the rhythms and forms of the Australian landscape (the primeval forest of Mount Dandenong) that happened to be in my mind when i was making this work. This is the process of self-revelation where the work acts as a re-interpretive lens on a previous experience and as a catalyst, translator, informer and shaper of future experiences. It is a ‘waypost’ on my particular intellectual and emotive journey.

A work of art is never quite one thing. It is always in a multitude of states – within the intellectual and emotive context of the artist, within the intellectual and emotive context of the viewer and within the within the intellectual and emotive context of its mediation and cultural context. All of these states are related but not necessarily coherent or stable, There is always an ongoing process of negotiation and
re-interpretation that continuously remakes the work as a signifying presence in the world.

In opposition to our super-saturated world where (photographic) mediation is such a powerful element in the experience of a work – to the point where the magazines and publications are the prime ‘gallery’ for this experience – these works are counter-photogenic. The ambiguity or flux within the work, between the reading of drawn surface and the reflection of one’s presence, is virtually impossible to record in its entirety as the focus is constantly switching between the two surfaces.

A similar process of flux and revelation occurs with my pencil drawings. From a distance they look as if they are ‘empty’. Moving closer there is a shift, the marks start to appear as a furtive presence. Move closer still and this seemingly still presence reveals itself to made from hundreds if not thousands dynamic marks. On moving away from the drawing the quiteness and ‘emptyness’ returns. As Heiner Bastian said of Cy Twombly’s Poems to the Sea … ‘between almost nothing and nothing… ‘.

There are moments, unforeseen and inexplicable, when a work of art
transports you somewhere else.

The form and the materials of the work dissolve and you are in the
presence, infused and surrounded by a nameless thing.

The space between you and it evaporates and it occupies your sense
of presence and the order of your senses.

Cartesian Corpse, a performance by Mike Parr, was one such moment.

I travelled to Hobart, Tasmania to see the performance and the show
of his other work (The Tilted Stage). I’m am designing the catalogue
and I am working with the new cultural organisation, Detached, who in
association with the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, has organised
this event. More on Detached and what else is happening in Tasmania
in a later post.

Cartesian Corpse is staged on the top floor of the 19th century Bond
Store at TMAG. It reminds me of the old warehouses in Rotherhide
in London before they were converted into middle-class apartments -
the Bond Store is raw, dark and dank.

The walls of the Bond Store still bear the names of those that worked
or were incarcerated there. The aged dust sits on, and is embedded
within, every surface. With every breathe it lingers on the tongue.

The substantial timbers supporting roof make the roof more like an
upturned keel of a late 18th century trader, albeit one designed by
Anselm Kiefer.

The lower floors that contain videos, sculptures and graphic work
spanning over 30 years of relentless process and investigation and
prepare the visitor for what lies in the attic.

Climbing the dimly-lit, uneven and steep staircases one enters
another realm.

The serpentine ascent takes one final turn as you reach the top floor.
Between you and Mike is the expanse of the darkened floor. The line
across from the staircase to the opposite wall forms an invisible and
psychological boundary. Behind it and you are in the territory of
an exhibition safe from confronting, and being involved in, the
performance.

Beyond this line and you are ‘elsewhere’ in a different space,
with different rules.

And there is Mike. Or more accurately his head, in the middle of a
wooden plane angled from floor to ceiling.

From a distance the light above and the gloom surround creates an
unsettling ‘chiaroscuro’ reminiscent of a painting by ‘Caravaggio’.
(see below)

Is the head real?
or is it ‘realistic’? and a sculpture?

Only with close inspection, when you can see the occasional tic of
the head, mouth or eyes, does this ambiguity finally fade.
And then what?
The reaction is strange, complex and profound.

The plane of angled wood is large, so large that Mike’s head seems
small,
vulnerable
and without ego.

By the end of the performance (the subtitle or instruction of the work
is ‘for as long as possible‘) Mike has been there for 36 hours.

He survives with little sleep, bracing himself against the plummeting
cold of night.

Throughout the day, and surprisingly all hours of the night, he is visited
by a constant stream of visitors, many of whom slowly and silently cross
over the boundary line.

Few venture to the edge where the angled plane of smooth wood meets
the rough and uneven floor, most are held, through fear or respect or in
confusion, suspended in mid-territory.

Some drift towards the walls, for safety, keeping their distance and not
committing themselves to direct confrontation.

All are silent.

In the shadows, to left, and sitting on a simple wooden chair. his head
and shoulders framed by a veiled, square window (reminiscent of Malevich
via Robert Irwin) is Anthony Bond, who has curated this show/event and
in his capacity as Curator of the International collection at the Gallery of
New South Wales, is a long-time supporter of Mike’s.

Throughout the 36 hours of this performance Tony keeps a notebook of
his thoughts. 1 page per hour. Which I have scanned for the catalogue.

For this performance Tony has transgressed.
He has put himself into a different space and a different cultural position
by becoming part of the performance and a catalyst of its alchemic resonance
rather than an agent and impartial observer of its being.

His presence adds something to the overall performance.
It’s hard to say exactly what it is.
He certainly humanises it.
I’m sure that his presence so close to Mike reassures the visitors.
It helps them summon up enough courage to move closer to Mike.
It’s interesting that most of those that do tend to move to the side of
the room where Tony is quietly sitting.
It’s as if prolonged, direct contact with Mike’s head is too powerful for
most to bear.
I also think that there is an aura of emanation around Mike and his side
of the room which repels all but the most self confident.
I also think that many who quietly sit to the side feel this too.
I assume that they feel this aura too and do not want to intrude.
Mike’s performance and the presence of his being extends far into
the room.
His visitors are thinking nothing.
They are just there.
Not as witnesses or participants but as supporters.

Recording all of this, throughout its entire duration, is Paul Green,
who has provided photographic documentation of many of Mike’s
performances over recent years.

In the catalogue is photographs will occupy the page opposite to Tony’s
hour by hour transcription of his experience.

There are works of art that are subsumed and constrained by the theory
and philosophy. There are other works of art that lead you to the to the
theoretical and the philosophical intentions of the artist.

In both of these circumstances the work is firmly rooted in the world.

However, there are some artworks, the great ones, where the intention,
philosophy and means of expression are dissolve into irrelevancy.

These works transcend conventional theorising and material appreciation.
They just exist.
On their own terms,
in their own space,
beyond words,
and are indisputably ‘there’.

But you cannot locate ‘where’ as they collapse any sense of being separate,
or an object to regard,
and they infuse every sense of your being.

I have felt this in the presence of the paintings of Mark Rothko in the
chapel in Houston, I have felt it in the presence of work by James Turrell
in the Hayward Gallery in London and I have felt it in front of the Massacio
frescos in the church of Santa Maria del Carmine in Florence.

And I felt it here, on the top floor of an 19th century Bond store
in Hobart, Tasmania.

www.detached.com.au

images © Mike Parr. Photo Paul Green.
Courtesy the artist & Anna Schwartz Gallery,
Sydney & Melbourne, Australia.

It’s been a busy few months. More accurately a manic 4 months. Most of
July was spent organising Beautiful Burnout, the Underworld/tomato artjam
in New York. The first half of August was spent in New York putting up the
show and doing all the things one has to do to promote it. Then coming back
to a flood of work, which hasn’t ceased. Tired and in need of a holiday.

The good news is that I have in my possession trimmed, sectioned proofs
of my book ‘The Floating World‘ which is, at last, crawling towards publication.
The latest date for publication is mid-December. I’m keeping my fingers and
everything else crossed!

In preparation for its release I’ve also been creating a web version of
Wayposts with the help of Joel@tomato.

Very busy on the Underworld front. Several new releases (available only from
their website, www.underworldlive.com) and several Book of Jam’s ready and
about to be released.

I’m also working on several books for Mike Parr. One an essay about his work
and another a catalogue for his upcoming show at Detatched and the Tasmanian
Museum and Art Gallery in Hobart. I’ve just spent the day there yesterday
(and that’s where the image above is from) finalising various details.

The first thing you notice on meeting Mike is how affable he is. Then the intensity starts to unfold and the work suddenly connects to its creator.

Mike is one of Australia’s leading artists of the past 30 years. It’s been a singular and most dedicated journey. One of outpouring both in the physical sense, in the amount of work produced, and in the emotional realm, the sheer tenacity through which he has subjected both his body and his spirit.

Mike describes this dedication as ‘mono-manical’ and he’s right. His performance work borders on the insane but when you meet him and read his writings you realise and understand the clear, well thought out reasoning that underpins his actions. In relation to my own life and its relationship to my work It is this singularity of purpose which I so admire. My life has been full of necessary distraction, trying to keep some semblance of creative self whilst earning enough money to support myself and my family. Whereas Mike has put his art first and everything else has ‘fitted’ around that. When I talked to him about this he replied quite obviously that this had been ‘hard’. And I would imagine ‘hard’ for everyone near and dear to him.

It would be easy to equate Mike’s actions with that of the shaman (as many of his performances are suffused in the subjection to the elemental forces of both the surrounding and internal world). And there is, in his later performance work, an obvious political comment, as if his actions condense all matters and comment for the rest of us as a matter of deep, visceral contemplation and experience. I’m loathed to write ‘he suffers so we do not’ because of its obvious overtones but I think it is true to say that he suffers to remind us that we are suffering too. Except we repress this suffering and remain mute because the expression of this suffering would be too hard to bear and too hard to express. We do not have the vocabulary, whereas Mike’s life and his work has been dedicated to the forming of a (personal) lexicon much in the same way as a shaman notates their ritual transformations in their own purposeful, idiosyncratic way.

I’m sure he would refute this description but I think that any artist treading such a focussed path becomes one, in his or her own way. The obsession takes them into a different realm of reasoning and of action. And the world, as they encounter it, passes through them and is reformed and regurgitated through them, as an intense process of catalytic reformation.

The book that I’ve just designed for Mike (Performances 1971-2008) is not catalogue raisonné but a comprehensive overview of his performance work. A testament to his singularity of purpose and particular craft.

Mike Parr, Performances 1971-2008, is published by Schwartz City and is currently ‘on show’ at the Anna Schwartz Gallery in Sydney and on Cockatoo Island in Sydney as part of the Sydney Bienalle.

First I must apologise for the inordinate amount of time between this post
and the last. Unfortunately it’s been a difficult year (so far). Injury and illness
(nothing major, just prolonged) has blighted both myself and the family.
And, unfortunately, there are only so many hours in the day and some things
have to be put aside. This blog for one. Sorry.

………………….

A continuous process altering the daily project(s).

The American Artist Robert Morris described his process as ‘A continuous
project altered daily‘. How true. How I wish I could write a book in a day or
in Kerouac-style in one ’session’ so it is complete in itself, a stream without
interruption. But, of course, it’s not like that. Words stumble. Sentences
twist in grammar and syntax and the whole thing is a bit of a mess. And if I’m
lucky there will be some moments of clarity to pin one’s hopes on. The first
words for ‘The Floating World‘ were written in 1980. A long time ago.
And every day I worked on it (even though I sometimes did not realise this)
until I decided that the time was right to pull all the disparate notes and images
together and to see whether anything of interest was there. In the three years
between 2001 and 2004 it was written and designed over and over until I felt
that it’s form was right and in the right state that it wasn’t a cul-de-sac but
something useful to me. Something that would propel me on. The first
indications of a map and potential journeys.

And whilst in the process of forming and curation of ‘The Floating World‘ the
next book or books started to take shape. A programme of work. One that could
make sense of, or form an idiosyncratic relationship between the disparate
interests, thoughts and work.

This work is also shaped by the conversations that we have between us.
The work of tomato and Underworld is provoked, shaped and re-shaped by this
discourse. There’s not a day that goes by that this isn’t so, but it would give
a false impression to say that everyone talks to everyone all the time.

The commercial shapes our ‘personal’ work (to simplify things) and vice-versa.
This is obviously a false distinction because the edges between the two blur,
continuously in the flux and context of this discourse and the ‘show & tell‘.

Over the course of the last few yearsI’ve been collecting and curating the
references that I and others find into a ‘book’ or document called ‘Wayposts‘.
This now stands at over 5000 pages and is shared between us to provoke further
thoughts and discussion.

Even if something is no longer here it was once present. And therefore its
absence is forms the present and helps shape the future. One thing is built
on another, sometimes inadvertently, at other times as a response and with
purpose.

There has always been something fascinating about encyclopedias and this
because everything is arranged alphabetically and the illustrations are not
‘to scale’ so that a baboon, basalt, a battleship, belgium and buddhism might
appear on the same spread. This creates a surreal and provocative relationship
between these obviously disparate objects or subjects. And its this dynamic
juxtaposition that gives ‘Wayposts‘ (I believe) its energy and use.

The web is an extraordinary resource as well as being a source of surprise as
well as frustration. Like a Mudlark on the bank of the Thames everyday I trawl,
sift and extract the things that interest. All that glistens in not gold, but often
the forgotten or well-hidden in the silt.

The spreads above give an indication of what it looks like but cannot give but
the slightest indication of the richness of the journey.

What I am assembling is my own wunderkammer of things and ideas to act
as a visual research tool and a provocateur of new work. To reassemble,
remix and remodel its contents into new work. The entries are made the things
that I discover in my electronic wanderings around the web, others are drawn
from memory and others are scanned from my library.

This is a daily process of searching, selecting, curation and assembly.
More than the 5000 pages already present there are probably 2000 more yet
to be processed. And some of the categories, typography for example, are now
evolving into their own ‘Wayposts‘ document.

Not only is this a rich visual compendium but it also helps me with my approach
to work. ‘Wayposts‘ can be read as an encyclopedia of form but it can also be read
as an encyclopedia of strategies. Ways of making. And I try and dis-assemble not
only the visual qualities of each object but also the intention behind it (in relation
to the context within which it is made).

Not only does it help my visual work but also my writing. I believe the why you
are making something is just as important as the how and the what you are making.

A shorter version of this post first appeared on www.tomato.co.uk.

And talking of which … the tomato site has been completely redesigned.

Last Month marked the 20th Anniversary of the Tokyo Type Directors
Club and to celebrate the event they published, in conjunction with
‘bccks‘, a series of books both on the web and as a limited print run
see http://tdc.bccks.jp. I was privileged to be asked to contribute.

‘The Typographic Mind‘ is a brief synopsis of a much larger volume
of the same name that i’ve been working on for the past year or so
and relates to my previous book ‘The Floating World‘ – which remains
still unpublished with Steidl in Germany.

One of the pleasures of being in Japan was to actually see the whole
series of the TDC books in the context of bookshops. It made it more
‘real’. Especially as the other books in the series are so good and
inspiring.

After waiting for so long for ‘The Floating World‘ to be published it was
a joy and a relief to pick up a physical copy of something that i had
created. I remember quite vividly my fear and anticipation on
approaching a record store in the late 70’s to see whether it had any
copies of ‘Landscape‘, an album by that band. This was my first
professional commission. Had it turned out ok? What was it going to
look like amongst all the other record covers that had been designed
by ‘professionals’? And then after finding it – ‘What does this mean?’
‘What will be the response to it?’ ‘Will anyone notice it? and like it?’.
It was an odd feeling and one that I still retain to this day.

Apologies for not writing for so long. Time has simultaneously flown by and
been extremely full. A lot of it has been ‘taken away’ with Underworld,
the Oblivion Ball Artjam wall at the Makuhari being the most visible,
exhausting and fruitful example of our collaboration. It was also extremely nerve-wracking. None of us had ever painted at that scale and it was
ultimately my responsibility to make sure that it all ‘worked’ – 1. that we
finished it in time, 2. that it was ‘good’ and 3. everyone who watched it
was entertained. To be able to achieve all of this requires a bit of luck and
a great deal of support and fortunately we had both.

Add to this the complex of emotions of seeing and being with Rick, Karl
and Simon (from tomato) for the first time in 2 and a half years and it was,
for me, rather special on so many levels. I think for all of us it was the
culmination and re-affirmation of much of what we had talked about and
hope for ever since Rick, Karl and I met in the early 80’s and what we at
tomato had envisaged right from our very first meeting in 1991. In addition
the tomato presence was strengthened by Jason sending artwork for the
wall and Steve (who now lives in Tokyo) being present in the audience.

All of us have always wanted to make work together that is greater than
the sum of its parts, an alchemic adventure that transcended itself and in
some ways ‘made’ itself. As with alchemy the experiments more often or
not produce nothing, or at least nothing ’special’. And obviously it can
often produce a mess or just a muddy ’sludge’. Given such unpredict-
ability it is, in some ways, ‘madness’ to continue to pursue such a course.
But it’s the thing that has drawn everyone in tomato together – the not
knowing what is going to happen rather than the known.

It’s why we all became interested in art and design in the first place.
That magical moment as a young child of realising that you could draw
and having that inner compulsion to draw again and again and that you
were ‘good at it’. Once that starts it is inevitable that you experiment
and ask ‘what if’. This connects you to the world in a very special way
because not only are aware of appearances, the ‘how things are’,
but also the everyday processes of light, of context and imagination
that fuel the ‘what could be’. Once that dialogue is realised and
established your ‘conversation’ with the world and your sense of ’self’
and its relation to the world changes. And the struggle as you get older
is to not only remember that but to protect it from all that is ‘grown up’.

And that’s the hard part.

It’s so easy to led away and forced to act and ‘be’ in another way.

The danger is that you believe that spring of innocence is always
within, always nourishing, no matter what you are creating, or more
accurately, what you are being asked to create. This belief is illusory.
It is a memory of something rather than the thing itself. And will,
in time, stagnate. if you ignore the need to replenish then it becomes
harder or at least seem harder to allow yourself to re-join that ‘thing’,
the source of what started you on your way where there are no rules,
no method, no expectancy other than just the act of making.
And making as a physical act not just ‘thinking about it’.

But this takes time, or ‘takes time away’ from what you ’should’ be
doing. And then there’s an opportunity like the Oblivion Ball Artjam.
And for everyone who physically took part and for everyone connected
with it something happened. Everyone was smiling at the end.
Not a superficial smile but one that came from within. A smile that was
not only about that person knowing that they had played their part but
a smile that was about knowing that everyone had played their part.
The wall at the Artjam might or might not have been ‘good’. It’s value
for all those who made it and supported it lies in the fact that it was
made and not just ‘thought about’.

Spring is almost here. However, i still struggling to get used to the reversal
of seasons. My body clock is still attuned to the northern hemisphere, northern
European pattern of seasons. This dislocation is, I think, caused by living in
the city. Melbourne is an odd mixture of European, American and South East
Asia. And it’s all too familiar. Even though it’ s mixed up in a particular way.
One of the reasons for moving here was to change our pattern of life and to
create time to concentrate on work that was self-generated. Of course, plans
never quite work out. But the intention, will etc, is still there. And somehow this
will happen. It has to happen.

In the meantime it’s the normal cycle of work. Still a few things to finish on the
Underworld packaging (images in the next post) and a few other projects to get
underway. I’m off to Hobart, Tasmania tomorrow to give a lecture and a workshop
at the art school there. Unfortunately, I can only spend a day and a half there due
to work deadlines, however we’ll be taking a family holiday there soon (it’s only
a 40 minutes flight from Melbourne).

A few weeks ago I was asked by Professor Richard Doubleday to submit work for
the next edition of Phillip K. Megg’s ‘History of Graphic Design‘. This was hard enough
but then he sent an email asking ‘why and how your body of work is important?’.

To answer this has been agony as I feel and know that my work has fallen well short
of what I would wish or what I have dreamt about. The other problem (for me at least)
is to relate what I do to ‘Graphic Design’ let alone it’s rich history. I feel very much the
outsider looking in. However, I’ve tried to answer the request in an honest way.

…………….

My background is formed by early discussions with my Grandfather (a mathematician
who was interested in not only mathematics but also philosophy and art).
So, i’m interested in expressing ideas. I am interested in the forms and details that
this can take. And I’m interested in the idea that a piece of work has an equivalence
whether it be awritten philosophical tome, a mathematical equation, a painting,
a photograph, a poem, a film, a piece of music or a building. These are the forms
of expression whether they are self generated or given (as a commission).
The details of the means of expression is of equal interest; as is the symbiotic
relationship between form and means. And work that attracts produces an energy
from the frisson generated by this relationship. This energy is my drug.

This has meant that I have no ’style’ other than an approach. Yes, I am interested
in critical theory. Yes, I am interested in the contemporary but i am bound by
neither.They are interesting signposts ‘in progress’ within the context of culture
making but what I am interested in is the process of ideas in all its aspects and
iterations, and I use this, rather than the ‘latest thing’, as the generator and
context for my work.

To quote Joseph Beuys – ‘Thought into Form‘.

This why I studied ‘Electronic Interactive Media’ for my master’s at the end of the
70’s. I wasn’t interested in the programming per se but in the potential spaces
that this new medium would create and the way that these spaces would inform
and have effect upon culture and thinking.

And the collectives/studios that I have been part of have been solely about the
possibilities and potential of ‘thought into form’. They have been meeting places
for this topic of conversation, laboratories, if you like, where we have
experimented and provoked ourselves, each other and sometimes beyond the
studio.Tomato, which i co-founded with Steve Baker, Dirk van Doreen, Karl Hyde,
Richard Smith, Simon Taylor and Graham Wood (1991. with the subsequent
additions of Joel Baumann, Tota Hasagawa, Michael Horsham, Jason Kedgley,
Anthony Rodgers,Tom Roope ) is by far the best example of this. A group of very
different people working separately and together. The one common thread between
us all is our inquisitiveness. The important question is always “What if?”

This has meant that I do not have a single area of work or specialisation.
I write, I draw, I paint, I make films, sound, spaces, etc etc. Part of what I do can be
interpreted as ‘Graphic Design’. I love ideas and I love words as an expressive
medium so consequently I love typography and the construction of the page or in
this era of motion, typography within a space. Every typeface, it’s letter-spacing,
the line spacing gives a ‘voice’ to the thought. It’s details are crucial to the
communication of that thought. And so there is an equivalence with music -
tone, timbre, rhythm, construction, repetition, theme etc. A good piece of work,
no matter what the form or the means of expression, resonates. It transcends
itself beyond its particular surface and resonates within. This abstraction is a
wordless thing and importantly a generator of possibilities and potential.
If there is any goal then it is to make work that achieves this.

So, I’m not sure how this fits into ‘the History of Graphic Design’ as I’m not
entirely sure what Graphic Design is? Maybe my ‘value’ (and tomato’s ‘value’) is
exactly that. The questioning, the blurring of the edges. Rick Poyner wrote that we
(tomato) mix art with graphics, we bring an artistic sensibility to ‘graphics’ .
This maybe true. But we don’t see it like that. We just act instinctively.
Although I (and the rest of tomato) might know a lot about critical theory and the
history of art and the history of graphics but we do not label or name what we do.
That form of ‘commodification’/taxonomy is for others to make.

What I would say is that i tend to interpret anything that I encounter within
a ‘typographic mind’. By this I mean, the street as a grid, the ebb and flow of
pedestrians as the positive and negative spaces of letter-forms, of letter-spacing etc.
What feeds my work is not just the ‘History of Graphic Design’ (because that shows
what has been done, which is always a useful lesson) but the world as I experience it.
And my work, taken as a whole, is a map of my journey.

The first book that set afire the desire to be an ‘artist’ was one on Asian Art in my
grandfather’s library and in it was a section on Ukiyo-e and specifically the work
of Katsushika Hokusai. Apart from the wonderful work there was a quote,
the postscript to his series ‘One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji – ‘
From around the age of six, I had the habit of sketching from life. I became an artist,
and from fifty on began producing works that won some reputation, but nothing I did
before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I began to grasp
the structures of birds and beasts, insects and fish, and of the way plants grow.
If I go on trying, I will surely understand them still better by the time I am eighty-six,
so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. At one hundred,
I may well have a positively divine understanding of them, while at one hundred and
thirty, forty, or more I will have reached the stage where every dot and every stroke
I paint will be alive. May Heaven, that grants long life, give me the chance to prove
that this is no lie.‘ This still excites me. The key as I see it is to retain that child-like
wonder and absorption of everything whilst at the same time to hone one’s craft and
means of expression and to make sure that this is not killed or restrained by labeling
it one thing or another.

As you can tell from the differences between my blog and others on
this site i don’t go out that much! Or if I do it’s for work or to do
with the family.
One of the things I was looking forward to when we moved to Melbourne
from London was the opportunity to have more time and space to draw
and paint.
But as always plans never quite seem to realise themselves. Life
takes over. So I have to contend with this rather monkish existence.

The one good thing about travelling around is the hour or two i can
allow myself to browse some of the bookshops. On my recent trip to
Sydney i visited the Oxford Street bookshops – Arial, Berlelouws and
rather wonderful cafe/bookshop, Gertrude & Alice as well as Published
Art and the bookshop at the National Gallery of New South Wales . The
books I picked up there formed this week’s ‘reading list’ in addition
to two of my favourites Lucretius and the Iain Sinclair book. The
real find was the Minsky book, which I never seen before.