Two paintings...

Both these paintings are hovering just above the ground... about to touch down...



This coming weekend I will be flying to Dublin to hang my show at Rubicon Gallery. It opens on Wednesday 5th May. Here is the invite...


Things seen - Vuillard

Edouard Vuillard: Under the trees, 1897, oil on canvas, 53x67cm, held in the collection of the Museo Thyssen, Madrid.



Here is a little painting, one of a number I will be showing in my forthcoming show titled Bihotz at Rubicon Gallery, Dublin.

Manifold, 2009, oil and acrylic on canvas, 35x25cm


Spider's touch

The spiders touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

Alexander Pope from the Essay on Man.


Petals on the ground...

Shadows and white petals on the ground which I observed while out for a walk the other day.

The application of paint: to define this a little...it is not expressionistic or the exaltation of gesture, it is not the drama of action painting either. The way one paints or makes something can so often seem like a parody of itself. So, perhaps for me, it could simply be a placement of material, of paint...colour. Making marks. Depositing and positioning something on a surface. Most importantly, it is touch. Through the hand and movement of the arm and body in time, the eyes touch the surface with the brush or implement. Accumulations. Leaving evidence of my time on the surface which becomes a painting. The images form organically like the growth of a tree. Tributes to themselves and the knowledge that the looking is never really done. And then the contradiction: trying to fix and hold still the fleeting moment and that which is always in flow. Leaves fall to the ground along with white petals and the shadows of branches slowly come and go...



K, 2009, oil on linen, 27x22cm


Pools (shadows)

Pools (shadows), 2009, coloured pencil, gouache and collage on paper, 32.5x25cm.

La Folie du Jour

Can I describe my trials? I was not able to walk, or breathe, or eat. My breath was made of stone, my body of water, and yet I was dying of thirst. One day they thrust me into the ground; the doctors covered me with mud. What work went on at the bottom of that earth! Who says it's cold? It's a bed of fire, it's a bramble bush. When I got up I could feel nothing. My sense of touch was floating six feet away from me; if anyone entered the room, I would cry out, but the knife was serenely cutting me up. Yes, I became a skeleton. At night my thinness would rise up before me to terrify me. As it came and went it insulted me, it tired me out; oh, I was certainly very tired.

From The Madness Of The Day by Maurice Blanchot 1973, translated by Lydia Davies: Station Hill Press.