
Life Drawing at Redbrick Mill with our model Sue
Abide with Me by Russell Lumb
I fondly remember the days when the FA cup final appeared to hold the nation’s attention for the entire preceding week and then from breakfast to bedtime on the glorious Saturday; irrespective of the teams involved. My presence at Redbrick Mill yesterday was a tiny indicator of just how far from our collective affections this sporting occasion has fallen. I therefore make no apologies for insinuating football into my review of Cup Final Day at Redbrick.
Arriving late onto the playing surface, only moderately wetted by overnight rain which had missed the buckets, Bren was forced to take up position as a very deep-lying sweeper, behind a midfield five, marshalled by the evergreen Tom Wood, the Dave Mackay of the Life Room, returning from a debilitating bout of Nobby Virus, but still able to control proceedings without moving out of the centre circle. I gratefully accepted the number 2 shirt, playing overlapping right back, outside Emma’s more conventional right winger. This hitherto unwanted position suddenly presented great opportunity for attacking play, as Sue settled into her defensive formation, rotating her head to the left to present a compact and inviting target.
The first half was tight, professional but subdued, with few chances created by players taking no risks, but, as the kettle’s whistle signalled the break, The diminutive Emma made a trademark mazy run to produce the single quality move of the game; silky-smooth, balanced yet powerful, bringing the best out of Sue. Imagine the stunned shock when the heartless Anne Hutchison, flame –haired manager and tabloid favourite, withdrew Emma at half time and transferred her to York City, without so much as a medical!
The game was over as a credible celebration of sublime brushwork, although the team gave 150%, with notable contributions from Bren, shoring-up the defense like a woman with two heads, and Tony “Xavi” Noble who’s countless sliderule passes were often wasted by off-colour colleagues.
For me, it was a thrill just to take part, although how I missed the communal baths of the old Wembley stadium, and I wasn’t to know that the imaginary blue vase which I had slipped into my painting foresaw the lifting of the famous old cup by the Blues of Chelsea within two hours. Spooky or what?

One sore buttock and everyone else more or less like wet dishrags by Sue Vickerman
Modelling at Redbrick Mill is a cut above. There’s a podium. There’s a cushion. There’s heating. There are breaks with abundant tea and coffee and even choccie biccies. And there’s a community. It is a favourite life room.
My musings when in today’s comfortably seated pose turn, eventually, as always, to ‘What is going on in this room?’ The dynamics of the life room: a big subject. I have taken it upon myself to create an online forum for its discussion, sukithelifemodel.co.uk, and would love Redbrickers to add their views to those already there: ‘Bloody hard work, scary, frustrating, stressful, and you never get it right,’ says Grassington artist Helen Wheatley, while Doug Binder’s adjectives range through ‘vital’, ‘challenging’, ‘addictive’ and ‘exhausting’, and the life room is ‘an examination chamber [where] an individual can feel totally exposed, suffering anguish should the work be failing or run-of-the-mill… many becoming resigned and bravely turning up week after week, only to suffer much of the same.’
At half-time today, Tom the great man himself says his painting is a duffer. Oh, the heartache of the life room. Though Tom is not one of those who you think will chuck himself in the Calder. A friend this evening quoted Tom as saying that ‘he likes to take risks with his paintings and so the occasional clanger is inevitable’. ('And welcome', Tom says through gritted teeth with an unconvincing grin).
Some punters leave after the morning session, and it feels like those remaining are the stalwarts. Roger H starts to sound as though he’s nearing the end of a marathon. My left hip-bone is boring through my flesh, but no matter, because underlying any suffering is my sheer delight to have accidentally got into this line of work. It so feeds my own creative life. I so enjoy this company. The context for Suki’s next autobiographical saga, THE LIFE ROOM, will be Yorkshire’s life-rooms and studios, their inhabitants, the interactions between artists and the model, and the works being created. Suki will be collaborating with a photographer for this book – her big 2013 project. Suki? I am Suki The Life Model’s manager/ promoter/ muse and indeed creator.
The day ends with my one sore buttock and everyone else more or less like wet dishrags. I have not commented on the paintings. I will leave that to others. Though Suki made some notes in her little black book.
The impressionist's impression of an Impressionist by Tamara Wood
An inspiring model adopting a wonderful pose, the odalisque incarnate, what could possibly go wrong. Well you could stand too far away for starters, in the famous photograph of Matisse with model, he's almost upon the poor girl, proximity seems to be the thing. Now I'm not talking about a closeness so that people talk or models feel uncomfortable, I don't want to violate anyone's personal space as we say nowadays. I don't want to be the man in the lift who's just that tad too close for comfort that would be uncomfortable, no I'm talking about a situation where model and eyesight find a happy medium, detail is seen but pores are not inspected. I needed to be closer and not kid myself that my myopic blur was anything but a blur, you see the problem is I dwell on detail and when I see the impressionist poem that Chris seems to weave from air I look on with envy. The blur seemed like a good strategy to force the impressionist out of me, today Matthew I will be Monet sadly I never will never make the final with this sub standard impressionist's impression of an Impressionist if you see what I mean. So we strive for clarity when really we need artful obfuscation in a good way.
Bren is a natural, the model a medium to tap into those inner spirits, a conduit allowing another self-portrait of the emotions maybe, we won't know but the words might give us a clue, echoes tantalizingly whispered out of earshot, we know they are there but we can't quite decipher their meaning. Russell posits that meaning in a blue vase, the vessel in which a thoughtful composition is held in balance. Roger creates a crystalline watercolour of great beauty, the head delicately poised with eyes of sadness and intelligence, a sore buttock nowhere in sight, it's amazing how a craft so dedicated to truth is capable of such big whopping lies. I think so often when confronting the model we paint and draw ourselves, the cliche of all art is that it is always at some level a self portrait but it's hard not to revert to the Penguin book of Psychoanalysis when looking at this lot. We have the hard edged rationalists vs the dreamy other worldly types, the positivists vs the doom mongers and the flamboyant cross dressers vs the masochistic leather lovers - I might have made the last lot up but then maybe not, you know who I'm talking to Russell or should I say Rusty Springs, doyen of Bridlington's Bingo Hall's.....!
We're all allowed one duff one but it's so frustrating when all the circumstances and stars align to tell you this could be a good one and it just doesn't happen. I would like to try again,I thought the pose was excellent (well done Tony) and the model perfect, maybe a few more shadows would have helped but all in all I got it wrong and wasted a great opportunity, I'm just off for a stroll down to the canal, I may be gone awhile............
Paintings and Drawings by Anne, Bren, Chris, Dick, Emma, Hadyn, Ivan, Roger, Russell, Sandra, Steven, Tom and Tony


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