“They’re not secrets.
You don’t know them, but that doesn’t mean they’re secrets.
There are secrets, of course, because there’s a difference,
there’s a difference between what we think and what we do
and that difference is the secret.”
A film by artist friend John Coombes - I hope you can join me at the Preview.
John Coombe's website with further information.
From guest blogger, Graham Ranger, Head of the British School in New Delhi.
Dropping into my local pub in the Peak District in England, a regular remarked that he hadn’t seen me lately in the Barley Mow. “I live in India”, I said. Right, he replied and carried on sipping the pint of Abbot’s Ale. So, how is it in India, six months down the track?
In “Entry from the Backside Only”, a witty guide to Indian English, one of India’s legacies from the Raj, author Binoo John points out how the sub-continent’s fascination with the English language gathered its momentum after the British left. With ironic feelings of nostalgia, English grew on India. Showing a logical approach to word adjustment, my colleagues will prepone as well as postpone meetings, and meet at the backside of the market as well as at the front side. Language is both evolving and is fossilized. Victorian English alongside SMS English. Cows and cars sharing the ring-road. Rickshaw drivers able to own cellphones because of fierce competition in the market, driving down prices to affordable levels.
Today, January 26th, 2008, the 49th Republic Day, commemorating the signing of the Constitution that ‘freed’ India from British rule and established the republic, we are in a fiercely patriotic community. Young Indian tennis star, Sania Mirza was recently reprimanded in the press for baring her feet on the tennis court in too close a proximity to the Indian flag: the other tricolor. Speaking of tricolor’s, our special guest at the Republican Day celebrations is Nicolas Sarkozy who, following in Gordon Brown’s footsteps, is wooing India with requests to expand the G8 to include us. Nicolas and Carla is now bigger news than plain Nicolas. Carla Bruni is reputedly joining him, flying in ‘to see the Taj Mahal’, according to today’s Times of India. Shades of that Diana photograph: I can feel it coming.
Working alongside local people has been one of the great privileges of being here. Generous spirited, hospitality being measured by how much food is provided, and embracing of differences: the ‘two stone placement’, the former British High Commissioner called a three year stint in Delhi. We are all warned.
In my six months here, I have developed my appreciation of how to expect the unexpected and develop a more accommodating nature. A candidate for interview at my school recently remarked on how struck he was that the interview continued without pause when the room was plunged into darkness when the electricity cut, such a routine event in the daily life of Delhi that it passes without comment or unnecessary interruption. One expects the unexpected until it redefines itself as the expected.
In ‘The Satanic Verses’, probably one of the most purchased, unread novels on the bookshelves of the late 1980s, Salman Rushdie writes of the eclectic, hybridized nature of the Indian artistic tradition. He described the Mughal period in which artists of different faiths and traditions were brought together from all over India to work on a single painting. Individual identity was immersed to create a single ‘Overartist’ which was Indian painting. This, in some ways, manifests itself in other aspects of life. Maintaining the tradition of pluralism is essential for the unity of the nation. Pluralism involves acknowledging the uncertainty of certainty, as Mark Tully observes, including the reality that the faith-based views of others, whilst different, may also be valid. Embracing differences is one of this nation’s great strengths, along with its democratic tradition, which, with the love of argument, manifests itself in very walk of life. This, and cricket, is some of the stuff that is India.
All photographs by Graham Ranger - thanks Tom.
Painting as prayer - artist Matthew Askey explores the grace of light in his Prayer Paintings.
Matthew is based at the College of the Resurrection in Mirfield, Yorkshire, UK where he is training for Ordination as a Priest in the Church of England.
Self Portrait eating an Apple, Matthew Askey, 20/01/2008
This image is part of an on-going series of small oil paintings on wooden panels. I’m calling them Prayer Paintings. They are about our struggle to get to know God (or what we might call the truth of 'being', which is the same thing) and how the light and beauty of God shows through even our biggest messes and mistakes, not simply our more graceful moments…
This is an image of me eating an apple, with the light rubbed through the darkness of the background paint. I hope it is both realistic and optimistic. The circular format focuses our attention on the face, like a target, out of time, in our minds eye, in a mirror? Not just a ‘window’ image into which we peer from the outside, but an involved glimpse. This is the messiness of living, eating to live, and also the difficulties our decisions might bring for us (moral/historical/Biblical symbolism of the apple)…The apple also signifies for me that I am human, the human condition, in all its wonder and contradictions...
I
think the painting has turned out quite raw and delicate at the same time…other images in this series of Prayer Paintings include helpless flying figures in a storm, explosions, fireworks, a burning car and other portraits…
My painting heroes are Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Velazquez, Goya and Bacon. I think their influences can be seen in this image, in the hermetically lit dark space and the focus on the struggle to live, seen in the nature of the figure, almost like looking at a wild animal in a cage perhaps…desperately dependent, loving, vulnerable, a momentary glimpse of a life, all at the same time…The surprising wonder of being alive...
Those of you who have the keen eye of an art collector will have noticed a new box to the right of the blog marked ‘ART FOR SALE’. I have downloaded a new widget (don’t ask) that enables you to buy work directly from the website using Paypal.
It’s secure, easy and convenient with minimal costs. The widget shows available works and the album below, marked ‘ART FOR SALE’ shows each work in more detail.
The works are A4 pages taken from a temporary sketchbook and mounted on card. They show visual ideas and thoughts being explored in a range of ways and using a variety of media.
They are mounted in card but unframed. The price includes post and packing and shipping.
I’m also still looking for contributions, don’t be shy, share your words, pictures and links, they are all much appreciated.tom_wood@tiscali.co.uk
Guest Blogger, Chris Durbin writes from his bed in the Queen Mary Hospital, Pokfulam, Hong Kong.
Wow what a view, overlooking:
The South China Sea and an array of islands
One of the busiest shipping lanes in the world
A classic Chinese graveyard wending its way down a steep sided valley
Is this the 20th floor of a luxury hotel? No it is the 20th floor of the Queen Mary Hospital.
Now for a geographer there is nothing quite like a view from a great height. Just to let colleagues know [and those who don’t know Hong Kong] that I am looking down on West Island School [my children’s school] and the Education Development Centre. The view would allow me to do a playground duty with binoculars!
And so to the ships that pass by every thirty or so seconds. It is like Thomas the Tank Engine on the ocean. I am looking down on a variety of shapes and sizes, all conjuring images of people in my mind. Personification of transportation has made millions. It is a shame really the Rev William Whateverhisnameis thought of this concept first. I passed by a maxicab/minibus this morning advertising Ming the Minibus so there may be hope for this idea yet. Sea going vessels ought to have faces to portray their characters. As ships are all traditionally female, they ought to have appropriate names. There is the big cumbersome one, seemingly top heavy with containers, making way for no-one, Frances the Freighter, oversized, haughty and yet unkempt. Frances is rather like Clarissa Dickson Wright of Two Fat Ladies fame. At the opposite end of the size-scale is the small stubby one, seemingly cut off at the rear. This is the cheeky one, a fidget of vessel, agile at turning, and these spherical boats come in pairs, meet Terri and Tabby the Tugboats.
There is a myriad of merchant vessels, shifting cargo from A to B and back again. Then there could be Teresa the Tanker, Ingrid the Bulk Carrier [proudly displaying large white lettering Hapag-Lloyd is on her black side] and Clarice the Container Ship all heading for Denise the Derrick and her many friends. This is where cargo is loaded and unloaded on to small vessels like Bryony and Bobby the Barges. Bryony has the skipper’s bridge at the front and Bobby has hers at the rear. One seems to be pushing the four containers and the other, pulling.
The seas are a hive of activity, the ships are competing for space, the small ones buzz around large ships like flies around a cow’s face. The small, elegant, thin vessel must be Priscilla the Pilot, quick and agile, the bow wave looking like a tutu, the wake like long thin ballerina’s legs with white tights. Jodi the junk, Suki the Sanpan continue on their journeys despite the wakes from ships like Ingrid. Harriet the Hydrofoil is racing Jenny the Jetfoil to Macau and back. Ffion and Fiona the Ferries take a divergent course, one heading for Lamma, the other for Lantau.
Then there are the military vessels, Dervla the Destroyer and Amy the Aircraft Carrier, sleek and grey, still and inactive whilst in safe haven, yet brooding and waiting for action.
Not to mention the fleet of fishing boats, Tania the Trawler……Enough I hear you cry….
I cannot blame the drugs for this mad vision for I haven’t been on drugs since the 27th December. I am as fit and healthy as I have been for 9 months; I have just completed two weeks’ work uninterrupted by dizzy spells. This however is the start of things for me. I am about to be harvested, combined or plucked. This is the day of arrangement for stem cell capture and nothing much happens so I have time to think, time to go mad. Every now and then another little piece of the 10 day protocol comes into my ken. A doctor pops up and says I need to arrange a catheter in your neck, a third nurse asks me if I have allergies to drugs another one explains how to look after my catheter. Looking down on the world from this hospital window, it all seems magic, and I want to stay around for a while yet. I am thinking of you all out there in schools, shaping young people’s lives, bringing new experiences to young people and developing the people who will inherit this wonderful planet. When you feel miserable or fed up, just stop and rub your palm and think of something that is joyous [on the other hand it might be better to rant and kick a cardboard box!]
Tomorrow is day two of the 10 day protocol. It involves hydration, chemotherapy and growth hormone - irrigation, pesticide and fertiliser more like. In ten days I will have a crop of stem cells and out will come the Wurzels to sing “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester, and I’ll give you the key!” The crop will be my own stem cells, and, like a bag of frozen peas, will be stored in a freezer for a later date. Sadly I am feeling very well with remission and an immeasurable disease, yet I know I will be getting worse.
Many thanks for bearing with me and allowing me to indulge myself. Back to the reports I need to finish….from the hospital bed.
Thank you Chris. The photographs are of Pokfulam including one from a memorably stormy day.
Chris is the first contributor to my new more inclusive blog where I hope a variety of voices and views can be read. If you would like to contribute than please email me at tom_wood@tiscali.co.uk
Two new works on paper. The man is a portrait of Nury Vittachi, novelist, writer of wise and witty words, also catalyst for many literary events throughout Asia. Read more on Nury's excellent website,
The Curious Diary of Mr Jam
The lady is Linling Ng, a friend, teacher of Mandarin and a natural model who is able to balance a real peony blossom on the side of her head and still look graceful, no mean feat, I've tried it!
You might be interested to know that as I write this our two dogs, Roly the Pug and Pippin the Upstart are barking hysterically with great visciousness at a man from the Rotary Club, sat on a very slow moving lorry decorated with flashing lights in the shape of a sleigh. He is dressed as Santa Claus but the outfit has seen better days and is a touch too tight to be comfortable, but like the good sport he is, he continues to wave and smile as the music rings out in the cold night air. David Essex singing , 'It was only a Winters Tale' echoes eerily around the houses accompanied by the slobbering gruff persistent bark of one fat pug and the banshee blood curdling yell of one prancing frantic papillion. It's good to know the spirit of Christmas lives on.
It's freezing, absolutely freezing, the kind of cold that makes your bones ache, your teeth clench and your eyes water. If you have to trudge through it, when you get back you feel exhausted even though all you've walked is a few hundred yards. It's the kind of cold that wraps your joints in frozen bandages so that you feel hunched and held as though entombed by some overwhelming glacial grip. Is it any wonder the dogs don't want to go for a walk when they are closer to a ground that is so frozen it rings like metal with every step. I don't blame them one bit.
Dutifully we plod through this icy wasteland where branches are now so brittle they crack and shatter at the smallest touch, leaves crunch and the long grass sprawls exhausted by the effort of supporting so much frost.
I snap away taking photographs of each and every thing in this desolate wonderland, eventually the dogs wee, steam rises, they shiver, I put on my gloves and we tramp home. I've got a feeling there will be a lot more photographs of frost fringed leaves.
The one pleasure is to note the increasing competition amongst the neighbours to attract wild birds into their garden. The local garden centres have spotted a market for this growing interest and consequently there is now a huge choice of bird tables, hanging feeders, baths and food. Whereas before the birds had to make do with the ocassional berry or seed now they are more likely to encounter a full three course meal all wrapped up in a fat ball. We all like to see birds in our garden and don't they know it, we've created a monster, the wild bird fussy eater. There is so much food at hand that these little devils turn their beaks up if the seed isn't fresh or the nuts vary in size, maybe the bacon bits aren't organic, who knows but the competition is on and although we have one fat robin on our side, the rest seem to prefer the eaterie next door.
We have however devised a cunning plan and that is to go back to basics. We're introducing the radical notion of school food, the birds will get breadcrumbs in the form of an old bagel hung up which if successful will be joined by a necklace of redundant baguettes. I think they will be so dazzled by the audacity of the menu that word will get round and soon we will have a garden alive to the sound of birdsong and the crunching of beaks on stale bread as satisfied diners get stuck in. At least the cat will be happy.
Cotinus in a Grey Vase 2007
Oil and Acrylic on canvas
50 x 50cms
Cotinus in a Chinese Teapot 2007
Oil and Acrylic on canvas
50 x 50cms
Artist Sketchbooks Online This is a superb website - a real labour of love and one where you can happily while away a few hours seeing how different artists develop their ideas - fascinating, useful and a little bit compulsive if you like sketchbooks.
As I advance in age I can feel a definite hardening of the arteries along with a certain stiffening of the sinews, these seem to be the symptoms of my increasingly intolerant world. I find black and white suits me and my hare-trigger tolerance is severely tested each day.
I could of course go on but I won’t, and I should of course balance this grumpy start with a humorous retraction of sorts. To be fair I should restore the equilibrium, but, and this is an important but, whilst I can honestly say I don’t feel entirely out of sorts with the world, for me at least there has been a shift.
I suppose I'm typical insofar as each generation feels itself being elbowed unceremoniously to one side as it's overtaken by the stampede of impatient youth and probably rightly so. However, somehow it doesn’t feel right when it happens to you and maybe that sense of becoming redundant all too easily manifests itself in a certain grumpiness accompanied by a little self pitying, the occasional whine and a bit of sulking, all quite understandable and justified. Solace is sought in the companion of other discarded tortoises and the usual collective gripe is that a hare’s life is not really what it’s made out to be and without a shadow of a doubt it will all end badly.
Anyway with all that in mind I thought I might write a little about art and my own personal sense of how things might change. I stress these are my own views and are based on nothing more than my own well-honed prejudices.
For me, we seem to be in a period of fin de siecle exhaustion, there is a growing sense of lethargy and stasis in the so called mainstream radicalism of contemporary art. Occasionally there is a blip as the media reports some infantile gesture or vacuous idea or better still some well rehearsed extravagance or outrage involving of all things, shock horror, blatant nudity. It's all so tiresome and predictable, these stunts seem to be the equivalent of kicking a corpse, briefly shocking but ultimately pointless. However we all seem quite willing to play out our roles from Outraged of Cleckheaton to mischevious Tyro of Hoxton. It's all done with a lot of sniggering and yawning and weary role play and I'm sure in truth we all see it as some kind of time honoured charade where the art unitiated are taken for saps.
Galleries and magazines now seem to be infatuated with the new breed of collectors who buy vast artworks to decorate vast houses in order to burnish vast egos. But that's not new really, historically collectors always bought into their own immortality whilst buying Art. It’s all about excess, ostentatious investment and immortality, it always has been. Someone who knows that all too well is Leeds lad, Damien Hirst who is exactly the right person for the job as he relentlessly finds ever more blatant strategies to separate rich people from their money. It’s all too big and obvious to go on about here but there is a sort of moral corruption at the heart of it that withers the spirit if you spend too much time even thinking about it. On the other hand it could just be the case of flaccid Tortoise jealously eyes sprinting Hare disappearing over horizon!
So onto happier thoughts. I think there is a new art starting to emerge. If I’m honest it’s probably been around for a long time but for me it’s new. This new art seems happy to acknowledge some of the values of the past. At first glance it might appear like reactionary nonsense but I think given time and due consideration some real and important values emerge especially in a humanist and ecological/conservation sense. In this art we might find a mirror to a greater consciousness and see our own true concerns reflected. We might speculate about who we are and recognise with greater clarity the wonder and beauty that surrounds us each day wherever we are.
This art may well look out of place and uncomfortable in the way it shamelessly references the past, the way it depends on skills and methods not always available to everybody and the way it presents it’s subject clearly without irony and probably most disconcertingly of all the way in which it makes no pretence of ambiguity. It’s plain and simple fare, solid and reliable, sturdy and popular, what you see is what you get. It can shade into kitsch, not good John Currin kitsch but sentimental smug kitsch and then it’s bad, very bad but that’s for you to decide.
I think if you approach this work with an open mind, a generous heart and a lack of metropolitan irony it can be rewarding. I see this work as the flip side of much of the hard bitten cynicism and fetishized quasi violence of the contemporary art world. I know this world can be angry, violent, brutal and unforgiving but I think for every Nan Goldin there can be a Jacob Collins and for me at this moment his life enhancing, positive message of light out of darkness plucked straight out of Rembrandt is the message I would like to hear.
One final random thought. Is there such a thing as Phantom Hair Syndrome? I think there is. Just as an amputee is easily convinced their limb still exists so I feel compelled to use shampoo on my perfectly bald head and afterwards flick my phantom wet hair to stop water dripping into my eyes. It's a phenomenom I think needs investigating or at least expressing in the form of a video or performance piece, watch this space.
I could go on but I won’t, it could all so easily become another rant. Here are some websites with some wonderful work and some pictures of my recent paintings. The portrait is of Graham Ranger, a friend and present Head of the British School in New Delhi.
Jacob Collins Website
Michael Grimaldi Website
Stephen Brown Website
Peter Krausz page at the Mira Godard Gallery
Website
Jeffrey Ripple page at the Hackett Freedman Gallery Website
Ann Lofquist page at the Hackett Freedman Gallery website
John Currin at the Gagosian Gallery Website
Nan Goldin at Wikipedia
The British School, New Delhi Website
Peter has been a good friend of mine for many years and we've supported one another's work throughout that time. He's a wonderful designer who never overstates his ideas but presents them with immaculate taste and a flawless touch. I really like his stuff and I hope you do, he has two new websites where you can see some of his latest ideas and commission work.
Workshop Five
Peter Colgan
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