Yes, it seems I have interrupted doing my ‘to do’ list of what must be done. Yes, it seems I have started working on a new roll of Italian mid-weight paper using B&W media: both inks and gouache.
Fish-woman? Wise-woman? Shaman? Doesn’t feel like fibre-optics.
This new B&W work takes me full circle, in a way, to when I was a young, self-taught, beginning artist working with a 01 fine-tip, refillable, Rapidograph pen. I laboured over intricate, intuitive work, often overnight – stippling and scratching away at the tiniest details – dark and surreal, somewhat psychedelic. I have expanded on how I work with B&W since (of course – one does expand). As the Grateful Dead sang, What a long strange trip it’s been…I sold offset prints of my ink drawings door to door to students in university residences and the infamous Rochdale College in Toronto. I still remember encounters from those long-ago days and still have many of those drawings.
That may be Boudica in among natural forms and abstracted Celtic motifs.
It requires a bit of finesse to juggle ink & gouache side by side. You integrate two mediums, in one image, hoping the unique properties of each medium stand out. Each approaches the other: from here or there, keeping its own edge, and relationship with water.
A physician ‘nurses’ an anvil with a baby bottle – a deliberately absurd image.
Although I began (Whoosh!) without any plan, this work immediately communicated a specific theme. Two themes actually, I will play them off against each other, intertwining them. One is a ‘reverse metaphor’ of sorts – highlighting an impossiblity.
A wee seahorse appears in gouache.
And the other depicts a figure in mythical folklore (who existed historically). I will abridge her mission, into my overall theme of juxtaposing polarities within a dense, intricate ‘jungle of the psyche.’ I will reassign her, respectfully… Once again the ancient juxtaposes against the ‘now.’
I was surprised by the sense of ‘portent’ in the composition.
I have not corrected these iphone8 photos, taken under less than ideal conditions. I started to ‘adjust’ them in Photoshop and decided it was too time-consuming. Below we see an example of ‘drawing’ beside ‘painting.’
A ‘star’ within the breast of the bird breathing ‘fire.’
Just like with my ‘long blue painting’ I am working on the floor.
Green tape (not very sticky) helped me divide sections for photography.I must remember to get those soft knee-pads for gardening to help with working on the floor.
Often in my poemimage postings I post the first draft of a poem and spend days editing the material. However, what I am saying here is pretty much just ‘black and white’ facts (excuse the pun).
Face to face with a bird breathing fire…Abstracted face with emotion…I imagine a sound to go with this…I may have ‘adjusted’ or ‘corrected’ this image in Photoshop.
With ink I am both drawing and using a looser, painterly style, with wash, dripping, splattering, and expressiveness, which can be rather unforgiving. The gouache, although paint itself, is used more deliberately, adding depth, and solving problems.
& discarded cigarettes, even my bus ticket, hairline cracks in bone, in tar,
in vermillion – ground cinnebar – pigment packed in jars, coolin’ in red clay
shadows durin’ the Renaissance, hairline crackin’ fractal flowers on lacquer,
river-lines on a map, in masterworks, into Assumption of the Virgin by Titian,
& unmentioned others, with fadin’ of time, a tourist bus pulls off sputterin,’
single-point perspective dis-in-te-grates – unseen stick scratchin’ my hand.
I pirouette my solitary shadow across Palazzo Pirro built within
sixteenth century Rome, my shadow layering, a palimpsest, above
cobblestones and a book of matches.
I light one candle divining a reality (quiet: like a stalking panther),
and then brightly shine, playing a piccolo-infused, Super 8 movie theme.
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs, comin’ down like
a long black glove – aimin’ into the heart of me,
she calls me her sweet hero revolution,
a wooden gate swingin’ open,
and she tastes like nocino…
We pirouette our shadows across Palazzo Pirro built within
sixteenth century Rome, our shadows layering, like a palimpsest, sprigs of
speckled weeds growing among the cobblestones.
We light one candle divining a reality (double-sided: like a magician’s trick),
and then brightly shine, playing a Super 8 movie theme (her firebird voice
disinfecting fountains).
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs, sparklin’
like the aurora borealis, above the path leadin’ down to the river –
her firebird voice nourishes, dark as syrup, aimin’ into the heart of me.
I inhale ancient images in Pirro Ligorio’s engraving:
Image of the Ancient City Rome.
I light one candle divining a reality (earthy: like a black walnut),
and then brightly shine, playing a Super 8 movie theme – the piccolo
a rowboat rocking beneath my baby’s firebird voice.
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs, comin’
down like a long black glove – aimin’ into the heart of me,
she calls me her sweet hero revolution,
a wooden gate swingin’ open,
and she tastes like nocino…
We inhale ancient images in Pirro Ligorio’s engraving:
Image of the Ancient City Rome.
We light one candle divining a reality (weaponized: like a cell phone),
and then brightly shine, playing a Super 8 movie theme – starring
gods who play at sport.
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs, sparklin’
like the aurora borealis, above the wall protectin’ us from invaders –
her firebird voice beckons, dark as syrup, aimin’ into the heart of me.
I cup my ears, lean into a raucus carnival of street theatre,
and reiterate childhood ~ reimagining Pierrot in commedia dell’arte.
I light one candle divining a reality (dangerous: like a darkened highway),
and then brightly shine, playing a Super 8 movie
theme – gods who play at sport loom like the Chrysler Building,
rising like angels on the head of a pin.
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs, comin’
down like a long black glove – aimin’ into the heart of me,
she calls me her sweet hero revolution,
a wooden gate swingin’ open,
and she tastes like nocino…
We cup our ears, lean into a raucus carnival of street theatre,
and reiterate childhood ~ reimagining Pierrot in commedia dell’arte.
We light one candle divining a reality (bolted down: like a Faraday cage),
and then brightly shine, playing a Super 8 movie theme – my piccolo a
rowboat, her firebird voice clairvoyant in mysteries of flesh and blood.
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
I’m goin’ to journey – a refugee, I witness the obsidian glyphs,
comin’ down like a long black glove – aimin’ into the heart of me.
Her firebird voice dark as syrup, pale as flutterin’ cherry blossoms,
passin’ like a shadow across the public square, deepenin’
worn ballustrades in darkest chiaroscuro, spreadin’ like black-moss jam,
spreadin’ upon the panther carved in white granite, rollin’ ancient wheels
down hallways of the gods, rockin’ me like a rowboat, rockin’ me into
confusion, perfumin’ rivers and clay, and plants receivin’
moonlight, and trees in silhouette, and evaporatin’ mist, and constellations
deep as ice disappearin’ at breakneck speed, disappearin’ into amber
like a prehistoric gnat, a grasshopper wing, a spine, the scent of smoke,
starlight embedded in black moss arcin’ high above the cave, torchlight
flickerin’ ancestors to the wall ecstatic, copper-plated figurines, hewed
magnetic wood, chantin’ in shrouded limestone, silvery echoes quiver:
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your hand?
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in your
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo in
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that piccolo
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with that
Hey Joe! Where you goin’ with
Hey Joe! Where you goin’
Hey Joe! Where you
Hey Joe! Where
Hey Joe!
Hey
A 1493 woodcut of the university town of Bologna, where Copernicus studied law.
I found this anonymous woodcut online some time ago and created a series of digital images blending it with a small & golden, Incan figure (a god perhaps). I decided to only use one of those images for this posting. I cannot remember which high school, or year, the high school yearbook photo of the cheerleader and basketball players came from but here they are, in their youth, featured in a new variant of the classic Hey Joe! now situated in Rome, or perhaps outside of time. I lifted the figure in blue from a series of images in progress about a bus driver (not sure I’ll ever get back to it). I take credit for my own digital creative work and conceptual imagination. I don’t claim copyright over original source material in my (not for profit) re-contextualizing and art-making.
Special thank you to Joe Kelly who encouraged the vernacular in abbreviations such as goin’ instead of going. I used that whenever ‘Joe’ of ‘Hey Joe’ was asked thequestion.
A series of digital images reimagining the Celtic deer who appears near the end of my long painting ‘Druidica Blue: Deja Vu (Cave Art For the New Psyche).’ Here she is reimagined as a ‘double-deer on the river with a blue slash.’
Reimagining the imagined. The Celtic deer discovers herself in a geometric composition with a goddess manipulating a moon symbol, also from the original painting.
Reimagining the imagined. She is reimagined in two-dimensional profile where ‘dry sand is covering reeds and half-buried, disintegrated reed boats.’
Reimagining the imagined. I reimagine her being ofthe sun. In this composition two diagonal rods exit or enter a window in a dome. Diagonal lines connect her to the window.
Reimagining the imagined. She is reimagined here within a defined space. Perhaps an open air temple. I include a section of the original painting.
Reimagining the imagined. I remember painting the curvilinear antlers and feeling the texture of the paper on the floor. In Photoshop I (somehow) created a ‘brass brooch in refracted sunlight.’
Reimagining the imagined. The Celtic deer experiences a sudden buoyant springtime: surging youth & chlorophyll. Excuse the double watermarks. In doing so much layering and relayering I lose track of it.
Reimagining the imagined. Three primary influences (Matisse, Cubism, cartoons) create the sensation of a distant seashore I will only visit in my imagination.
Reimagining the imagined. In this Cubistic image the Celtic deer seems to enter the edges of a reverberaton.
A linocut moon from my ‘wordless poem’ Nevermore Together (2014, The Porcupine Quill’s press – 120 linocut prints). A Spiral Monk digital drawing from a series I did a few years ago. The Irish terminology discovered in the John Moriarty book Dreamtime.
Eachtra: An adventure to or from the Otherworld of mythic, or of near-mythic, strangeness. Imbas Forusnai: Method of divination practiced by seer-poets of ancient Ireland.
I spent ten months, mostly working in silence, creating this painting (& drawing) on a long roll of inviting, warm paper and felt how it used me as a channel. While writing the artist statement (below) I encompassed multiple perspectives concerning the work, probably with a focus on how and why. This material is from a pdf I assembled to promote the work.
As this mystery in blue appears beneath my fingertips my planning designs go up in smoke. The hypnopompic stage of waking illumines the space behind my forehead with images and textures. I begin working sessions with these. Or I simply wake after three hours sleep and begin where I stopped.
I name the painting Druidica. Then Druidica Blue. Then Druidica Blue: Deja Vu. And finally Druidica Blue: Deja Vu (Cave Art for the New Psyche).
In this landscape of the psyche I unearth longing: A quest for the unknown where I imagine belonging. Dripping, staining & flicking the brush I depict shadows cascading across the cave wall. I tumble influences: Prehistory tumbles into the Celtic tumbling into the Medieval tumbling into Modernism of the early 20th Century. I situate myself in art history addressing postmodern amnesia. I re-imagine now.
My journey to this point begins with a shattered ankle. Following surgery I draw page after page of two-dimensional spirals morphing into three-dimensional forms. I investigate spiral symbolism and discover a prehistoric language chiseled into stone. I discover: Newgrange on the River Boyne; Rudolf Steiner’s mystic-trance history of Hibernia (ancient Ireland); Three Cauldrons of Poesy transcribed in the Middle Ages, reportedly of Druidic origin now in Trinity College, Dublin; Joseph Beuys with healing language performing Three Pots for the Poorhouse inside an abandoned Edinburgh poorhouse; Sinead O’Connor singing her incisively poignant Famine. It occurs to me this painting joins the 21st Century to an older type of consciousness.
I begin the 35′ (width) X 5′ (height) painting by dividing sections to be completed one by one. After establishing a pattern I lose control and frame the spontaneous narrative in a more nebulous manner. The painting is flowing the same yet not the same. Perhaps mirroring the work of the psyche. One enters at any chosen spot engaging re-imagined folklore, symbolism, magic and iconography. I work using the blues of art history: Giotto, El Greco, Chagall and Picasso leave their calling card. I kneel to blot standing suddenly writing the poetic phrases I hear, arriving from an unknown place.
Out of some great forgetfulness came this blue sandstorm. In remembering the ancestral I multiply shades of blue. I hear chanting in the echoes.
I relate the process of this artwork to projects I have previously created. In creating cinematic poetry videos I worked (with the editor) to compose performers & surroundings in tandem, in motion, defining the wide screen. The one hundred and twenty B&W linocuts I carve and print for my ‘wordless poem’ Never More Together jangle in unison, though pages apart, connected like cars in a train. I exhibit three Moleskin accordion sketchbooks twenty-one feet in length. On a white wall intricate ink drawings unfold across pages revealing thematic and kinetic relationships. A later series of paintings on canvas makes me wish for the emotional & receptive texture of paper.
I read a magical quest poem, The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats. I rewind videos of the River Glyde in County Louth. I follow ancestral footprints down to the river, set sail for the new world and arrive (as Irish Wonder Tales often begin) A long time ago…I sponge Prussian blue, cerulean blue & ultramarine blue into a receptive & emotional texture until the sea-sponge runs dry. I infuse the blues of art history with a dream of the ancestors. I work a thin brush with round-tipped hairs – texturing the Gaelic mermaid wearing a halo who rises in time outside of time, holding a seashell, vibrating the monumental and mythic. Steeped in lore.
Mirrored images create a jazzy yet alchemical rhythm. I play with the Celtic propensity for seeing in doubles. In visible and not-so-visible relationships. An oracular raven divining portents – a Celtic warrier wounded by an arrow to the heart – a figure aiming a divining rod into the blueness & a herald sounding the (Irish war-horn) carnyx – in nearby spaces one discovers their mirrored doubles. Birds navigate the oracular weightlessness of air.
Energies flash between life forms at the molecular and heroic level. Also in my painting you evidently can get milk from a stone. The dolmen’s udder nourishes the Druid. Metaphorical mysteries nourish the audience. The molecular and heroic awaken the unknown. The painting addresses postmodern amnesia with signs, sigils, and symbols.
I read of who Taliesin might have been and then The Salmon of Knowledge. Water-soluble graphite releases a quivery chiaroscuro of premonition. I paint and draw both freely and controlled, both somber and subversively zany. Ancestors dye their skin blue with plant ink. I rinse my hands.
I squeeze tube after tube of Windsor & Newton white gouache dry. I work with gouache, inks, watercolours (in tubes, pan & pencil), aquapasto medium, graphite crayons & pencils, archival drawing pens, some acrylic, some candle wax. I discover baby food jars of blue & white pigment from a long-ago egg tempera painting class.
A channel forges its way into me causing me to dream this dream. I discover the roll of paper is longer than expected. I continue kneeling. It is finished. After ten months I am exhausted. I have translated my longing.
I envision this work, framed & illumined, welcoming an audience. For inquiries visit here & scroll down to my email.
@ The Redwood Theatre, Toronto. Like unscrolling the forest one lives in, seeing it for the first time.
I don’t know if I mentioned instinctive & expressive brushwork building the composition.
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