Bitumen
48 creative works found
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The delivery driveway at a local shopping centre. Others in this series:
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Bitumen on board. Yes… bitumen, like on the road. bout a meter across. / Still got the original. Wierd. / I started this piece about 5 years ago and had it hanging in a fancy gallery in Queensland for a little while. I thought they had kept it as they generally did their very best in their expensive sensible shoes and craven sexless souls to fuck me over. This was my first experience of galleries, and I met it with a baffled sadness. I met everything with a baffled sadness at the time because I was once again a drowning man, despair filling me full and making me cry. The gallery also made me feel like a fool. Humiliation… ah well. / So I didn’t try and get it back. I found it a little while ago at my sister’s house; she had picked it up from the gallery somehow with her mysterious efficiency. I thought “hey that’s pretty cool I wonder what great artist has left a painting just lying around in my sister’s house? Oh it’s ME!” / I worked on it off and on for a couple of weeks and this is the result. I don’t actually remember who posed for me, my memory being as odd as it is. It has that aching sense that I am always always always aiming; struggling for like a hungry monkey… grappling with a greased up hairless human BANANA SUFFRAGE and EMANCAPATION SUPPORTER holding a melting banana double split.
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These witch’s hats caught my eye on my ride home from work.
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Bitumen and Oils on canvas 90×60cm / I gave this to my girlfriend. Sinn is her name. She is an angel. I wrote on it a distortion of a biblical quote, scratched into the paint the sharp chewed end of a paintbrush - / “Take this as a seal upon thy heart, / as a seal upon thy arm / for love is strong as death.” This is the new part about why, that I wrote today: Somehow… / In the last few weeks… / A New medication. And in the bizarre atypicalities of my neurochemistry, I have begun to rise from this hell. As I have from others. As I will fall and fight free to make and make and love and love… as I will forever fall and fight, till I fight no more. / For the first time in 12 long months – In slow moments of a year composed of weeping with terror at each excruciating sliver of time… this year that has etched and aged its crawling minutes on my face ageless always until this; past its due. / New meds. / And. They are working. I will heal. / I have a different kind… a new understanding of hope; / This, unlike its sisters in their cruel pollution of horror and knowledge… / Hope and terror are diametrically antipodean twins. They die without each other. Antithetic. And symbiotic. And now, well… My hope is as clear as the carbon lattice perfection of a diamond edge. that was the NICE PART that is NEW / VERY VERY VERY NEW this is the REST. It is less nice and was written barely two weeks ago. I completely understand if none read this much. I can paint again! I am offering free hugs and ironic weird comments from an odd angle for EVERYONE too! CHRONIC PAIN AND PAUL… Chronic Pain and me. Why I ain’t been painting all that much (actually I have, just badly. No. Really.) I don’t know if the pain will end. In truth it terrifies me. I am not one easily frightened. / It has already cost me a year. Even when everything else, all the madness for so many years, were not enough to start aging my face. This has. It is too strong, too much. Without painkillers, there is nothing else. No thought. It clouds my mind so completely that I had blamed myself for its very existence and more than that, for the core of its aetiology. / It is not my fault. / There is a scene in the film ‘Good will hunting,’ where the genius Robin Williams and the younger genius Matt Damon are in Mr William’s office. He says “It’s not your fault.” / Over and over. Will Hunting looks annoyed, then enraged, disbelieving. Eventually he collapses into tears and into the wise and knowing arms of Robin William’s character. His psychologist, believe it or not. Matt Damon and Robin Williams nailed that scene, and also in the same manner drove a steel spike into the heart of self-blame. / Will Hunting knew in his mind that there could be no blame laid at his feet for being beaten as a child. But he could never, even with all his own genius, convince his heart that this was true. / I blamed my SELF. I deluded myself that I deserved the brutal extremity of this pain. So, much like Mr Damon’s character, I lied to myself and subsequently suffered, and fucked up my life. Humbly. In this matter, I admit it. I am a fucking hypocrite. I understand self-loathing, spent so much of my life wasted in its claws and I find it difficult to take in others. I have spent endless hours with broken men and women trying to show them how wrong they are in the passion of their hatred for themselves. I have burned a year of my existence doing precisely that, in agony. I dated a kind woman, and she had some powerful painkillers that she had left from back surgery. I was at this point able to admit to myself that 1/ I was in FUCKING PAIN MOST OF THE TIME. and b/ it was not my fault at all. It allowed me the time to see without doubt that the pain I was and am experiencing has nothing to do with anything that I have done. In the mean time the pain has worsened. In the last few weeks this has increased by multiples. / What I believe is happening is not truly a belief, but only a – suspicion? A guess, mildly educated. / The madness has been contained. The damage to my thalamus has, to anthropomorphise a neutral biological process, found another outlet for its grief and rage. Instead of changing my moods and causing me hallucinations… it is causing me illusory pain. It IS an illusion only in the sense that my skin is not in reality alight and burning. But don’t you see, you must see, please look hard enough… it is much worse this way is worse this means more because I CAN’T I can NEVER put the fucking FIRE OUT! / The worst of this situation is that the pain is more disabling than the madness was. It will not kill me, though sometimes I wish for this and would see it as a tender caress of mercy. It won’t, and the madness would have. So I am alive. / But I cannot work. If I am in physical pain I cannot… it is impossible for me to paint. For the last year I have forced myself to whilst I have been in pain. I have produced more slowly than ever for manifold reasons, the chief of which being that I can’t see. Somehow I produce ugly lines and uglier colours. I have spent almost all of this time painting over the beauty that I had created whilst without pain… In those few hours that I cradle to my heart and hold so sweet (one form of True bliss is the cessation of pain.) In a state of some kind of grace I can barely imagine right now. / Therefore. Yes. Draw the conclusion like pus from a wound. But draw it I must: that I cannot even draw. / The dreams that I had that were not dreams at all but logical conclusions… of fame and fame and fame and fame. They have proven to be, for now, false indeed. It is breaking me. Breaking me. / For right now, once again, I am an invalid. I have… little. For all that I have fought. It is… hard to hold on. I have a good woman who looks after me. This means more than I can describe. I have her, and that is a wondrous thing. A miracle that I should meet someone unselfish after allowing into my life so many who have taken from me and taken and taken. / I do not know how to effect change. I have little time to plan wherein my thoughts are not torn from me by brutal physiological assault; by agony. I am giving up my space here in the city and moving to share with my father once more. / The pain, unedited by the dilution of prescription medication, is colossal. It is taking my life from me. It steals my breath from me. I wake and – it is there. Stunning, so fucking violent and I can’t breathe, I cannot. I have fled from hope in rational terror as from a betrayer, traitor, monster. / Sometimes, many times. Yes. There is no breath to scream. The last weeks… / Somehow… / In the last few weeks… / A New medication. And somehow in the bizarre atypicalities of my neurochemistry, I have begun to rise from this hell. As I have from others. As I will fall and fight free to make and make and love and love… as I will forever fall and fight, till I fight no more. / For the first time in 12 long months – In slow moments of a year composed of weeping with terror at each excruciating sliver of time… this year that has etched and aged its crawling minutes on my face ageless always until this; past its due. / New meds. / And. They are working. I will heal. / I have a different kind… a new understanding of hope; / This, unlike its sisters in their cruel pollution of horror and knowledge… / Hope and terror are diametrically antipodean twins. They die without each other. Antithetic. And symbiotic. And now, well… My hope is as clear as the carbon lattice perfection of a diamond edge.
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Despite some stillness; quietude, yes, in this piece…. i painted it whilst manic as a rachorse goanna on crack and speed and hm viagra in a terrible hurry running on reallllllly hot desert sand. i should write more about the fun parts of mania. ah… THAT sex drive man… add no fear at all to that and… well there are many stories. heh. / i walked into the schubert gallery on the gold coast where there were lots of famous artist originals on the walls like arthur boyd and sydney nolan and pro hart. apart from them were also lots with talent too. i had only ever sold one painting in a gallery before then. I had never been in an exhibition let alone a solo one. i just walked in with it. I managed not to end up in bed with anyone there that day, which is probably a good thing really. moving right along… the subject turned out to be a sarah (i have for some reason been out with 11 girls with the name sarah. one of them was nice.) this one turned nasty but still we had a lot of fun. In case you think i am being a sexual tell tale and blowing my own horn (which i can do – used to be a gymnast you know – bipolar also has a major depresion component with the opposite effect, and the last one left me impotent for almost six months. this isn’t mentioning that psychiatric medication’s most common side effect is sexual dysfunction. / so i think it’s only fair that i get to have periods where i have to masturbate three times at an absolute minumum to go outside the house without hm / pitching a persistent tent. and also i think it is only fair that the high euphoric bits of mania feel fantastic and i have no inhibitions and tend to believe in myself perhaps even a little tooo much. no fear so i am just fine with approaching anyone! it makes for a nice relief from all the fucking torture parts of having chronic bipolar. the torture part has been the definining feature for the last twelve months, in a manifestly physiological sense. I have actually begun to stop getting worse and now i have, i timidily tempt fate by stating that i have IMPROVED (tempting fate not really something that bothers me… not giving a fuck as i don’t believe in anthropocentric nor pre-ordered delusions to make ourselves feel more all special and the focus of everything in a cosmic sense.) anyway. hope everyone likes the painting.
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I began experimenting with adding different colours to bitumen recently. It has been pretty successful though normal oil paint takes a lot longer to dry and so ends up with Nell and Kirsty fur in it. / The Bitumen itself is the stuff that is used for fixing chimmney flues and apparently guttering. It is a lot cheaper than oil paint, and can be obtained in large ugly tins from hardware stores for a pittance. / To this piece I added Cadmium red and orange, to some of the otter recent pieces I also experimented with Yellows and violets. / Oh and I made up the dress completely which I am kind of happy with. / This piece is the sister to “Anna Begins” and they hang together,being cleverly and wisely bought by the same people. Well certainly it affects us all in velvet lines and nails dug into palms and heights drawing us to their creeping, gorgeous edges. That final appointment trembling inside our fragile masques. This is where you are. This is what you have left. / Courage as plagued and futile as fear, dignity an un-credible, absurd end point. / The words as pale and as oxymoronic as a just war or a healthy wound. Asking and questing, snatching at our clothes, comfort me comfort me share this with me, oh you must feel what I feel. Here, I’ll take your hand and push with painful strength to the muscle and bone and webs of red red flesh stringy and old. My words are nothing to the swollen mass in my chest. / Dipped and silvered with simple kindness and past love. If only to hear the morning in the pliable, ductile moments full of the scent of sex. When we lay giggling like children and sounding sane and just like humans, just like anyone, like anyone, like everyone else. / We shall never say time on our hands again. Brittle and small like the singularity of your throbbing appetites. After the fall. Yes. / Time on our hands is time IN our hands. Remember this, swept up in the kleptomaniac present. Hear it ticking behind you, within you rehearsed and constant in any heat you can find. / Imagine the shocking thrill of your parents’ eyes locking for the first time. Entwine your consciousness with the first moment that you saw, breathless and startled, the beauty in your reflection. / I want to share with you so much, so much; my heart is boiling full of knowledge, in a river where blood is born, an ivory string, a floating spinning ball in an ocean of involution, seventeen syllables holding the world clenched in vehemently, intensely ALIVE wonder. Both faces of Janus for me, for you, a dark and hungry god. A broken white abacus furiously calculating, but such wonders oh such wonders to share. And these old wounds, deep and real and crusted with scars as they are, it is these that have created us, burned us out from the husks that we were. Phoenix mother, hands like clouds.
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Dry central Tasmania.
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this is the cropped v of a piece another piece i had already uploaded – the thumbnail looked like a brown area with some lighter brown bits and the SUGGESTION of tummy. not v surprising that it got few views. / i am going to put them together on my profile list thingie – next to each other i mean. the bigger v and this one! / thank you all so much for your support. paul
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Bitumen, 150×120cms. Sold There is a wee bit of a story to this piece… Well, I had won an award for “Clockwork Crow” in a country town about 6 hours from where I live. I like to turn up to such things both to be polite and of course for the greater glory of Paul. SO I had gathered my best friend Tim and a bottle of gin for martinis (for him) and set off. We got there ok, even on time, though we got confused between the pub and the hall where the exhibition was on and were forced to play pool while we worked out the error of our ways. Getting to the hall, I realised that they were reading my name as I walked in and sauntered up on stage and got my hand shook by the mayor of Wongan Hills; I got a hand made purple plaque and my cheque. Yay. Tim had retired to the car to play guitar by himself and drink martinis. The Wongan Hills folks were immensely friendly and far, far more friendly and hospitable than the city-based people I have met in similar circumstances. OK. Well there weren’t martinis. It was just gin. No olives or even a glass I don’t think. After failing to schmoose very well he and I went back to the pub for some more pool and to celebrate my victory. Now you see, I was wearing a suit, and Tim a muscle shirt. He is very big and does Kung Fu. When I say he does Kung Fu, he studied it for years and is kind of good at it in a very practical sense. Also he is somewhat known for his surliness and inability to cope well with people threatening his person and remaining passive. And it seems that stylish charcoal gray suits act as a red flag to a similarly surly bull for drunken local country folks. The evening had not progressed very far when we noticed that some of the local lasses were taking an interest in us and soon a group of young country girls had struck up a lively conversation with us where we failed to have anything in common. The local lads seemed perturbed by this and began being more raucous and surly themselves in a different manner. Someone threw beer nuts at me and there was some jeering. Then someone threw ice. I had worked out by this stage that these people may well qualify as YOKELS, that there were LOTS OF THEM and that we were in THEIR HOME TOWN. I began agitating for our departure. Tim, however, had different ideas and in a slightly unsteady manner was counting our potential foes and then nodding confidently and rolling his shoulders. “Ok dude. You got the two skinny ones on the left? I got the rest.” “Gah! How about we buy them a round of drinks and tell them how nice their mullets are? Or we leave, dude, my paint covered chariot of uncertain mechanical reliability awaits!” I replied, tugging ineffectually at his notably solid upper arm (for which I had to reach up… I should point out that Tim is NOT a violent guy. Just – well – aware of how capable he is and not given to being pushed around.) Eventually I got him to leave but it wasn’t easy. We escaped without violence and I still had my cheque. We had also had to abandon any hope with the local girls… sigh. “To our ashes glory comes too late.” (Martial.) On the long drive home in my trusty 1984 Pulsar (NOT TRUSTY AT ALL! the damned thing cost me almost all the money I made this year!), we got well and truly lost and got to my house around 5am. I didn’t sleep, not really sure what I did apart from that it would have involved working. Right; now we come to this piece. I was painting for a charity show, which I had done before, but this was a little different. I turned up, only a little late – Jane had volunteered to pose for me on the evening. She was great for stuff like this. There was a chair and also an easel on stage in a gigantic hall. A spotlight shone on the easel, and 200 or more formally set tables lined the room, filling with people dressed in black tie. There were at least LOTS of people attending. I had my canvas and my paint and a model on a BIG empty stage and I had not slept the night before. The MC announced that I would be painting for the room’s pleasure and that the piece would be auctioned for the charity at ten o’clock. It was just past 7.30 at the time. So I had less than 2 and a half hours to start and finish a piece in front of 500 people who were all at least rich looking and I was exhausted. Here is where a little bit of bipolar mania can be a handy thing. I was a bit high and frantic (see the bipolar and Paul page) and I painted well. I finished the piece with minutes to spare. There was actually a bit of a bidding war (well ‘war’ may be a little strong) and they sold the piece for $1500 unframed for their charity. Although someone did steal my briefcase on the night. Grr. And they never gave me a thank you note or courtesy thank you phone call. Not that I am bitter about it but it is a bit galling. I mean I didn’t get any of the money, you’d think they would thank me. But noooooo. The piece above is the one I did on the night. Note that it is pretty big.
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Budapest is a city with some amazing old buildings. This building caught my eye in an unusual place.
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done in bitumen mixed with oil paint. 140 cms (almost four feet) across. i painted this from life… the figure anyway. three hour pose. i am in such situations FAST. the detail took me another week. i picked the most difficult angle – the foreshortening is an OUTRIGHT BITCH. nailed it though. Yeah. / This is my favourite of my poems. Read it. Allusions and illusions / Sarcasm is its own reward. / With a feel for illusions and allusions there’s only one bone picker on the farm. / Give me a chance and I’ll tell you how to lose, / how to become whatever it happens you mostly revile when you’re alone / and trying quietude for an experiment. / Bones on the outside, like insects, sure. / There is no way out of this, this is stuck-dom, stuck-ville, / stuck-o-later time, / for Christ’s sake give me a plate full of ashes / and a smothered wreathe and why don’t you ask me one more time, I’ll find the right way to say it. / Ask me again. I’ll say the same thing in a different way and on the couch this time in the night, / singing softly and whispering into my hair. / I’ll show you my teeth and you can twist hairs on my arm so that you know that I know that you’re there. / Wishing for time to see, lips curled like paper on a fire, / man that’s not the world shaking – that’s just you. I love it when ads for colour fade. / Lifting up in quiet suspension and Christ did you see that guy’s fucking NECK? / Offer me a corner in the parlour with soft wrapping on the outside, / lights and stretched skin, translucent like / grass on a spring afternoon only skin, not grass. Offer me this and a few more and ask me again. / This time I’ll tell you a story with highlights in pink / and we’ll both fall backwards laughing into summer with our arms full of flowers clutched a little too tightly. Soft cheek carved into light smell of cigarettes and warm wine, / - tolerance and conviction clean into pure water, sure, in the morning? / Their love story, it’s famous, a princess at Christmas-time, / iron that’s pitted and scarred and cool and heavy in your hand. / Walking on the beach muttering vigorous, Clothos and Lachesis separated by cloth-backed, dark books. / Trying again and so hard this time laced and buckled and arcane, / accentuated and caressed. Willed into existence with a strangled grasp. / Can’t fake anymore got my vices clamped up inside into bluff and hardness. / Can’t give can’t touch what’s inside me / not with these hands pushing against the sides. / In a grotesquery of pinched bones and drawing / tightness beating against my ribs like I’ve swallowed / a murder of crows an assassin of ravens or a murderer an assassin a juggler. / Ask Me / One More. / Time. / These streets that are really just snakes and fires like that are lies. / These worlds that hurt and are pins in flesh, like before. / This compassion. This fever. / This moment and fall. It’s happy only-after, gripped and cramped sucked kissed and choking. / In the moonlight with a pulse and a flower clinging to her skin. / Sleep with me. / Push my head to your chest so I can hear your heart / Cry in your sleep. / Breathe into my open mouth / These are the words that will not make love stay.
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Location: North western corner of the Adelaide Convention Centre (Adelaide CBD). All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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A comment of sorts? Abstracts and Artsy Architecture Landscapes and Nature Street Tasmania
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All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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Oils on canvas. Bought by a lover of mine before we became lovers as we fell. Twice Against her lips Time for us and time for me and whirr and click once more. / Found my pen again, chewed lid, pragmatism in black and softness, / time now for my clockwork to wind down and slow but twitching twitchy. / A pair of chewed lips, quiet and wet. I have a handful of / lizard skin and a pocket spare, dry now despite the humidity / and humility and lacing (stitched?) with cowardice. Whirr and click and spin, / time for stubble and sandy eyes and wet legs, maybe coffee and maybe company, this last unheard. / Loneliness and boiling energy not even my quizzical state, not really. CDs are all unfitted now, I have to find a new expression to face (reaching into barrows, casements disappear dark and rich. Sharp movements and smooth skin furrowed into velvet. Shiny and vigorous, fitted out with cries and appropriate lustre.) / Sweet tonight, hot on their healing and fevered up and round with smiles that seem to find the right muscles to poke, and even like me, they might. / Boom and twist this time though whirring and clicking and sinking in teeth and she says that she likes my scars though not where they sprung and wrenched from (that part mine nearly clasped and nearly held close and rocked like a sleeping child a puppy an adulteress. Fenced though peeping and flashing onto the page now and that other now, then.) / I can’t remember a time when panic didn’t finger my sight and there wasn’t a hole where cold things and rat bites spoke, and tired was all I was among other things. / (Nine o’clock tick tock tick tock, how long is it how long have I got?) / But looming out at me like a loon or an argument with myself is this. / And I do need her to sing to me, I do need her to come down into the street. And though she didn’t trace my scars with her fingers, she kissed them as if they weren’t purple with violence and sucked up into themselves like the memories that hold them, and I think that I believe her and not me. / She sounds like she means it more. / Click and whirr, boom and spin, with gentleness and quilts and eyes with honeysuckle edges. Cadence with her head cocked to one side in limping rhythms and skin that / smells like cinnamon only better, / better than that.
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encaustic, mixed media 2006
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Boy walking on rocks Phillip Is. Victoria.
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photo of a lame sad person and a painting done in bitumen on canvas. After I finished my fine arts degree I got a job in a TOY SHOP. I thought this was FUCKING FUNNY AS HELL. But it turned out that I was “stock manager.” I can’t manage my HAIR. I was desperate and desperately poor. I was 28 (9?) and because I had drunk everything I could possibly obtain and been legally insane when sober, I had not been able to keep a job for more than 7 weeks up until that point. So I had no references at all. So I needed one. They paid less than minimum wage by two bucks. I ended up doing all teir promotional design for which they didn’t pay me. I held on for five months. The despair slipped between my ribs and into my heart… I was FUCKING AWFUL as a stock manager. When the bastard who was running the place refused to pay me for work when I was actually THERE, I was able to talk in stuttering slow depression sibilance. And tell him that I was quitting. / I gave two weeks’ notice and they were slow, SLOW weeks. At the same time I went back on anti-depressants, horrified that I was sober now after a year and a half and that i was falling back into hell again. / I put a few pieces at the local library. Someone who owned a gallery went there. They asked me to show the work and I sold it for 1250 dollars. Which was four weeks pay. I thought “Hm…” and bipolar – catalysed by the anti-depressants – sent me into the longest wildest ecstasy of mania I have ever known. THIS. Is how I started my career. / The photo with me in it is from when I set up my paintings in the library. If you look hard enough I think you can see the hole where my heart should have been… oh and the SUBJECT, Sharon, I had fallen in love with and been with… she was with my best friend – loosely termed- and they are still living together. I think they were sleeping togeterh before we broke up but I don’t know. I don’t blame her. She really did fall in love with him, too. and this is a poem i wrote whilst being tortuerd by the necessity to do contemporary work: That wounded faculty and palsied arm. Give in to it if you can remember how, if you can remember anything. If it’s there for you. / I’m sick, baby, frail and unferocious. With a blondewood pencil still not as pale as my rationale. It’s proving my felicity that I’m worried about. / This is the industrial malaise that I always suspected was in existence and tried to get in scrabble, what I’ve been preparing for all these years. While a girl weeps in the corner, and weeps and weeps the whole train ride, she just keeps going. / The only way, I need to pick and turn what seeps from my hands. If I could just happen only just happen to change something that got broken or was skewed as it grew. And I could walk into a room without smelling every insistence like a group of office secretaries. Spitting every word, snarl not strong enough. / Fragile, her heartbeat under my palm in a small square of reflected sunlight. She used to take my chin in her hand and kiss me. Just like that. A white lie, a casual promise, a startling off hand benediction. / Hey I know there’s more to this. / And now I can feel it, think maybe I took too much a hand grasping and grasping in the dark. I feel so weak, I think I always was, spinifex in the Black Forest, kerosene on a summer night, warm but inappropriate – round hole, metacarpal peg. / A huge industrial machine crouched in a humming room; scent of motor oil and burning hair pressing at the walls, like a slow burrowing bullet. Soaked earth with roots twisted through it and a scattering of calluses. In the corner an arrangement of human fingernails mapping an unimportant constellation. / This isn’t a fever or a dream the photographs are pinned to the sticky walls, their edges are curled. There’s a pair of old shoes by the door and the sign IS faded. / There is a baby with a scratched bruise on its forehead and there IS an elderly woman with a floral print dress reading a book with her expression compressed, like it’s an obituary. / I have to wait. Just a few weeks, a few million seconds, if that’s enough. / It’s moving slow but heavy (radius and inertia and depth) like an oil tanker or a tectonic plate. Hurts too much. I’m too tired. / I lost the keys. I thought I had them for a while but they turned out to be the wrong ones. I was wrong again. / I have no will. Come on, give me the crook of your arm to cry on. I’ll tell you about the menagerie of moons and press your hand between my hands and wishwishwish.
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During our first time shopping at the Farmers Market held in the Wayville Show Grounds South Entrance car park every Sunday morning. / I took the camera along to see what I could shoot. / This was the first thing I got when I stepped out of the car. All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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Encaustic, mixed media, gold leaf, chelac, bitumen. Collage / 2006
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All The Materials Contained May Not Be Reproduced, Copied, Edited, Published, Transmitted Or Uploaded In Any Way Without My Permission. My Images Do Not Belong To The Public Domain. / (c) Stephen Mitchell : Using this image for any purpose and in any way, without prior permission, may lead to legal action.
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The Wait (weight). / Bitumen and red oils, 1.3×55 cms. And she waits… / I largely invented this piece, all the material, etc, though some is done from life. / I have been trying different colour experimentation in combination with bitumen (it is the stuff that people use to fix their chimney flus with.) / I guess I am moving further away from contemporary art, but this is what i want to do, and I hope and believe that this work has a passion in it that is truly rare. “Show me that man that is not passion’s slave and I will wear him in my heart’s core, in my heart of hearts, as I do thee.” Shakespeare, sorry I forget which play. / And in all honesty, I don’t really like contemporary art very much. There are some jewels, of course – Jeff Coontz and his 40 foot puppy made out of living flowers is one of my all time favourites, I mean what a legend; and in the whole sphere there is some real genius, but the focus was lost somewhere around 1970. / The social partition, the endless, intricate fortress. impenetrable dissection. This hardness between us. The richness and lustre of its brutal texture. communal division, the / derisive and absolute separation of one from another. / I touch your life, you touch mine. / In bizarre dances of language and stance and exclamation. The supreme limits of communication sped and foiled by tongues and mouths. By fingers stretched and clasped. / We flail and grasp, turning to each other in that sacrosanct craving. the ultimate supreme desire. Share ourselves, hope and wish and hope again for that ultimate touch of minds – she sees what I see, he shares my world. / They love me. / I am immersed in him, she is incomplete and a piece of her dies each time the bind of lust and trust beguiling each of our eyes fails for a throat clutching slipping moment… When our eyes unlock it damages me. And the most beautiful thing in the universe is that it wounds her, too. / We long for spiritual union, not communication. Each time we open our mouths or softly sing to another, each time we touch the face of a lover, hold a child that sobs and clings to us. / This desire, above all, rules us. It dictates to us, rises from our / vertebrae and curls in our chests. Our hands shake with love, with desire and overwhelming need. Our will is subsumed with this ache, this yearning. / Share with me. Open the depths, the dark places in your deepest bones, let me see your implicit and fixed love. I worship your psyche, your thought, your bitterness, your hate. Your foolishness, ineptitude and failure. / Affirmation and liberty, by pooled hastening reciprocation. Freedom from ourselves in the ultimate fastening between minds. / It decrees and declares to us, this need. It is one of the most essential and inescapable truths that doom us to what we are. / Ah… we are fated to it, this is what is there for us, ultimately, in the / darkest and most honest hours of the slow negredo (deepest black) hours before dawn. Personally. Ah. Yes. Well I believe that the most pleasurable thing in life is to sleep with (I mean sleep here, not sex, though that vies and precludes my selection. A lot) someone you love. Feel their somnolence seep into you. / Colour your dreams with them as you hold them, as they coil their bodies against us. / There is some kind of blessed sleep, comfort and deep ease that it / engenders. / As our dreaming essences spiral above us and, perhaps, intertwine. / Waking with a lover’s arms heavy against you. / No-one is as beautiful at any other time than when they sleep. “Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care / The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath / Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, / Chief nourisher in life’s feast.” / ~William Shakespeare, Macbeth “In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of / night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are / dying the darkness and we know no death.” / —Thomas Wolfe We need to eat this peace, suck it into us. Even as it steals our time and slips us into fantastic, impossibly complex visions and sounds. / In dreams… / We must cultivate its strangeness and hold it to us. / For now, ah well, for now. / I will lie still. I will wait for whatever the fuck it is / that sleep is, that dreams are; that unification of healing, the indelible stamp of the extraordinary, the inexplicable. And I will, of course, do it alone. Ah hell. Ah well. The world scale, the aegis of Gods, the auspices of humanity, the sweet and simple, infinitely complex and bitter, love between two people. / What else to attempt, what else to find? How are we to begin the chant of living without knowing that this is, ultimately, what we seek?
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