Deadfriendspainting johndouglas
5 creative works found
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Synthetic polymer paint and newspaper collage on paper. From a series documenting friends who have died from HIV/AIDS related illnesses. While he could still sit upright one of John’s greatest joys was reading the newspaper with Byron the dog.
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Synthetic polymer paint and newspaper collage on paper. From a series documenting friends who have died from HIV/AIDS related illnesses. Eric was diagnosed with an aggressive and termimal brain tumour, a cancer associated with AIDS. Cytomegolavirus was also eating one of Eric’s eyeballs, and he had to wear an eyepatch. Eric used to be in the merchant navy, with his eyepatch and rollicking gait from years of being at sea we used to call him The Pirate, which he loved. / The doctor gave Eric 3 months to live because of the tumour, and we’d have a coffee and laugh at the absurdity of life. / On the very day when 3 months were up Eric stepped out on to the road, and unable to see properly due to his eyepatch was struck down by a car.
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Synthetic polymer paint and newspaper collage on paper. From a series documenting friends who have died from HIV/AIDS related illnesses. Chris’s new glasses finally arrived, the day before he died. He could barely breath, each breath racked his body. The effort of reaching and shakily putting on his glasses seemed to take forever, and exhausted him. He turned his face to me – a skull on a skeleton with a tissue of skin scraped over it. “How do I look?” he asked.
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Synthetic polymer paint and newspaper collage on paper. / From a series called Dead Friends, about friends who have died from HIV/AIDS related illnesses. / John loved taking photographs. He was always running around with his camera up, his chinese workers’ cap on. He loved people and loved nothing more than to photograph people having fun. It seemed like his camera was a part of his face at times.
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Synthetic polymer paint and newspaper collage on paper. From a series documenting friends who have died from HIV/AIDS related illnesses. We’d sit on the same park bench every Sunday afternoon. “At least I’m a natural blond,” David, a model, would sniff about some passer-by, and JohnG and I would laugh. / This was our last outing together. David didn’t leave our apartment. Confined to his bed for the next two years, slowly wasting away, alternating between diarrhoea and constipation depending on how much morphine he’d had. JohnG quit his job and cared for David. / After David’s death, John G compiled David’s funny and moving comments and convinced a newspaper to publish them. / After the publication JohnG became ill and died. /
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