Robertson
29 members found (show all)
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Jim Robertson
United Kingdom
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Andrew Robertson
United Kingdom
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Sharon Robertson
Australia
355 creative works found
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A dawn shot from a series I shot from the East Beach in Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland. The Bin of Cullen, which is further down the East coast, can be seen in the distance. Nikon D80 / Manual / 1.5s at f11.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 18mm / 0.9 ND soft Grad. / tripod / remote release
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The low dawn sun just catching the tops of a roller as it heads towards the East beach at Lossiemouth, Moray Scotland. Nikon D80 / Manual / 1/3sec. at f13.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 70mm / 0.9 ND soft Grad. / tripod / remote release
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Thought since this seems to be my most popular piece I should perhaps upload a version of it big enough for those who care for it to have access to BIG PRINTS. So here you are then :) - Paul. Through A Glass Darkly. By Paul D Robertson Pastels 140 cms x 97 I like this piece very much. Sometimes in my work I can witness myself taking leaps of quality, and I believe that this is one of those times. It is an indescribable sensation to see my own hands make something such as this. I begin the with a person, a woman, before me, some materials – paper, chalk, paint. At the end of the slow still hours quickening my fingers, I surface from the fugue and wake from the trance of working. And sometimes I have something before me that is beautiful that did not exist, that what the world did not hold before I began. And it will last for centuries. I love the idea of obscured reflections and scattered and refracted light – my desire to work is pushed further every time I stumble upon something I know I must pursue. In many of my works, whenever it is practical, I will place a left-hand print on a wall or smudging a piece of glass. I have done this for years, and I will never stop. Recently the idea occurred to me that since this has become one of the defining symbols within my work, I could execute a piece based entire on the idea. So I made it happen. I forced it into existence. And I am so left handed, you see, that I almost walk with a limp.
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The Breede River which runs through the beautful little town of Robertson, 160kms from Cape Town, Western Cape, South Africa Placed in the Top Ten in the Reflections on Water Challenge!!
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This is a major work. It is not only large but quite dramatic and of course, bright. The surface is deeply textured – I used plaster, sand, dirt, grass and bitumen within the acrylic, though the figures themselves are in oils. 180 cms across. It works, for me, anyway, like this. We are each of us trapped within our subjective experience of the world. Each of us will have a unique reaction to a circumstance, to an experience. It is the great beauty and also the great tragedy of being human… The separation of the figures is meant to represent our own separation. The sticks in the ground are there becuase I thought they would look cool but mostly as a metaphor for each individual’s reaction to the spectacle in front of them. As for that – the sunset or storm – it is dire and dangerous but beautiful. Like life, huh? Someone will ask me a question and I feel like beginning my sentence by explaining that they might not be able to hear me because of the pane of glass between us; the separation of experience and memory and the inadequacy of the tools that we have for communicating with each other. / I don’t get it, I never have. Most people only exist for me as a collection of unexplained actions that happened to occur within my field of vision. And yet I am DESPERATE to communicate. It seems like my every action is driven by the need to explain, the need to bridge the loneliness and by so doing stifle the despair. Is that in itself an offensive thing? What is it about me that I need to change? / It exists everywhere in equal proportions, like a great stinking miasma, a universal audience of apathy and miscommunication spreading out across the planet. There is a world – consciousness, or at least world hegemony, and that is that we are universally alone.Existing through books is not enough. I guess I’ve always known that. C.S. Lewis said that we read to know that we’re not alone. But it doesn’t really work like that; we read and find that we think or feel along similar lines to another person, yes, and so we are relieved. But this is a person that we will probably never meet, and certainly if we did we would be unlikely to be able to communicate with them at all, let alone on the level that they had communicated with us. It’s one way. I think that that’s why I am always giving my books to other people, – it touched me, can it touch you too? Are we alike? In this, if in nothing else? / I have this thing where I feel like my every action is unconditionally controlled. Not in the sense that I have absolute control, more that I MUST maintain it. It feels like my hands will fly up of their own accord, scattering everything in their flight, or that my legs will kick out by themselves in the middle of a conversation with someone. Or sometimes like I must rigidly control the muscles in my face so as not to let them slip into what it feels like they naturally desire to do. If I let my masque slip, there will be a twitching grimace that will assert itself in a spasm that will gain control of my face, and once this process starts, by the simple slackening of my tight control I will unleash something that I am unable to regain. Something horrible will get free of me and I will be forever a gibbering mass of uncontrollable sibilance and jerking palsy. My limbs feel as though they are over-full of blood, my body transfers a feature of each sense to me in Technicolor extremes. I feel that I must move quickly, else I will be trapped in my body by hysterical convulsions. People seem to me to be moving in slow motion and talking in riddles, though that in itself is nothing new. / No, not anything new at all. So. I have my cigarettes with the oil paint (it always seems to be something with cadmium in it that gets all over them, dunno why.) I have my dark, violent music, and lots of books to read. I have my health… / I’m thinking of bringing out my own aftershave, maybe eau de turp’s, or cologne de cadmium, For men, when having a pencil in you’re hand isn’t enough…
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watercolours… / Tis of my friend and ex Kylie, who rules. / This piece is part of a diptych (did I put the ‘y’ in the right place?) / The second work is “For What They Have Seen The diptych… Blame Your Green Eyes, For What They Have Seen The song that sang the title (I wrote it this yer sometime. As in 2007. I think.) You nail my guitar to the bedroom wall / You lick your lips promise me more / Take my nail polish, go out to score / But I can’t, I won’t help anymore. That final appointment waiting in line / A scar on the flesh of your inner thigh, / A casual promise and a white lie / Where the old bridge splits the hot night sky CHORUS / Our little deaths / Holding your breath / I’ll always be less / Always a mess / Ill never confess / To the cuts on my flesh / Or the tears on your dress / Are all we have left You carry the heat all bloody and keen / Hot with this fever since you were 15 / Stones you’ve kept for each lie you have been / Blame your green eyes, for what they have seen We kissed on the beach last Halloween. / And now we’ll never forget the shit we have seen / The hell in the wall the gorgeous machine / The tiny mad children that we have both been and here’s a rant… from around 2002 or so. heh. I have coped sooo welll for soo long I have tried so hard I know u will / understand, I gave up drinking and it nearly killed me so many times and I / WANT A DRINK RIGHT NOW this is why I keep a dry house except when it is / raining or i play with the hose / haven’t had a drink since ‘98 not a sip not a drug nothing to ever / stop the shit in my head from going round and fucking round and i feel so / SICK all the time / what the fuck are we all looking for where is an answer? i have read / Descartes and Kant and Nietzsche and the bible there’s nothing the fuck / THERE! / i can’t stop shaking and it is hard to type, but i will not call some / guys in white jackets with sombre kind expressions and very clean shoes. / i have taken my clonazepam n i did NOT od even of i wanted to; i will do / some WORK and call my doctor tomorrow and this desperation will continue, / part of the answer, the real answer is that there is NOT AN ANSWER and i / will have to trade my mind for my life for a while WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF / DEAL IS THAT?? EXCISE my personality remove expunge it – all my work will STOP / and it can’t hold me close to it hangs me - / balancing and teetering but heavy with velocity and density but for right now my meds r squia=shing down my brain like a printing press / and i / i have avoided it one more night. / i will sleep / i willbe ok / but i migh / maybe i can finally find someonewho can beat me at chess…t o to hospital / tomorrow if they let me take my paint and my giant books. / I have had some experience with ppl in complete denial of the reality of mental illness. I didn’t tell anyone at uni about my bipolar. After i had graduated, i had made a lot of friends, and eventually told them about it. reasonably soon after that i had an acute, and prolonged manic episode. They basically thought i was just being a prick by shouting “I am king!!” from anything tall i could find and stand on. the worst part was when i crashed after that – no understanding, not even an attempt. They were (mostly) completely against any sort of treatment. / These ppl were very important to me, and i was living with several of them for this period. Fortunately my family was able to help, and i stayed with my father for some time. While i was acutely manic (really starting to lose it thass fer sure) i had a psychology STUDENT explain to me how i wasn’t sick, the drug companies were exploiting me, in my infinite naiveté. I was a lamb to their wallets. Being manic, I tore her to shreds. She was very close to one of my friends and flat mates – told her and everyone else that i had yelled at her because SHE WAS sTUDYING PSYCHOLOGY. Scary thing is she was about to graduate and go out into the world with this idea. scarier still that someone in the psyche faculty had taught it to her. i don’t see any of the friends that i had made at uni – indeed i have very few friends. I am cautious (um apart from right now with um women). I always tell ppl about my bp if they become close to me. / It is incredibly common, and still amazes me how little ppl know, or more importantly, WILL ACCEPT AS TRUE. / me: / “i have bipolar affective disorder.” / Member of Public (shall be acronominised to “MOP”) / “huh?” / me / “i have manic depression.” / MOP: / “oh. sure. NO YOU DON’T!! HEY AND SHUT UP I’M TRYING TO READ tv week!! Don’t you know what’s happening to ridge and Taylor??” (um had to do some research but Taylor is a psychiatrist apparently? hahahahhahhahahaaa hahaha) / hahahahahaaa i forgive her / she is hot. / rambling now huh? sorry. / hm yeh. sold a painting… yay. paid my bills yay. got fined for crashing into that guy . boo. hiss. / am having scary efexor withdrawals. boo. hiss. yuck. boo. hiss. halucinating. boo hiss… little natalie portman monsters scuttling around at the corner of my vision. boo hiss. not even naked. booo hiss. painting more than ever bfore in my life i think. yay. tried very challenging watercolours yesterday an d did em with no wu-ckerings. yay. 2 in one day. yay. can’t afford to frame all this new stuff but will try n get the grant folks to give me more moneys. yay/boo? am lonely. boo am scared BOO! (gah runs n hides behind chair) my efexor (anti depressant) withdrawals… i have these shaky things and i think i am starting to act like a mad guy more than usual in public. The hallucinations are real, tho no natalie portman (boo hiss!). just keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye that are not there. I mean i think they aren’t. / very bad thing is i nearly had an accident today trying to avoid one of them. yeah and i was driving, didn’t mean, like a bedwetting accident or anything like that. / I am trying clonazepam and valium (together hand in claw, probably a bad idea. oops) they make me cranky and now i am forced to sit on my rocking chair with a shotgun, chew some baccy n whittle and now and then shoot at the natalie monsters. had a wee bit of a collapse in the street, but got up again :). haven’t told anyone not online bout that. sensory overload. / it’s pretty strange, i think i recognise the brain-shivers that from a horror movie or book or comic or memory. / And yet i am not depressed. the painting helps a hell of a lot. focus i guess. / Am seeing my psyche tomorrow. i think i might have to go um to hospital but THEY ARE ALL NUTS IN THERE. and i don’t just mean the staff. maybe not. probably should. / and now, oh this is quite weird i think. i am quite used to having self-harm and suicidal thoughts- accompanied normally by mixed state, “black mania.” / But NOW i still have the same desires but in a very different way… almost like contemplating a far less important or destructive act. i am not joking now. only example i can think of is: do i have a cup of tea or stick this sharp thing in my neck? and i am not in a depressed state when thinking it. almost HUMMING. I come back into myself with a jolt of feeling, not afraid of it but guilty. Still wanting it. I have been trying to deal with this illness for a while (9 years give or take an episode since diagnosis) and most of this is new to me. it scares me in rational moments, but most of the time the anxiety is entirely SEPARATE from the rest of the symptoms. / i believe that my disorder has pretty much taken over. Even while typing this i have gone thru a few moods irrationally. Up mostly, but i cried when i read some of the other posts. / I am being a very good boy; i mean, i am eating and excersizing, taking lamactil and cleaning behind my ears and it has been a while since i have set any pets on fire. None of this makes any difference. I think it is well past time for bed. It is empty, should fix that. With perhaps consistency instead of diversity. Hmm. I have been having an odd month. I went back to my psyche and was prescribed lorazepam (like valium sort of). It was wonderful – anxiety evaporated, sleep pattern returned to normal, and I wasn’t stoned out of my head all the time after the first couple of days on a regular dose. / then I came off it. / I thought that I had some horrible flu or something bcuz I lay in bed for a couple of days with horrible shivers bordering on convulsions, stumbled around heaps the 2 or three times I got out of bed to get more water, and had mild fever-type hallucinations. Which were kind of cool cause I thought, u know, hey I remember u from a few weeks ago from my mixed state – hi! Isn’t it nice to see the synchronicity of our bodies in distress? / But then the anxiety returned and I did some research; also talked to my psyche about it and twas withdrawal apparently. Haven’t gone thru much like that since I was a-drinkin’ still. It is a very affective but highly physiologically addictive drug. / I have also been having continual problems with nausea. Have got ginger. I eat it. It sort of works. / Came back full circle to where i was what with shakes and mixed state symptoms n al, so now am on clonazepam (ten times stronger than valium but the same shit basically). I have had some real problems with this too – I am slowly trying to get myself off it as it affects my coordination and O MY GOD MY SEX DRIVE but tried to do it last week too fast or somethin’ and was a real mess. I went to the drug sites for both lorazepam and clonazepam to get a full view of the symptoms and all that I am going thru is well documented. I just happened to be in the bracket that reacted strongly to withdrawal. Must be my addictive nature. / Bleh. / So. / Where I am atm is that I am nearly off clonazepam (I had real trouble reading the details on the bottle bcuz I wrote PROTON ENERGY PILLS in black marker all across it) / I am only on half a tab a day (1mg) plus my lamotragine. / I think I am thru the worst of this one and out t’other side. If I go for 2 days without any clonazepam I go straight back to the way I was just before hospital (not quite as bad though – I think the lamotragine is working.) / And I have been working constantly. / And selling stuff also. Have had an artistic epiphany of sorts and am working it out piece by piece (um that would b entirely literal). / Problem is I am producing far more than selling (2:1 ratio) which is pretty good but blew all my money on getting all my work printed properly for a walking folio – and am still doing dumb things like I left the heater on for a few weeks and just got a pretty large bill from mr gas company guy that I am impressed they fit in my mailbox. / It means that it is hard to get things framed mostly. / I am much less death fixated also. / Am not going outside today. / I saw a spider there just last week.
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I won’t sell this piece, and it is the only one. I have had offers before, but I am glad I didn’t accept them still. It’s painted on plasterboard I stole from a building site as at the time I couldn’t afford canvas, or even board. / The figure is me – I had long hair at the time… / It is the last piece I did before I quit drinking – TEN YEARS AGO TODAY – the 20th of december… The title is from my favourite Tori Amos song, from her first album.
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I’ll say it was cold! / East Beach in Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland. Nikon D80 / Manual / 3s at f16.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 18mm / 0.9 ND soft Grad. / tripod / remote release
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For what they have seen. Watercolours on paper. 100 cms x 70 or so. Finally finished the second component of this diptych today the first piece is Blame Your Green Eyes / / The diptych… Blame Your Green Eyes, For What They Have Seen hm – erm sometime after Christmas 2007 but not too long cuz I just ate reheated PUDDING which was FANTASTIC even though it is made with suet. Damn. Shouldn’t have thought of that. No really. Damn. Am adding the song that I wrote from whence I took the titles to the two works… and to the diptych that contains them both. I am allowed. I’m special. Like Ralph in The Simpsons. OUR LITTLE DEATHS… (The chords also rock.) you nail my guitar to the bedroom wall / you lick your lips promise me more / take my nail polish, go out to score / but I can’t, I won’t help anymore. That final appointment waiting in line / A scar on the flesh of your inner thigh, / A casual promise and a white lie / Where the old bridge splits the hot night sky CHORUS / Our little deaths / Holding your breath / I’ll always be less / Always a mess / Ill never confess / To the cuts on my flesh / Or the tears on your dress / Are all we have left You carry the heat all bloody and keen / Hot with this fever since you were 15 / Stones you’ve kept for each lie you have been / Blame your green eyes, for what they have seen We kissed on the beach last Halloween. / And now we’ll never forget the shit we have seen / The hell in the wall the gorgeous machine / The tiny mad children that we have both been The model is my beautiful, kind and talented ex and friend, Kylie. She is way cool. She has a remote control darlek. I mean. That… is cool. ooh. Ah. Hm. Um. / / I feel like I am moving through milk with a switch of wine or something more course (vodka gin nicotine steel? – the sting of some deadly chemical) threaded through it. Heavy limbs and tingles in my hands and feet. I am considering, remembering. Hard to see. / One of the unique flaws I have. (Unique? Did I just have the fucking audacity to say that?) My memory seems to work in a slightly different way to the way I understand the rest of the human world’s to. This has been made far worse and far more absolute by the ECT (for those new to this particular acronym it stands for Electro Convulsive Therapy. Shock treatment. ST. ILA. I Love Acronyms.) This in that I have realised how little difference there is between my memory as affected by the treatment and my memory unaffected. Little. None? / Say to me of an experience shared, and I will ask of you for more and more specifics, until I can build an image, or a sound, or a SENSATION of some ilk specific to that point, and then the experience in its entirety will flood back into my mind. This is little different from the way everyone else experiences things, excepting, perhaps, the degree of cues needed to spark the fire of memory, and also the extent and exactitude of my recollection. Like a flaking mirror. Like tigers in tall grass. / Like zebras stacked and wrapped in horizontally striped black and white socks. / The interest lies, perhaps, in this specific shard. I do not believe I have more of a facility. I think I have less. I think that I am in this manner more stupid than the people that I know intimately. Than those that I read about. In some sense I am dumber, I guess. / I can’t see memory, anyone’s memory, as being a continual, smooth line of experience. / You can drop a lit match into turpentine and it will sizzle out. Also into petrol and methylated spirits. The flash point is over-ridden by the impact with liquid. Zz-sh. Fire-free. / We are formed by our memory and choice, and so much, oh so much so, by the threads of what we have found to be the most powerful and beautiful. I believe that what I have seen informs others of their beliefs and the tenets of morality that instruct them is in actuality some kind of AESTHETICS. Take me down to my essence, to where I brood in my hind brain animal honesty, and you will find this. I believe that it correlates with how everyone (yes, bathe in the light and beauty of this instinct) forms the core of their beliefs. How we are formed. / BY BEAUTY. / And then from an extension of one selection after another built partially from each other and extracted and separated each time by aesthetic appreciation every instance. / There is some inseparable connection here between memory and action. We remember in some unconscious manner what we have chosen to believe, what we have found most powerful in the past, what HOLDS MORE MEANING FOR US THAN ANYTHING IN OUR EXPERIENCE – and this informs us how we should ACT. How we answer the phone what we eat who we sleep with what pets we have our reaction to the flies buzzing around our brilliant heads, how we will SPEAK and what we will say. Every choice we make. What we are thinking of as we lie dying and which fucking CEREAL we pick. / These things link hands and tell us whisper to us. Beauty and memory. Instinct and experience. Move my hands over the dirty keys and glance outside into the hot white summer light. I choose. We choose. I am informed as to how to choose. By a process I don’t and perhaps can’t understand. / The way we move and behave is extracted by the shattered lines of our memory. It is NOT a procession of smooth and comprehensible awareness. / I think this is what is dictating what I am writing. / And since I feel that I am in this way DUMBER than others, well, hm, I am left in an ocean of unconnected experience. / Bleh. Maybe I am just being a wanker and reading into everything wayyyyy too much.
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Another dawn, another tide and another image from the East Beach in Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland. Amazing but I’d never noticed this wreck before. Nikon D80 / Manual / 4s at f11.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 18mm / 0.9 ND soft Grad. / tripod / remote release
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Yet another west beach capture from Lossiemouth in Moray Scotland. One of these days I’ll make it round to the East beach in time for the dawn. ;-) ISO 100, 1/3sec at f11, Nikon 18mm-70mm at 18mm with 0.9 soft ND grad and poloriser. Nikon D80.
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From the East Beach in Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland. Nikon D80 / Manual / 0.5s at f11.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 18mm / 0.9 ND soft Grad. / tripod / remote release
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Disarray… I try to refer to it every time I can ORDO AB CHAO (order out of chaos). hell better the other way round. / I did this piece while I was working at the Babylon Hotel. When I say working, I mean painting. I had a deal where I would paint in public at the pub and get free coffee and exhibition space in return. Pretty sweet really. I got to be friends with a lot of the waitresses there, so when I was placing the figure in the foreground I based it on one of them – she was wearing a Cardigan and had a bag with her. She was running late and flustered. / / / / I like the idea of the figures in my landscapes being deeply self-involved despite the dramatic and unusual things happening around them and this is a good example. She is looking at her watch in the midst of a desert in the face of an incoming maelstrom. To her the fact that she is late for work or whatever else it implies is far more important than where she is or what is happening. Also there is that I am kind of obsessed with time (the whole Einsteinian relativity thing and spooky quantum theory throws our understanding of the world into disarray) so I try to refer to it every time I can. This is probably my favourite of all my landscapes – just for the colour. I sold it in 2003 through the perth Royal show exhibition. /
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Oils on Canvas. / Found a better pic of an old work, long sold. / Peace amidst atrophy; the oddness of it, a decaying world in which beauty sleeps, careless and comforted. 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, holding the world clenched in vehemently, intensely ALIVE wonder. Both faces of Janus for me, for you, a dark and hungry god. 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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Pastels on Paper 120×90 cms / Sold the original. Watch hands on an ancient clock, slow but still moving. Clicking in the dark when there’s no one home. Echoing in a hall with light spilling in through the frosted glass. Like when the game is over and it’s time to hold and time to kill, the very very last drop of milk splashes onto the page and the very very dark blue moves in the corner. Walking with me to the end of the isle pewter cups full of thick liquid that catches in the back of your throat and makes you sputter like a fire or a kerosene heater or a lamp or an old sick car with students in it too dumb / to know / not to try. / No time to write or think or curl my fingers around, a dove’s leg curse or a jewel. Pierced, oh sure, like that a pinprick in an open sky, a babbling tower. Water from the sky from the ocean from the heart, clipped, triggered and muzzled, strapped to the enormity of it. Colour-blind and balanced, capsized and immersed, a bridge that’s a seething landscape. / Titan for a Tuesday, dry as a bone wrist or a Doll’s house in the desert. / It smells like strength and vicissitude with only what you want and a cold turned spoke. / Staggering and with a head full full of light, only small acts of kindness, what else is there to find for us silent at the edge of the day? / So then it’s only you and me in a saturated blue, long kisses hard into each other / sweat and confirmation, an engine of conviction, a weapon of devolution. / A slow turning and immense mill with a lidless sacrifice and an angry wasp, pulled from one strung heart sharp over ribs. There’s only breath and life / and no promises from either, go guarantor for me that I’ll be alone, / prove me right with skin that colour, hand that soft, a zealot with a placard walking in the rain. / Drama and faith are such poor excuses. / Only hints and grace, something gone, out into the soft and never ending night with a half heard cry. / I’m sad for you, baby. / I know. I know. / I saw the tremors and the shadows in the kitchen. Like leaves and seeds bent around a chain link fence on a quiet day. It’s only me, just me, that’s all. / I can come and visit and hold your head up for you while you try and sing, like before with both hands that you pushed to my throat. / Wait for me, oh wait for me baby. / I know my arms are empty and ugly and I have hard edges and sway and rock and twitch twitch twitch and I’m sorry for all these things and for the old woman made up for no-one and for the beautiful girl so autistic she couldn’t see and for the tiny mad child that I was / and for the tiny mad child that you were, dirty hands and sweet, / sweet, / bruised skin. / Twelve o’clock on a Friday night, / Run my hand down the side of my face. Crack each finger individually. Give up, give in. Whisper and kiss the side of my mouth. Someplace or something warm. It’s okay. / It is.
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Orange coloured clouds reflected in a rock pool and on the wet sand at Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland. The blocks are part of coastal defences errected during the second World War. Many similar constructions are still visible in this part of the world. Nikon D80
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Cold early morning with an incoming tide at the East beach at Lossiemouth, Moray Scotland. Nikon D80 / Manual / 2 sec. at f11.0 / ISO 100 / 18.0-70.0mm f/3.5-4.5 at 18mm / 0.3 ND soft Grad. / circular polarizer / tripod / hand release
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The Hampden Suspension Bridge is an historical landmark and is the only surviving suspension bridge in New South Wales that was built during the Australian colonial days. The Hampden Bridge is 77 metres long and was built in the year 1897, and named after Lord Hampden, who was the Governor of NSW from 1895 to 1899. The Hampden Bridge straddles the Kangaroo River with the Kangaroo Valley village nestled beside it. WON The Bridges Challenge in the Retired and Happy Group June 2009 – thanks to all who voted My Bubblesite also shows works in categories. Landscapes Trees Cards EOD Rusty Flowers Architecture Macro CatchAll DM
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Charcoal and chalk, 80×45 cms. Sold. / This piece was done when I was quite down. I think it shows in my work, It is unavoidable in art. Emotions will translate themselves into lines and shades unconsciously. Kirsty posed for me and I believe she was very down as well. Ah, well. Solace in art? Truth, maybe. Maybe not. Fortunately it does not diminish my skills, only my confidence. It is very clear to me which works have been done in times when I have been down: Small acts of Kindness, Funereal and Exit Music, etc. They all bear this soft hesitation. I wasn’t thinking of the Guns n roses song when i named it. At all.
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PAUL IS A LITTLE TOO AWAKE Do you feel as I do? my brothers and sisters? deviants and mutants and freaks and angels? – does it move you like this. Like – THIS? It swings and burns and riots inside me sometimes – sudden tastes uncertain and anomalous – each sense fitted up and mis-wired with invention. / Show me that synchronous similitude: Following Orpheus as he follows Eurydice into the dark. The dark that I have been sucking, gulping into me since I first lifted my wide wide gaze to the moon. Rising ancient and cold. Eating darkness and it tastes…. Human like you, yes! Let me exist as you, I want to sear your mind show me where you hide your kindness so that I can rip it from you with my red real teeth. / Sad and soft sounds sticking in my throat, in the softness behind my words. Behind my panicked, violently blue eyes. / I once… I made a man cry with my work – Triggers in his own bruising mind clipping sore and real and true. / A strong man and brave. A man… my oldest friend; he whom I have not never seen shed tears. Not in twenty hard years of the hard corners of a brutal and difficult life. He has healed himself now. He is in love with his wife. He would kill and die for me… / Women and men have shed tears at my work. / They have I have seen them I was there I saw I saw and my memory is quick sometimes and it frightens me with clarity so sharp and real. I trace the path of their tears in the air before me. AND I ALMOST SOB. / Stop it. Stop it stop it. The emotion, unnameable, is colossal impossible. / Stop. / Deep breath, try. Shudder once more. My own tears hot on my cheek. Sip something cool, open a fucking window? Put the kettle on again forget put it on again forget and remember that I have done this twice and limp back to my work. I stand. I twist my strong, deft hands against each other. I fail without simple answers, stuttering ambiguities sincere and desperate. A gasp of longing slips from my tongue flicking outwards from my undecided lips like a creaking leather whip. / Calloused and scared and still and always smeared (STILL YES! WHY I CAME IN HERE! REMEMBERED YAY!)with paint. It is so beautiful. It frightens me. / I step numb to the bathroom twist taps in unfeeling slippery fingers paint. It makes things…hard to grasp. Hah! Puns rule… Shock and cold and it tastes so sweet and I could drink such water as this, forever cool. False insectile legs pricking my skin even as I scrub it, prickling through my hair. / I pour clear cold water in a winding trail down my back and hold my head under the tap for as long as I can bear. / Oh, to find a baptism such as this – at the hands of one so replete with belief that what they may have been disintegrates before the throb of divine insistence. Baptised by a drowning. / For this act, to find faith in warm human hands… In some symbol ancient and quivering with the force of certainty. With fucking CERTAINTY (“doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is an absurd one” – Voltaire, the wily old bastard). With faith. / Measured in millions of long dead believers embraced in the sweet surety of ritual – beneath the crying cup. / Dust strewn under hard, calloused hands. Angels? And dust? We must be both! Concentrate! / As the cool water runs over the yielding welcome of my eyelids. / The last and least peace that I can find. / My own faith… zealot of nothingness, disciple of CHANCE. Rhapsodist in ephemeral accident so pure its coldness burns. / I hear the hiss of the plumbing, the booming blood surging in my ears. I breathe some rushing strand of the water and cough hard. Enough. / I bang my head, on the tap, even as it vibrates to my sight in the tricking slight of hand of mild hallucination. / Only me. Shiver and shake. Force out each claw into a supple human finger, nails painted deep sapphire blue. They are calloused from my guitar, still stained with my paint and sore from the incessant scrape of life at their raw nerves searing just under the skin. / Squint and glare at my reflection. Snarls have always just looked completely silly on my face. I must smile. Smile smile. The shape of the bone, the skull, under the gums. / The sink is covered in paint. Faucets young but obsolescent. Plastic decay matching my own. / Flick my hair back just so and water sprays lightly. It seems to fall in jerky staccato accelerations and infinitesimal pauses. Some of the drops on my open palm. They roll and rattle into each other like flawless crystal marbles before dissolving into water once more. / This. Endless. Endless. Impossibility… this mammoth UNNAMED and UNNABLE emotion. That my senses distort when I must see to work to breathe to work see to paint to live. / It is so heavy. I want it and hate it and crave a name for its crippling mass upon my heart. / For now… / Trick it with beauty. Paint. Be brave. Courage my friends, my siblings, my lovers. / Angels and dust. Concentrate!
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