So, what to paint next?
Well, as mentioned in my last posting, I was quite taken with one of the many trees that are currently exploding into blossom up this neck of the woods. Went up there to take a closer look last Friday. Lovely sunny day and this particular tree's white blossom looked splendid against the blue sky. But, for some reason, it didn't really grab me. Dunno why. Maybe it seemed a bit too 'chocolate-boxy' and Romantic.
Strange: last year I'd have probably gone at it hammer and tongs, inspired by the reawakening of a long forgotten and almost entirely dormant enthusiasm for painting and my not inconsiderable impatience to utilise a recently purchased, brand new, painting kit. But not now. Maybe I've moved on; well away from the typical subject matter of part time, amateur artists. Which, of course, is a dreadfully conceited and arrogant thing to say considering I fall into that category myself. However, the moment I studied that tree in closer detail I immediately knew I was looking for something else: something more inspirational, something more challenging, something that exists well beyond the self-indulgent comfort zone of purely 'retinal' art.
Been thinking a lot about this recently - ever since I packed up my paints and brushes last year when winter arrived. Spent many a winter's evening studying the paltry five paintings I'd done that summer and pondering the many thoughts and reactions they generated. Top of the list, they bought into question the seriousness of my intent to pick up the reins that I had stupidly dropped way back in the mid sixties when I chose to specialise in graphic design instead of fine art at art school. Big mistake and one that I increasingly regretted throughout my forty wasted years in design and advertising. If I hoped to become a proper artist again, these five paintings merely confirmed that I had a long, long way to go. If I was ever to get there in the brief period I had left, I would need far more focus and determination. But I realised that you can't just turn that stuff on and off. It's either there or it ain't. Did I really have it? Or was it all a great big delusion shared by many other like-minded, doddery old expats who've moved to France with romantic notions of sketching and painting artistic twaddle in idyllic bliss? And perhaps worst of all, was I merely re-enacting Tony Hancock in 'The Rebel'?
Time to seek some serious answers.
My thoughts returned to 1964 when I made that fateful decision to reject fine art. Why did I reject it? Well, daft as it may now seem, I did so after a long study of art history, whereby I formed the opinion that anti-art, conceptual art and ideas generally, were of greater importance than the somewhat more traditional values preached in art schools of the time. As far as I was concerned, Duchamp had marked the end of the line for fine art. Therefore I switched to commercial art (I've never liked the expression 'graphic design') where I thought there would be far more potential to develop and exploit my enthusiasm for 'ideas'. That's why.
Now, decades later, although that fateful decision could be seen as a terrible mistake, I'm beginning to see it as instrumental in landing me in France with a gritty determination to succeed. After all, had I actually decided to 'do' fine art at college, I may have then drifted through life painting the odd landscape or two, perhaps supplementing a meagre income by teaching in some dull art school, ending up as a burnt out has been, totally devoid of creative steam and inspiration. Or maybe not. Who knows, who cares. All I know is that I now have a glorious but relatively short opportunity to make up for lost time. It's an opportunity that's positively inspirational, but it could have been oh so different without those forty wasted years. So maybe they weren't wasted after all. Realising that time is precious, I have no intention of wasting any of the little time I hopefully have left to pursue my new, lapsed rather, vocation.
Throughout this winter, as well as reaching the above conclusions, I've been giving serious thought to artistic direction. While those five humble paintings are unlikely to win critical acclaim, they at least served to convince that my basic draughtsmanship talents hadn't completely deserted moi, which I found encouraging. But forty years as an art world outsider is a long, long time. Was I still, at heart, a Dadaist? Should I be stacking stones on beaches or painting white lines around tree trunks and then taking photos? Or had artists such as Hockney and Monet, as I suspected, increased their influence, thus making me less of a modernist and more of a traditionalist? All very thought provoking and a great way to pass long winter evenings whilst sipping a scotch or three.
Clarity, enlightenment and answers arrived quite by accident on my recent visit to the National Gallery. Here, as mentioned in a recent blog posting, I spent a couple of hugely enjoyable hours studying works by many of my favourite artists. I'd been there before of course and seen these very same paintings but, this time, it was as though I was seeing them for the very first time. The Turners bowled me over and some of the Impressionist stuff knocked me out, but it was van Gogh who really struck lightning, opened the door and pointed the direction. Quite surprised me 'cos I'd never been a big fan before.
Bought a mammoth book about about him on the way out. Been reading and re-reading it, studying the pictures and contemplating his reasoning every evening for weeks. Discovered we have a lot in common besides the obvious link of being exiled in France with paints and brushes. We both share a love of sunlight and colour (one of my excuses for not painting in winter; the other one, unlike van Gogh, is laziness), we're both embarrassingly skint and we both paint as though there's no tomorrow with machine-gun brush strokes that capture (well, he captures while I just attempt to capture) the fleeting moment (I've only recently adopted this technique). The only (only?!) difference is he's a genius and I'm not.
Thus inspired and armed with clarity of vision and purpose after my long winter hibernation period of self-analysis and general re-think, I entered Phase 2 of my artistic comeback. The resulting 'Tree' painting was nothing more than a promising start; a warm up for hopefully better things to come. Which, in an extremely roundabout way, brings me back to the original question: what's next?
Well, for years I've idly looked out the kitchen window in the evenings to see the distant pine tree trunks glowing red in the setting sun. That's it, I thought. Right before your very eyes. Get out there and capture that fleeting moment, that staggeringly beautiful wonder of Nature. You've proved to yourself that you can tackle the most complex apple tree in the old orchard, so now tackle something only the big boys would dare. A single moment (or ten at the most) that can justify all that bullshit you've written above.
So I did. Ambled up there last Friday evening.
Failed dismally of course, but at least I made a start. Typically, soon as I started, the sun immediately disappeared behind a low cloud just above the western horizon. Bashed in a few greens and browns before knocking off. Then the sun reappeared momentarily beneath the cloud and above the horizon. Set the scene on fire. Magnificent. Feverishly knocked in some reds and pinks as well as some long, dramatic shadows that diagonally cut across the path. Two minutes later, it was gone. That's how quick you have to be. Not even time to take a photo.
Intended to get out there again at the same time Saturday and Sunday. But it rained all week-end. Solidly. Stopped raining today but it's still overcast and grey. I won't be beaten though. I'll crack it.
