Half woman, half biscuit

Just as a follow on to yesterday, I was set thinking about neurosis in general and how we carry these strange little beliefs all of our lives, probably without anyone but us taking them seriously. How do they take such root and stay that way? I think, for example, that women's weight issues go way beyond the 'Men are from Mars' school of thought. I genuinely get worked up and anxious if I eat a biscuit; punish myself, calculate calories for the next ten meals to compensate, check my reflection to see if the biscuit is showing itself in my figure... I am not, and have never been, an anorexic, but this kind of weight anxiety is an everyday fact of life for so many of us. I sure as hell don't have any answers, but it is an interesting thing to notice. Stu is baffled and annoyed by my insistence that I am 'fat' or 'bloated' some days and I think he assumes I say these things to annoy him; the truth is that I keep my feelings to myself most of the time as sometimes the depths of my neurosis worries me. He gets the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.

The reason I share this right now is that I just ate an Empire biscuit; the great fat sandwich of biscuits, which in an ideal world I would eat on at least a weekly basis. Stu bought me a pack of four, not in an act of sabotage, but because he thinks I will like this; what happens? It is like living with a drug stash in the kitchen drawer - half of me is thinking that I should just eat the lot and then starve for the rest of the day when no-one will notice, half trying to figure out rational patterns of biscuit eating for the week. Luckily the winner on this occasion was the voice of (relative) reason, but the checking of clothes tightness and searching out spots will continue, no shadow of a doubt. I sincerely hope I am not alone in this, but somehow I doubt it; this is one of the hidden female hypocrisies - we look at the perfect figures in the magazine, 'pooh pooh' it and then sneak off to secretly study the images in comparison to our own sorry bodies.

I am right behind fashion as a creative force and have always loved to follow it at least theoretically (I have no style) but I think it is undoubtedly also the creator of a thousand thousand neurotic females. And yes, this was all kicked off by my reaction to a biscuit, which even as I write is sitting in my stomach distributing its evil fat and processed sugars through my unsuspecting body...

To veer suddenly back to my creative life, I have spent the day in an uncharateristic mood of self confidence and self promotion; announcing to everyone and his dog that I am a painter with a new range of cards and prints about to be published. In my promotion frenzy I actually found myself worrying about the best way in which to promote this happening to colleagues in my cash-money job. It is a bit lengthy when you have worked alongside people for nine months and suddenly want them to be aware of your 'other life'. It takes a long, convoluted course along 'what do you paint' via the inevitable watercolour question, past 'landscapes, portraits?' to 'do you do weird stuff?'. Someone asked me that today. (Maybe he had secretly read yesterday's blog...)

By the time you have got to the bit about publication there are so many unanswered and swerved questions lying around that the whole thing becomes a bit of an anticlimax. Thinking of distributing a flyer detailing my basic achievements to date with F.A.Q.s to fill in the workforce before I hit them with the news of my coming publications and exhibition. I am joking.

Shall continue to stammer explantions and go red when 'outing' myself - but I shall continue to do it..

Outflow = Inflow

Back to the drawing board, bodyswerving the kitchen drawer on the way.

Bridget day

Just for the hell of it; a Bridget Jones tribute post.

Cups of tea: 10, Cigarettes: 0 (not surprising as gave up ten years ago), Calories consumed from healthy recommended food: 1000, Calories consumed from forbidden slot machine food in staff canteen: 300 (but only a Penguin so better than yesterday), Times mentioned new official occupation of 'Artist': One, Times studied new proofs of cards to be published: 5, all before breakfast, Work related injury: 1, Time off for recovery from work related injury: 0.

Feeling jolly today and convinced of total immunity from cash-job related blues. Didn't count on cash-job colleagues in rotten hangover-induced and probably family tradgedy related depression; spent morning talking to self and smiling hopefully at strangers. Work related injury occurred when tidying desk area in attempt to a) impress passing manager and b) improve work related mood of blueness and boredom. Pulled bag from behind sliding panel which shot out, hitting top of nose. Swore a little and hid behing desk for a while prompting strange looks from customers and passing manager alike.

Passed the afternoon dreaming up angel scenarios and doodling on pieces of paper, thinking of opportunities to show off new card proofs and slip 'artist' status into casual conversation. Managed only once when talking to an old customer from previous job who may be borderline stalker and is definately quite mad. Kept talking about Ingrid Bergman and Isabella Rossellini in faintly suggestive way, while I tried to impress with my news on the publication front. "Watercolours?" was all he wanted to know; what is it with old people and watercolours?

Spent some jollier time in conversation with slightly superior work colleague debating futility of current 'conceptual' art revolving around arrangement of mundane objects in order of size. Laughed at futility of this pretention before admitting know very little about aims and meaning of said art. Colleague suggested a series of ideas involving L.S.D., painted bodies and darkness and/or empty paper clad rooms. Culminated with discussion of painted snails in a long gallery room with David Hasslehoff in total darkness, filmed in infra-red for four hours. Think we may have something here. Off to look at proofs of cards again and finish value box of Feast choc ices.

Festival anticipation

It all comes down to the little things really doesn't it? Email alert to go see my proofs for greetings cards and, besides seeing my images in print at last, loved seeing the wee words on the back: Artist... Publisher.... and one of them was me! Now I ain't no publisher chick so that must doggone make me an artist! My somewhat bizarre upbringing means that it is very hard for me to accept praise or 'put myself forward' (derogatory phrase from childhood meaning to have any degree of self confidence). Thus I have been fighting the very idea of calling myself what I am. It's now nine months since I made the conscious decision to answer "painter" to the question "what do you do?" Now here I am teetering on the monumental answer "Oui, je suis un artiste" (when in France obviously, I am not getting that 'pretentious, Moi?'). I just love different languages; not sure how to speak them very well but I like to hear them and look at them - this is why I use them in my titles for paintings. For me its all about the beauty and look of the words, whatever language they happen to be in; it helps to be of mixed nationality with no obvious 'hometown', apart from the one I choose.

All together it was one of those magic days of superfabdom, when all things went well in the world (or maybe I just chose to see it that way...), from a great morning's painting to a wonderful and cheap haircut via an easy drive through town playing excellent new music.

Oh yeah, and the card proofs; on which there is actually more superfabdom to come. 'My publisher' wants to get them out in time for the Book Festival, whose dates I am rapidly going to familiarise myself with; this will obviously be a very good thing and is a total bonus as I didn't even know that such things were shown at the Book Festival. To be honest, I think the last time I really paid attention to anything Festival was before I worked in the C-word; catering. So... that would be over fifteen years ago; thats a lot of missed Festivals for a dweller of the Festival city.

Had a few more bursts of inspiration over the course of the day; it is often the way when I am in super happy mode as I am letting go of the negative nonsense that can so easily get in the way; my inner smiley blue self is radiating inspired things. Idea number one involves a couple I saw taking an 'arms length' double self portrait in front of the castle; they were all colourful like one of my pictures so I immediately saw Madame Tabere and one of her angel buddies recreating the pose as if they were capturing their meeting for the album. Put a whole new slant on Madame (Suki) Tabere as well; instead of some mystic, witchy person she became a friend of the angels - someone they like to hang out with. Not necessarily to predict catastrophe or pass on messages to the living, just her angel homeys. Loving it.

Idea number two built neatly on the forest angels 'look' - watching Amadeus I was reminded of the great winged helmet worn in Don Giovanni and popped one on the head of an angel in my sketchbook. Great look, very Roman. Doric?

Third idea was from 'My Publisher' upon seeing my new and much loved new painting, 'Der Engel Flusterer' (that's what I meant about the language thing); he commented on her dog in the bow of the boat and suggested angel figureheads; a fine idea.

So grows the narrative! Madame Tabere was outed by my publisher, who immediately referred to her as 'Suki', so I thought "Yeah, why not?" Thus all the previous Suki images link into the new ones, simply because it's actually the same character... Doh.

Currently still sailing the Scottish Isles, who knows where Mme T will navigate before the year's end?

Happy hanging day

Well that serves me right... decided to blog first thing in the morning as we were all sleepy and happy after a productive, and rare, day off together and I end up sitting here now fresh from one of my more disturbing serial dreams. Usually it is about a kitten I am looking after, although sometimes a baby that morphs into a kitten; always the creature is ridiculously small, like a match-box size, and on its last legs. In this instance, (which incidentally is the first for sooo long that I thought this particular dream genre had left me) I was in a bus heading for a hotel, with the usual very sick, wet two-inch kitten in a damp box. Passed the hotel and had to walk back for miles, in the rain, so kitten now drenched and sticking to the rapidly deteriorating box. In hotel is my mother eating from a wedding style buffet table in the lobby and a few people from my current cash-job, one of whom inadvertantly crushes the wretched kitten when I ask him to hold it. Proving my brain is grounded in the everyday, I miss my hairdressing appointment, which I do have today. After much wandering of corridors and having replaced the box with a baguette bag, also soggy, I abandon what remains of the kitten in a lounge. That's where I always wake up, with the guilt and failure feelings and a sense of anger that no-one saw fit to help me; always a jolly start to the day. Today I am more fascinated at the dream's recurrence; since having actual cats to look after I had reckoned that the small dead kitten dream had been exorcised from my repertoire. Seems not. Never really figured it out either, and not sure if I want to - it is a very bleak patch of unconscious for sure.

The jollier events of the day are luckily fresh in my mind also; remodelling the living room is an occupation that always amuses me; we have always seen the house as very much a work in progress as, especially now, money comes in sporadic bursts and we don't have the budget to 'do things up' all at once. This kind of eclectic growth is exactly what I prefer however; I never saw the point in employing a designer to kind of fake your history by buying in a bunch of ornaments and furniture; far better to amass things on our travels gradually so that everything is tinged with meaning and memory for us. Even the larger 'shop bought' pieces of furniture are memorable merely by the effort involved to save for and buy them; each a little landmark in our personal history. I am feeling a lot happier in the house now I have had the crucial realisation that I don't 'have to' have a cute cottage by the sea to be a painter; I know it sounds dumb but it is easy to set targets that are unrealistic and then torture yourself for failing to meet them. If I am happy and productive here then all the better; I quite like the 'tardis' effect of this house anyhow as it is so much lighter, airier and cooler than the 1940s estate exterior would suggest.

New lights in the living room, previously a very dark place only used in winter, mean that we can expand our collection of other peoples' art, begun on holidays and now added to with Ritchie's baldy man and fish. Putting that up was the catalyst for getting into gear with the other pics, and now we have the brilliant Vietnamese artist's anarchic 'boy on a buffalo' being framed just now. I need to rediscover the artist's name; part of it is Nguyen, but I can't remember if that is first or second. Great painter though; we saw a whole bunch of his work in the main Fine Arts museums in Hanoi and Saigon, going on to buy a couple of prints and this mixed media painting before we flew home.

One of those super-easy decisions at the framers; I had my swither between two really nice mouldings and asked the price of both only to find that one came out at £95, the other at £60. That made the choice a little easier and kept the budget on line; can't wait to see it on the wall. Even just the smaller one I put up yesterday makes such a difference to the room; the huge blank wall has been bugging me for ages and in a ideal world I would have aquired a huge tapestry or rug on our travels last year, but budget concerns and the thought of Twig getting her claws into it held me back. I think this is the better course; nothing like spending our hard won pennies on the process of artifying our house; far more satisfying and I can live on dishes created with mince for a while more... tonight - lamb koftas!

Right here, right now

Well, here's a first; stayed back at cash-job to attend a small course on service (again...never had one of those in 15 years of catering. Even wrote some..) and here I am about to blog about it! Fact is I am a sucker for the training video when it is done well, and the cause of customer service actually often leans close in to Buddhism, just like all the articles on 'how to improve your life and make more of your time' in 'womens'' magazines do. I do actually find myself very un-Buddhistly annoyed at those articles which purport to hold up for inspection a new and wonderful truth discovered by this or that author, the other life guru. Scratch the surface and it all seems strangely familiar for anyone who has even scratched the surface of Buddhism. One I read recently even robbed the teminology and went on about mindfullness like it was something just thought up by whoever the hell was writing it. Reminds me of some (sadly, I know it's a cliche) Americans who commented on the olives I served them in a restaurant, in Edinburgh, in the twentieth century - 'Gee, you got olives over here now too?' I kid you not, and wish I did.

Anyway... tonight's piece of training focused on a few points but the one I liked was the necessity to 'be there' or 'be present' for your customer, in your job. This is again using the idea of mindfulness and I couldn't help but think smug thoughts as the surefire way I have found to get through the working day is to try and focus wholeheartedly on whatever I am doing at a given moment, and the customer I am serving. Staying in the present moment and giving it your full appreciation, concentration and focus is the basis of mindfullness and many a dull moment can be enlivened by actually giving your all to the task at hand, be it washing up, serving, eating or breathing. I love a little hookline, and "be present" is a good one for me. Me like.

My other fave from earlier in the month was "outflow = inflow" if you recall, and with some crossover, they make a powerful little mantra.

The note in my back pocket today had some more fuel for thought; I was pondering the composition of Madame Tabere and the angels, and subdivided some angel ideas by design; 'the batwing', 'the peg' and 'flow outline'. Means sweet f.a. to anyone else I'm sure but I love the idea of an identification chart of angels based on their sillhouette in flight, which is what it boils down to. Now I have to sketch the wee blighters and see which outline best fits my format... Pegs or batwings, who knows? Two days of 'me' time to paint, put up light fittings to best display our newly framed pictures and recharge the creative side of my brain. And have a haircut - I have cracked under the pressure and quit my aim to grow the hair all year in a quest for maximum financial saving. Good to know your limits.

Bare Cupboard

Usually manage to end the day with some little notes about thoughts and paintings stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans but today the pickings are slim. It is the full moon tonight and I do think it has an unsettling effect on me; not so much what the horoscope people are saying, but definately a mood of uncertainty. I am super spotty, super bloated and itchy; call me crazy but if the moon dictates the tides and makes the sap rise and fall I think it has the power to mess with my structure - there is plenty water in my makeup...

Saw a great book in the charity shop today for a tenner, and still swithering on blowing a bit of budget on it - paintings from the Norwegian Stave churches; seen pictures of the buildings, which remind me weirdly of the Thai Buddhist temples, but not familiar with the interior decoration. Looks like some great 'naive' and kind of folky depictions of familiar religious scenes with some inimitable Scandinavian utalitarian charm. Concentrating on angels this year has naturally lead me to study a fair deal of religious art; largely Christian so far as the Western tradition is the best covered over here, but the Buddhist images are also fascinating and that is as far as I have ventured so far. It's a huge topic and just so many amazing images created over the years. Put that way I feel almost cheeky for dipping my toe in such vast subject already touched on by some of the greatest artists of any time. But hey, my little voice only adds to the amazing bank of images that exist out there.

Looking at moving on next to a quasi-religious image of Madame Tabere in conversation or meeting with some of the angels; a structured image that takes inspiration from church decoration and altarpieces. Still thinking of using mosaic as I did with 'Amanda's dream' - I loved the aged effect that had and have leanings towards the Roman art as well. Nothing like cherry picking from across art history...all of these images are sloshing about in my subconscious though so no doubt some echoes will come out in whatever I do; I don't think it is possible to be totally original in the field of painting now. I guess that is why art shoots off periodically into different media, performance, installation etc. Painting itself as a form of expression has in so many ways been done to death, but still it prevails... That's the thing though really; despite there being so little room for originality, every work is also innately original as it is the creation of a different brain and hand to any other, in a different time and place from anything that has gone before.

But anyway... I think that is probably obvious. It is Stu's birthday today, but as we were both out earning a buck we are doing very little of any difference to any other day. I have procured by barter a great painting by Ritchie Collins which I had framed, so that is exciting - assuming he likes it!! This is also intended as a kick up the butt to get us moving on our living room wall, which has been woefully empty for seven years now! First of all I couldn't decide what to put there; now I have decided to go for a melange of other artists' work and have some great stuff from Vietnam to frame up. Time to get going on that I think as it will be so cool and inspiring once it is done. The studio is all my stuff, (oops, apart from a Picasso from a calendar and a great photo out of a Sunday supplement.. oh, and a bunch of postcards) but even that gives me great inspiration and I love being surrounded by pictures. Sod minimalism, fill the walls!

So, despite an empty back pocket I am pleased to report that this is not necessarily a symptom of an empty mind; maybe a touch of full moon blues and weirdies, but otherwise operational.

Flustered angels?

Playing with my new tools of the trade today; loving the Indanthrene blue - a very dark purpley blue that I have so far only used 'undiluted' as a base but imagine it will mix in interesting ways. You can never have too many blues. Also in love with the 'long flat', brush, having extolled the virtue of the Filbert not so long ago.. what a flirt. It gives such a definate, precise line or stroke, but not in a graphic way, just allows a nice degree of control when placing a block or patch of colour. I'm painting a boat on which lives the 'Angel Whisperer', so there is a certain degree of control needed as I am not by nature a boat expert. Looks good thus far though.

Stu did some amazing research for me today into the title for this and further works concerning the lady, who now goes under the name of Madame Tabere. I have been provided with translations from various nationalities of kitchen staff of the key 'angel whisperer' words, which I can use in different titles. Her name is a mixture of bastardised German and, obviously, French, denoting her mysterious multi-national origins.

Bumped into another painter who I am amazed I haven't seen before via a magazine supplement ( I think - can't now remember whether it was there or on the internet) - Alice Neel, 1900 - 1984 and painting all of those years. A portraitist when it was neither fashionable or popular with the 'avant-garde' (is it ever?) she has a wonderfully natural, revealing way of capturing friends, famous aquaintances and strangers alike. One biog. I read suggests her ability was 'to detect a hidden weakness in her sitters which she drags out, yelping into the clear light of day.' She certainly had a gift for capturing the 'person' rather than just the figure and all her studies, which she described as her 'selection of souls' show the vulnerability and human frailty we all share. There was also a fabulous shot of her hallway in one of her later houses in New York, the walls lined with paintings of all shapes and sizes; a scene to bring a warm glow to all of us painters who worry about filling our homes with our creations.. The painters I associated her with in my mind at least were fellow capturers of the soul, and women artists, Paula Rego and Frida Kahlo. Love to catch some of her work if it is shown en masse at some future time.

So; a frustrating couple of days of cash-work to go and then I can have some quality time with

'Der Engel Flusterer'...

Taming the beast

More things about ways of working kicked up my way; something that always fascinates me. The eternal questions of 'what is art?', 'why do I do it' and 'what are my aims, reasons, goals??'

I imagine to a non-creative person it must be a puzzle and why money always ends up under discussion; one of the first questions you are asked after a show is 'How much did you make?' If you shrug and suggest that it really wasn't about profit you are treated with at best suspicion, and usually the reply is a laugh and the insinuation that you are either lying or joking.

But it isn't about the money, it simply isn't. I know this because I am far less excited by a painting selling than by one going on show, and the last one I sold felt like a bereavement and I am still a little traumatised. The fact remains that it is an act of 'creation'. The painting is not a commodity, it is a child; the painter is the parent and creator, that is why we adopt that expression of pride and doubt when viewing our babies on the wall.

I ended up reading a catalogue of a show by Alan McGowan today which someone had left behind randomly at work, and found him to be a really visceral, elemental painter. A 'painter's painter' of the figure, who uses a wonderfully expressive and explosive build up of strokes, lines and feeling to create what must be very personal images. That is the kind of picture that looks to me as if the artist must leave the canvas exhausted by the emotion and energy released in creation; the soul exposed and moulded on the page.

Another piece I read about a writer whose name I failed to save, but who has written a very long vampire novel, talked about his writing methods, and how he wanted to use his unconscious feelings. His suggestion that all writers, creators, were trying to find a way of working that brought them closer to their unconscious; creation from withing without the translation of thought. I kind of get this as it ties in with my feeling that all my best paintings spring fully formed either in dreams or a sudden rush of inspiration that pops out of the blue; out of my unconscious mind. So, yes, I think finding a way to tap that experience is the best way to create work that fulfills the creator. But how to tap this, how to tame the beast? I guess that could be the million dollar question...

Giving it up

Bit of a double whammy today as I finished yesterday's blog this morning due to lack of energy after a pretty productive day. Today I am further contemplating the strange thing that is money; a subject that has been pushed to the fore in our lives this year more than any due to our budget measures. The cut in salary we took when we left for Arran was kind of absorbed into the whole strangeness of the experience; plus we had booked holidays, savings and were earning tips. This year has been a real eye-opener, but more into past habits and wastage than in a negative way; I know I have touched on this before but it continues to intrigue me and is worth studying over the year: how our mental attitudes have had to shift with the circumstances.

For one thing, while I have never been 'banker' rich, we have never really had to worry too much about affording holidays, things for the house, new clothes and pretty much unlimited music.

This year we are suddenly in a position where I really have to think about what we need each month and what can wait; this month's 'treat' was a new light for the living room - long overdue as the space is often wasted due to lack of visibility! I am still suffering residual guilt from a few days ago when I bought myself a blouse - in a sale - with money that I was given for my birthday in January, which at the time I essentially frittered on groceries.

One of the things I learned while giving up alcohol is not to necessarily try and replace 'like for like' - a drink does not necessarily have to be replaced with another kind of drink. The space created by 'no drink' can be filled by another activity or experience quite unrelated to pouring things in your mouth. I remember the same giving up smoking (seeing a pattern here, huh?); the tendency is to replace fag with food, thus the annoying weight gain. Replace fag with nice walk or magazine and voila, no weight gain. It is actually a double positive as unproductive time is replaced by productive; spending by not spending; a replacement drink or fag could be as simple as 'sit in garden for five minutes thinking about and looking at plants.'

So to money; the same rule is starting to apply here as well - replace shopping 'therapy' and 'treats' with other activity and savings are no longer painful. It goes without saying that the things we do buy, carefully, feel far more like a treat than anything in years gone by. I look in horror at some clothes, light fittings, rugs etc we have bought without thinking and serve no useful function, but having bought them I am loth to remove them again. Don't get me started on restaurant bills... one thing I cannot see myself doing this year is eating out - at all - the thought of spending £30-£40 on food that will leave no concrete benefit and be forgotten the next day is just not an option. I shall hold off for whenever we finally get a holiday and sit at a plastic table on a beach or a field somewhere and order safe in the knowledge that I am adding to my memory bank, a worthy use for the bucks I have stashed away.

And so to cash-day-money-job, where I can look forward to ten days work equalling the money I got for the painting I sold. Great mentally on one hand - wow, sell a few more of them a month and we'd be laughing! But torturous on the other - gee, think how much more useful it would be to be in my studio; I wish I could switch my brain off...

Nearly forgot; my quote of the day from 'Death Proof' having finally got around to watching it (and loved it - don't care what that says about me!) Tarantino, playing a barman, refers to "Chartreuse, the only drink so good they named a colour after it." Love it.

All hail the Filbert

Ha-ha. Paint shopping online with my earnings. Having spent some cash on pens the other day to enhance my drawing experience and turned into a pen geek in the process, today I spent some quality time in selecting some new paints and brushes, egged on by Stu, who likes to encourage me in my art purchasing. The problem with being on a budget and proud of my frugal spending abilities is that it feels bad now to indulge in retail purchases, even when they are of a necessary and practical nature. Spent the latter half of today feeling weirdly bad, having spent the princely sum of £36 in discountart.co.uk, a worthy online art shop who succeeded in ferrying (literally) paint to Arran overnight when I ordered from them. Kind of freaked me out that actually, I found myself looking out the window after the postman half expecting to see art sellers disappearing into the undergrowth where they keep their secret store.

That reminds me, last year on Arran we worked in a reasonably un-built up place; just a courtyard that used to be a farm but had been turned into a kind of rural retail complex. Twice in this location after dark, when we were pretty much the only inhabitants save rats, cats and bugs, sightings were (breathlessly and genuinely pretty rattled) reported of a large-dog sized black cat lurking in the dark. Both lads met it around the shed where we kept supplies, which made sense, and reported surprising the animal which spat defensively and legged it into the night scaring the blue willies out of them. No searching has revealed any other sightings, so are we the only living mortals to witness the Beast of Brodick. I thought I should record this just in case someone else stumbles across it one day while in possession of wits and a camera; you never know.

Well, that was a tangent-and-a-half. My brain is still processing the year on Arran, which was intense personally and workwise, so many tales still to be told. I am woken each morning by our little souvenir, Twig the kitten, who was born in the next cottage during our stay and came to torment my sleeping hours five weeks later; gawd bless her, we love her though.

So, Filberts. These are paint brushes which are longish and flat with a rounded tip and are in my humble opinion one of the most useful brush types known to man. The springiness is good, the bristles are short enough to control the line they produce and the slight taper means no nasty sharp edges to the line. Turn them sideways and the same applies, but finer. I have ordered another bigger one for myself as I find increasingly that the larger the brush size I can get away with, the better the result as it stops me falling into fiddly detail and outlines. The Filbert is a great tool for sketching in areas of colour but also finer detail, but in a relaxed, non-technical way. Get a round brush in my hand and lo and behold I am producing lines, not areas of colour, facets, planes. I have started a new picture that popped into my head in the bathroom. I confess to reading the odd magazine whilst in there and I came upon a piece about a house in the French seaside town (village?) of Ille de Re, all nautical touches like the figurehead on the locally (very French) cafe, exposed wood, faded aquamarine paint. With this in mind I adjourned to the shower, where a story took shape of a lady who lives on a fishing boat travelling the seven seas conversing with the angels. Thus the narrative of the angels continues; they live in trees, mischevious and all-seeing, flying the world's oceans and cities at night to see the big picture of what humanity is up to. Meanwhile my immortal, mysterious lady, the 'Angel Whisperer' (Stu is supposed to be naming her) travels with her sausage dog meeting the angels at dusk.

'They come to me gently

While mist still hugs the water;

Tell me the world's ills..'

And so I started the next of the angel story, essentially a seascape introducing us to Madame...

in her crinoline aboard her trusty vessel just off Ailsa Craig. Where we sail beyond this I am not yet sure...

It's all a blur

Hmmm, distressing thing is happpening in Ingworld; I am no longer able to see pages of books in bad light (ie: in bed, pretty much my only reading time) or when they are close to my face. This can only mean one thing and it is not something I was ready to accommodate in my life yet: reading glasses... One of those things you take great comfort in is spotting the genetic strengths in your family and resting assured that at least these may cancel out the negatives; so on one side we have: Short stature, tendency to shape of pear, no athleticism, stoopy shoulders, varicose veins. On the other: Thick, ungreying hair, small perfectly formed feet, creativity, 20/20 vision.

Remove one of these and the package just isn't quite as even... I shall compose a letter; 'Dear creator God, I am grateful for your thoughtful bestowment of a number of positive gifts and added features that have doubtless made my path through life a tiny bit easier, but I would like to draw your attention to paragraph 2/1.5 which clearly states that 20/20 vision is part of the package "for a reasonable time into middle age".'

Or, more realistically I shall have to visit one of the infernal and overpriced purveyors of ageing face furniture; I have just never seen myself as a speccie, and whilst realising that an element of karma may be at play for the childhood taunts aimed at my short-sighted brother, it is no comfort. I can't even keep sunglasses on my face; the perfect straight slope of my nose has no hope of propping plastic; greenflies slide off the end with no obstruction, I would imagine.

I fear that the onslaught of nature cannot be ignored, however, or at least at my peril and inconvenience; I am beginning to suspect that the near-daily headaches may have a connection..

Despite, and probably because of, the downpour outside, I have had a seriously good studio day; hooked up the ipod with some new playlists, sorted a bunch of boards out and settled in with my saddo pen collection and some good vibes. Finished 'Maja' who is a Swedish forest angel, suggested by my Swedish pal and his ruminations on the maypole and flowery girls; I'll leave her to sit for a day or so and poke occasionally with a brush at bits that need changing, then she can join the ranks of the angels for November. It is going to be hard not sharing these before time; I shall have to veer off into some non-angelic pictures at some point in the next couple on months or I will have nothing to show for my labours! Until, of course, November. It is going to be a kick-ass show, if you will pardon the expression; I have really found my stride this year and I am really pleased with what I am turning out. Usually there is a gap between what I see in my brain and what comes out on the board; at the moment my paintings are beginning to exceed expectation. Quite exciting.

Also got the lovely email that means I have a cheque to pick up for 'With Wings' and some smaller prints, which essentially means paint shopping and framing another couple of my recent pics.

Hopefully this will fund the framing for November in stages over the next few months.

On a positive note and full of the joys of a truly hideous rainy day I shall adjourn back to the sanctity of the studio and hope Twig has stopped trying to eat the potaotes I use for printing...

Pen Nerd

There is a pen nerd in most artists, I imagine; or at least a 'materials nerd'. The wonder of a new tool with which to ploy your craft is possibly even more enticing than a blank piece of paper/canvas/board (delete as applicable). Today a tiny envelope plopped through my door and after the ritual chewing from Twig I was able to handle and wonder at a mini-selection of the wonders to be had at cultpens.com. Some standard Ing favourites, the Papermate Flexigrip (and I know I am not alone in this by the amount of potential stealers) in blue and black; button ended, although I also dig the ones with a lid. Also a clicky pencil which - I believe is know as propelling in the real world - and a turquoise biro! Wonder upon wonder. The star of the show and the reason for my internet purchase (Edinburgh art shops hang your heads in shame) was the sepia biro refil, to fit my lovely Papermate old fashioned school pen. Okay, a minor disappointment was in store when I found that, whilst ball-tipped, the ink is a little freer running than your average biro and so would I guess be filed under 'ballpen', but it is still of the colour and freeness of line that I so desired for my latest painting and hopefully many more interesting drawings. Spent this afternoon like a total saddo with three pens of different colour and use stuck to the neck of my latest painting t-shirt. All shirts are destined to one day become painting shirts; all it takes is one step over the line, one slip of the brush and the path has begun.

Still on my old sketch book - the other painter-geek product I purchased on the strength of a couple of sales was a new and very cool book for my day to day drawing - it even has one of those little book mark strings! I bet there is a word for them in publishingn world.

Alas, even my shiny new toys were hopeless in the face of a serious attack of the procrastinations, but a few shopping trips, some light tidying and cat feeding later and I am finally attacking with relish the first outing of my new pens, currently buried under a layer of acrylic and beginning to show through tantalisingly.

Popped into the framers to pick up a frame I am recycling with a new slip inserted and realised that they back on Greyfriars Kirkyard; one of those 'how long have I been in this city and never set foot in it' locations. Great old graves and a very stony view of the Old Town towards the castle; very peaceful considering the legions of visitors swarming the city now. Couldn't help but smile at the waiters looking disconsolately at the glorious sun which was for once bathing the city; too many Festivals under my waiting-apron belt I am afraid and very glad not to be once more in the fray this year.

A day to keep it short and sweet I think before blogging tips into procrastination territory! Away to the studio, new pens a-waving; after a quick trip to Tesco for cat food...

This is like a PPS: how to end the day on a high; sitting waiting for the photo to upload to my blog I was treated to a little dance on my fence right outside by a teeny wren who I am sure weighed in at far less than my biro.

Paths taken and ignored

Looking back in the last couple of year's sketch books is an insight into how the creative process works; as I noted in answer to a question on the Saatchi site;

Inspiration, translation, frustration, realisation.

I quite like that as a pocket wisdom and it reflects the path of my painting quite accurately. What always strikes me is the paths that I have started out on and become distracted; the pictures planned that through lack of time or a deviation to my route have been left as a note in my margin. I often find that any one painting naturally suggests a few others, and sometimes there is time and inclination to follow these up, but more often than not a new diversion appears and the trail goes cold. It is interesting to try and pick up these threads and rework sketches from years past, but somehow it doesn't often work; besides interrupting the line of investigation I am currently following, it is like trying to speak a language I am rusty at. There are always little discoveries though and pinching ideas from yourself is quite satisfying - things I had forgotten that I had drawn, often with attendant travel memories, are a welcome source of visual notes and painting fuel.

When I painted a couple of boatmen last month it was always with the idea in mind of a large piece about Charon, boatman of the Styx. In this instance it was the side tangents that took over and while the board I had prepared for 'The Boatman' languished behind my easel I painted two smaller 'studies' which became the ends rather than the means. 'The Boatman' is still to be completed and I have a few Haiku 'spare' as well from this series. I wonder if it will remain a dead end or whether the thread will be picked up later in the year?.. In this case the diversion came in the form of the offer to paint angels for an exhibition, so the nautically leaning series came to an abrupt halt, despite my first instinct to combine the two in a piece showing the becalmed boatman talking to his vision of an angel. Still like that one...

Oh, but isn't it all just a tiny reflection of the great path of life? Writing a biog. for 'My Publisher' and talking about my career trajectory with a colleague I am horribly aware that the line I took from college to the present day is winding at best and certainly contains numerous cul de sacs. Sometimes it is interesting and sometimes hard to ponder the strange journey I took from London to Edinburgh, but as there is no changing it I tend to be of the opinion that it was the only way; I am not a logical creature and only too apt to follow the funny looking potholed path without a signpost leading into a thicket.

Still feeling a bit weird about the stress day; it is as if, like riding a bicycle, your body never forgets stress and 'clicks' into it in a tried and tested pattern. I was disappointed that I let myself get taken over by irrational worries once more so easily, like slipping into a familiar warm bath. I always see it as the easy option no matter how unpleasant as my body seems to favour trauma over calm; "Oh, goody, a crisis - lets pump out those hormones and let the crazy irrational thoughts out".

Needing to return to my meditation which has been sporadic at best over the past year due to a certain needy kitten. Many days I have made a mental note not to let the hours pass till bedtime without 'sitting' for half an hour, and so often I have found myself about to sleep and nothing done; must find a trigger to remind me, as my routine has changed so much since last year I no longer have that space in the day set aside. Twig is always at her most mad and demanding in the morning as well which is the natural time for me to meditate; at day's start the mind is still settled anyway, not yet pulled about by the day's happenings.

And so to bed, unsettled, unmeditated...ready to veer off on whatever path tomorrow brings.

But then there's Serotonin

Awoke to the sound of Twig the wonder kit up to one of her waking tactics; these are a collection of strange behaviours entirely devised to prevent me from having a lie in, which she has honed devilishly in the year of her existence. Today involved shredding the magazine by my bed, after a bout of duvet scratching; other techniques include keyboard 'typing', sneaking into bed and biting bits of me oh so gently, dropping toys on me, batting the alarm clock onto the floor... any cat owners will be nodding sagely no doubt. No-one told me that a kitten was like having an actual baby, albeit without the nursing and nappies; all my previous experience is of rescue cats of a certain age who have passed troublesome adolescence.

Always flattering to be copied; opened my (big treat) girl magazine to find a Dior/Galliano catwalk shot that surprisingly closely resembles my painting 'Suki's Rubicon' - same girl, same hairstyle, same loud dress... I guess I can add 'Style Oracle' to my C.V. now.

Despite the morning wakening and having to work I was back to my normal cheery self today; indeed positively bouncing. Looks like the blues of yesterday were a burst of stress as I thought - it is a definate improvement when a stressful day stands out as an anomaly. There is something to be said for this streamlined lifestyle; it is also doing great things for my apalling maths, as I am forced to actually add up my shopping as I go so as not to have to return things at the end. Scored a fab king prawn and avocado sandwich on reduction for lunch and it felt so damn decadent! Just been out raiding the herb bed for dinner tonight as we are going for a traditional Sunday tea of roast chicken, but I am eschewing the roast veg for a more summery salad and potato salad; greek yoghurt, lots of herbs... can't beat it.

Spent my morning work hours doodling on receipts and had a particularly fruitful time with some new patterns, (one pinched off a customer's dress) angel compostions and some new angels who are based on a kind of a cross between 1970s 'batwing' tops and flying foxes; its a good look believe it or not. Also realised that there is mileage in using the technique I used for trees in the last two paintings on flowers like Alliums; there were some lovely big blue/violet ones in the shop and they must be useful for a picture.

That's it! I'm a happy camper and I'm off to do small-board versions of some of my doodles before the impetus leaves me. It's a toasty day again for once, so maybe a snooze is on the cards first if the kit will let me; but then there are picture to be emailed, new website to be completed..

Cortisol Blues

Strange happening today, or more correctly starting yesterday; I was revisited by a feeling I had eluded for quite some months - stress. This morning I could actually feel the cortisol in my body as if it were a drug, and as a teetotaller, I know there were no other diluting factors! Since I quit the joys of catering I have noticed often how much more measured and calm I am and how little phases me; I have so few blue days I really notice when I am thrown by one.

Luckily my angst was fairly short lived as its main cause, amending my website, was resolved before the day's end.

Strangely I also had a day of very colourful imaginings; every time I let my mind wander or think of potential angel images I was seeing really vivid imagery and patterns. I often wish I could 'download' directly from experiences like that. I suppose the joy of developing as a painter is becoming able to translate the images from head to board with less loss of quality. It used to be hideously frustrating as a child when I couldn't get the pictures in my head to come out on paper; I have clear memories of crying over it.

Some of the colour combinations came from the frame painting I did the other day, as if my mind was turning it over and mulling on it. Beige, white and turquoise worked really well together and let the bright colour sing so much clearer than when surrounded by other 'voices' which drown it out. Ordered the elusive brown biro today and some turquoise ones, so looking forward to that little parcel.

Wrote two words in my sketchbook today; serendipity and epiphany. Great words, I'm sure I will find a use for them; they fit so well with the whole angel thing.

Learning curve

A simple exercise in karma today, and some illustrated versions of other lessons I have been studying over the past year. In fact, a bit of a compedium of proverbs rolled out over the day...

Drove into town in hellish summer holiday tourist traffic, having flashbacks about my Festival catering years and discovered that true to linky linky form my framer knows a restauranteur that Stu worked for long ago and we bumped into often in those far off Festival days in the Old Town.

She also sorted out my hand painted frames which are looking great and house some giclees of my paintings - never thought I'd be into prints a few years ago but they do look great.

Also found out all about slips - the little 'inner' frame that functions the same as a mount in on a print or watercolour; she's now fixing me up a frame with slip to see how is goes on my pictures. This all in the name of improved presentation - see blog from a week or so ago. Another point made in that list was outflow = inflow and that is one I will write large in biro on my hand every day (brown biro if I ever find one!). Getting out there and getting to know all the printers, publishers, artists and framers is the only way I am getting places at last. It is that great big truth that everyone tells you, often disdainfully, but when you think about it, its the way you work as well; "It's not what you know, its who you know." I would debate the first half of that as 'what you know' can be pretty damned important too, but I am pretty definate on the second half - I mean who wouldn't rather help a person they knew over an abstract presence in an email?

Main lesson of the day, and a harsh one, was never to underprice your gallery, even if (which it most certainly was) accidental. Luckily people do not largely expect 'creatives' to be entirely rational or organised, but it helps if we are numerate... Unfortunately numbers have always been my downfall which is why on one hand I am O.C.D. obsessive about my own finances but can overlook major anomalies like this. Luckily I picked the right gallery and what could have been a lesson in finding a new gallery was actually a lesson in feeling small and wishing I had listened to Mr Taylor, my maths teacher. In a stroke of subconscious genius he had a small role in my dream last night, hovering in the crowd at a wedding but clearly recognisable and presumably placed by my brain as a gentle reminder...

Rectifying the damage by correcting prices on the website led handily back to my framer, whose partner is in charge of my website changes... outflow = inflow. It's good to have people to fall back on when you have dug yourself into a hole. (Now there's a fine mixed metaphor for the day, although actually quite satisfying visually.)

Came home traumatised to find that I had, among this chaos, actually sold a painting, which is good if traumatic in its own way. The one leaving me is 'With Wings' which represents to me my own discovery of the path I am now treading - an exuberant flying lady (me, with Bella Chagall's hair) soars over the Tuscan village we stayed in last year while the small winged figure of my older self wanders below. All about finding the way forward to paint and be myself before I hit a middle age tinged with regret; in other words its quite a personal picture in many ways, but so many of them are - its really hard to let them go sometimes!

Ironic too, given the lesson about costing, that to me in some ways it is priceless... so easy must it be for an artist to sit in a studio surrounded by their own work, viewed and appreciated by themselves alone... nope, its better to get them out there into the world and make way for more creations. Somehow I think I would rather opt for Picasso's rather nice studios than Van Gogh's ear cutting; a degree of commercial nous had become essential in a creative market so flooded with creators.

So ends my week, and back to the studio to play with more angels; my forgiving gallery owner mentioned a 'gang of angels' which is just a great collective noun that needs to be pondered. Also co-incidentally let me know that Blake's first vision in London involved a tree full of angels - woh, spooky.

A sequence of events

Wish I could remember the exact quote; its from 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' and it concerns the feeling that things are at last going right; "the birds of fortuity were alighting on her shoulders". I paraphrase, I am sure; I'll see if I can look it up before blog's end. (There's a good name for a techie hobbit house...)

Stupidly good things happened today and all interconnected in the spirit of karma and the following of links that I have been doing all month. One of the best bits is this; having seen 'my publisher' (more later) I came home and delved about in corners trying to fish out some older but greater works for re-photographing with publication in mind. Having pulled a particularly loved but giant work out from behind the wardrobe, my favourite-ever-but-declared-lost jeans popped out, closely followed by a kaftan top of similar status. Hurray! I like to think that on some cloud somewhere a little angel was working on her 'tick' list of good things versus bad things and went "did a good thing," *tick* "gets a good thing happen" *tick* or more to the point, maybe my time of punishment for some bad deep elapsed at that certain point in time...

So, a good day of accomplishments, the main one being that I can now use the words "my publisher" dropped casually into sentences; I think I might do this frequently for a while until, heaven forbid, the novelty wears off. Its funny because my associations with those two words are luckily both funny; my mental encyclopaedia of popular culture (incomplete and mis-filed) threw up Educating Rita (again) where Frank is constantly raising amused eyebrows at his colleague talking endlessly on the phone to 'his publisher' as a pretext for liasing with Frank's wife. Second reference is in Sideways, where Miles agonises over calling 'his publisher' in a too familiar scenario to all artists; the call to find out if publication is actually a going to happen.

Moved my painting bank account today too *trumpets* from a greetings card inside the dictionary of saints (having imagined that saints won't be top interest of your average burglar) to an actual bank! Woo! Makes no bones if it stays in three figures for the rest of the year, at least the deed is done and my little paint transactions can be kept in order; as I said to "my publisher" today, I only really want enough money back just now to afford more paint - the day job is there to take care of food, fuel and hopefully travels next year...

Popped into the Scottish Gallery, who had a mixed show that read as a history of their exhibitions; lots of familiar names and some lovely pieces. Interested to see that the big Bellany harbourscape was framed like mine, no slip or mount, having had a major debate to myself about the pros and cons of this. John Houston's colour made me smile; one of a very pink - raspberry - sky over Fife cornfields, very loose and expression-y and another almost painfully (in a good way) blue pic of a North Berwick sea and sky scape; no Bass Rock for once which was a relief. Others I paused long in front of, besides Bellany, were Peter McLaren's huge, bold still life with Las Meninas, a kind of double nod to Velasquez and Picasso, yet so totally his in style. Great picture.

Also Denis Peploe, a lovely pink lobster and Archie Forrest, whose show I saw there a couple of months ago. Colour and pattern and exuberance all!!

A night of frame painting ahead of me and those five little angel faces are still to come; lucky I think I am in possession of time and mood to find the little blighters tonight! May even start a new one although my sepia biro search is still unfulfilled; may have to resort to the internet - the lengths we go to...

Doh! Off on a tangent or five and the point of the essay is forgotten; I am able to bore people rigid with phrases including "my publisher" because some kind soul has decided to publish a selection of my work as prints and cards - I shall, naturally, keep you posted and shove the details in everyones faces for the rest of the year, if that's okay.

PS: looked it up and I was nearly spot on; "the birds of fortuity had alighted on her shoulders."

Namesakes, keepsakes

Conversation that is becoming familiar (no contempt involved!) with persons, various, interested in my painting:

"Do you have a website I can look you up on?"

"Yes, its just my name.co.uk - ingridnilsson"

"How are you spelling that? n-e-i"

"N-i-l-s-s-o-n. Like Harry"

"Oh, a little touch of Schmilsson in the night?"

(or "Oh, Nilsson Schmilsson")

Its funny how it takes you a while to figure out the angles; I have always struggled to get over my surname spelling; now I have found the answer. Only problem is that it will potentially only work with persons of a certain age who will automatically recognise the line "When I was young, I never needed anyone..." Have to confess I was ignorant of the actual demise of Mr Nilsson, as long ago as 1994; had it been more recent I may have been aware, but at that time I guess I was still largely unaware of my only really famous namesake. Found some great stories out about him though; Stu had already made me aware of his 'lost weekend' in L.A. with John Lennon, a bit of an old school rock and roll bender; didn't know that 'Mama' Cass and Keith Moon both died in his flat in Mayfair. He sold it after that, funnily. The other title which caught my eye was his early recording 'Pandemonium Shadow Show' - great title, so I shall retain that somewhere in my brain for a potential posthumous painting tribute, Nilsson to Nilsson. His story is one of those touched with a poignancy as despite limited success he seemed always to be struggling against some tide (or himself?) that prevented him ever breaking through into the league he seemed to be aiming for. Must dig out a biography at some point so I can find out, among other things, what a Nilsson was doing in Brooklyn in the first place.

The conversation today on the Nilsson spelling also veered away from Harry and brought up a forgotten ghost from my school days; Derek Nilsen; while we don't share a spelling I still endured 'friendly' taunts that the mass murderer was my father. (Oh the logic of children, my father had died years prior to the date of Mr Nilsen's notoriety.) Another to add to my reading list; 'Killing for Company' by Brian Masters is a well reviewed work carried out in complete cahoots with Nilsen detailing his thoughts and reasons for the murders he committed. I usually steer away from books seeming to cash in on the somewhat ghoulish idea of 'getting inside the killers mind' but this does seem unique in its collaboration with the man in question, rather than that most flexible of creatures, journalistic speculation. I am automatically connecting with Hannibal Lecter due to the head-boiling elements of the case, but I think his reasons were less gastronomic; what I heard from the friend I was talking to involved, as the title suggests, an attempt to relate to the corpses as people, friends, in the absence of an ability to relate to the living. Talking or 'whispering' to the bodies was involved. Must read this, it does sound compelling, not least as it may have been triggered by an early brush with a relative's corpse, which unfortunately I can relate to. Luckily, I was given only nightmares (albeit persistent ones) and no homicidal urges.

Still, strange the little connections we all share; collective experience throws up all sorts of similarities and coincidences. I wonder if I will ever merit a Wikepedia entry detailing my 'Bateau Lavoir days' year and subsequent solo shows, publications and even that elusive great unfinished novel?...

Slowly so slowly

Feeling time is creeping this week whenever I don't want it to! Shaken the cold but still super sleepy and I'm sure it is 'the slows' just because everything seems to have taken a summer hol.

Cash work is teminally turgid, despite my best efforts to divert myself and think up schemes for me-time; the catch 22 is that when me-time arrives I am sooo sleeepy... Hellish really when I have so much to get on with. Searching this morning for a brown or sepia biro for the picture I want to do of this Swedish tree angel, Maia. Discovered today that she should be Maja, hence my diversion into Greek mythology when I looked up the former spelling. Seem to be a few Swedish Majas so maybe on the right track at last! The biro is to do the 'henna' foliage on her face, as I have already established the strange resilience of biro ink and now realise that it can be drawn under the acrylic, where is will gradually appear as a lovely 'ghost' line through the colour over it. Depending on the biro, it is a pretty strong line, but still has that aged look about it, like it had been left underground for a few decades. Just what I want for the new girl.

Found a great website called 'cult pens which can supply a sepia one and various tones of brown if I wanted a felt pen or 'drawing pen'; its a real treasure trove for pen anoraks like me! Free delivery to UK over £10 as well so I shall raid the art fund later in the week when my new shiny art bank account is set up properly. Got my card through the post today so I am officially able to separate my (non) earnings and keep track of my drive towards self sufficient art.

I am no longer afraid to believe that I can do this now, and my aims are gradually being allowed to expand. The way I see it, the only way to see how far you can go is by aiming high, so I intend to do so.

Still thinking how funny the green obsession is and how it has been creeping up on me; last year I bought a fab green Indian top in 'Arran Asia' - great shop if you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods - and now I have another bought with the token I earned cat sitting. I have also habitually started wearing green 'luckies' - my little beady bracelets collected in the far east. Wonder if my aura is glowing green too?!

I am off to shake up the slows now with a little light washing up and then to painting. Can't wait to start Maja, but I really want that pen first so I can not compromise the idea I have for her. This is how baby steps slow up the whole process, but I am coming to realise that this is just 'how it is' when you don't live in a vacuum; there are always 'to do this, I need to do that' moments, and they just have to be borne with my usual patience.

We had a total blast from the past dinner last night; Larp Moo, a Thai pork 'salad' made with minced pork, shallots, chilli, fish sauce and toasted pound rice, and fresh herbs. On our first trip to Thailand I ate it pretty much every day for lunch on Koh Samui, where the beach restaurant lady made it from scratch each time, mincing meat, 'wallowing' (her word) the ingredients together and every time it was just awesome and very spicy. For me its one of those dishes that take me back to another time and place completely; and it was a very beautiful time and place! Kept her recipe in my 'kitchen diary' which dates back to 2000 and records many memorable meals from holidays and at home; I always thought it would be a useful aid memoire and it has proved so brilliantly...

Peeking from copses

Slow day at cash job so cooked up some great Haikus for the new angel series;

Pass our tree at dusk -
You take us for buds or leaves;

We find this funny

Gazey umber eyes;
Age-faded but all-seeing,

Dressed up with flowers

The links are joining up thick and fast now; thinking about angels in trees reminded me of the photos I took in the valley around April when a sinister lopsided copse I had nick-named 'the witches copse' suddenly burst into white blossom one day. So maybe an angel copse and not witches after all! The first Haiku is the ladies of the Holm Oak, who are doubtless a mischevious bunch. The latter is a new one that again derives from a series of linking ideas; the trees and angels kicked it off, then the Hindu wedding with henna designs on hands, a film last night with a guy sporting a heavily tatooed face, and finally a conversation with my Swedish chum about the midsummer traditions in the 'motherland'. Apparently the Maypole of the British Isles derives from the Swedish 'maia' pole, the 'maia' meaning 'dressed with flowers. Having said that, I just spent a fruitless few minutes in Wikepedia failing to find any collaboration of this fact, but hey, I'll go with the Swede's story, he should know... The sum total of these colliding stories and images is the picture I now have in my head of a tree dwelling angel, the picture on board and faded with the years, which depicts 'Maia', a reclusive angel with facial topiary designs, wingy headpieces and 'wrapped' black hair. She is a little shy and disturbed-looking peeking out of the picture frame and is shown in front of her dark tree home.

Walking to walk along the valley this morning I met a lizard, which surprised me as it wasn't even a very warm start to the day, but there he was having a little wander before the dog-walkers disturbed him. He froze as I passed and said hello but shot off as soon as I was at a safe distance. Also grey wagtails and greenfinches dotting about and the now familiar selection of thrushes and blackbirds going about their early morning worm pulling and shouting.

Maybe it is my early morning meanders along the valley and my interest in all things vegetal at home in my herb garden, but suddenly I am painting green. I have had a weird problem with green for ages and rarely use it in paintings, apart from a sunflower that I called 'A little green' in honour of its presence, and 'The Glade' that I was yakking about yesterday. It suddenly seems the right colour to use and I am finding it poppping up all over the place. Hey, man, green is the new blue!

Stu cooked a fabuloso dinner last night, still in budget mode; Orzo, roast chicken with rosemary, a stack of roast aubergine, onion, pepper and tomato with garlic and mozarella, and a pepper and garlic coulis. Oh, and our happy herb oil. Looked fab too and had a shrunk and tubbed version for my lunch today- totally spoilt I am, nay junk food in my lunch box!

Following links

Continuing on what is fast turning into a linear journey with my angel friends; working on Holm Oak this afternoon after a busy turn at the day job that volunteered little in the way of inspiration besides a very timid artist who ran away when I tried to engage him in conversation about our mutual interest. He was buying a copy of 'Intellegent Life' which I keep looking at because it has a fab photo of Hockney from c. the 1960s with his big round glasses in black and white on the cover. My budget doesn't stretch to such things however so I may try and take a peak on the sly sometime. The timid artist was buying it for the cover story but that was the only information he was divulging before making his getaway. Scary old me.

So; the angels of Holm Oak (which is a pun that they think is funny because it is their home) are in a tree suspiciously similar to those of Archie's Park, thus raising the question of whether all trees are angel's dwellings. Just some I think, just as every gable does not house a swallow. Some trees that I'm pretty sure host angels are the horse chestnuts of Montmarte, where I have long suspected they live, so my next board may take us to Paris once more in the search of my winged friends. I will side track first as I have another board on the go which is a companion to 'The Glade'; a painting I did at the end of 2008 or the start of 2009 - or both maybe - of some wonderful monumental women dancing in a hidden glade. That was a straight interpretation of one of my more visual dreams, which I had in Chiang Mai, north Thailand on our first night there. It was particularly humid with thunder building so I guess my dream fits well with that; the feeling was very earthy and elemental.

The new one is a lone tree dancer, this time with a set of wings, who is more thoughtful than her predecessors and will be adorned with some potato print; I hadn't discovered my favourite print medium (or rediscovered) at the time of the first picture.

My idea for the November show now is to follow the path of my story and see where it leads, so that there is a link between the, hopefully, twelve images. Funnily enough I am just listening to 'The Link' section on Sunday afternoon's 'Planet Rock', in which a listener concocts a long and complex series of music which interlinks in a series. Aha, an idea is born and echoed.

I'm thinking epic poem, medieval frescoes, folk wisdom and Bruegel, but aim to end up near the sea with some nautical influences and swans. There is the suggestion that the swans are also angels in hiding, so I shall find out...

Wisdom Stew

Battling a jolly summer cold to continue and joyously complete 'Archie's Park' in a burst of activity. Having pointed out my own pitfalls in black and white in yesterday's post it actually made it easier to avoid them today; I was kind of second guessing my own distractions and bodyswerving them as they arose. 'No, you don't need to reorganise the studio shelves now... the letter from the bank can wait....you can find a new book to read later....get on with it!

Not that I talk to myself, ever, that's what I have cats for.

Found a great piece of wisdom courtesy of a friend on Facebook; a list of handy hints for aspiring artists, which are both handy and well thought out by a gallery guy from London. My smaller, less lyrical version is the important bite sized pieces for my own daily consumption, as follows;

1) Have faith; stop thinking you are rubbish or you might as well give up now.

2) Karma. Don't mess people around, or it'll come back to you.

3) Listen to constructive criticism, ignore invalidative criticism. Learn to tell the difference.

4) Promote. Inflow = Outflow

5) Present your work as if it has value. Always.

6) Remember what you do that was good. Repeat.

7) Remember what you did that was bad or useless. Do not repeat.

8) Finish what you start. Incomplete actions make mountains.

9) Stay true to yourself and your instincts.

10) Set the goals and go. Don't waver or doubt, just do it.

Thank you to the originator and apologies for my bastardisation but it really is worth repeating, even if only to myself. A mantra or credo is not a bad thing for the self doubter; I like to remember the moment I idly thought 'What would I do if my life depended on it (painting wise)?' and then slowly it dawned on me that it did!

So, Archie is signed sealed delivered, now I am chuckling happily at my angels in their Holm oak home; this is another one which is just waiting to be painted and I have already laid down the first coat on the tree and cut my potatoes for the leaves; Archie's trees are in a similar vein and so acted as a dry run for this one in a way, which is about 40% tree, so good to get a good technique for it so I don't get all tight when I'm doing it. Having less problem with that now that I have identified it as a problem, mind; no nippy outlines in Archie's Park!

On a more mundane front, but strangely enjoyable, I did the Aldi's run today; inconceivable six months ago this has become a weekly ritual to secure my 99p muesli, cleaning products and whatever handy bargains are set to become the weeks's staples. Looks like a bit of a chicken-heavy week and I think we might be having peppers with it pretty often, but it is truly amazing the variations one can achieve on such basics. Super treat tonight; stir fried prawns with the ends of a few jars of sauces; there really should be a name for this one as it occurs frequently - the 'fridge emptier'? Not exactly catchy... Stu rules. His suggestion shall be immortalised - 'Sauce Melange'. He ain't a chef for nuffink.

Chanson de Lapin

Procrastination and the creative process; a list. Here are some things that I think 'must be done' before I can get on with my painting, as noted on Thursday in an attempt to avoid the pitfalls today:

Checking emails and Facebook, twice

Washing clothes

Feeding and cleaning cats and their litter tray

De-furring rug and sofa

Weeding front path border

Finishing chapter of book

Putting new albums into itunes

Trying on a selection of clothing

Making shopping lists (two)

Sorting contents of handbag

Shopping for food

Debating dinner menu and preparing

Changing and washing bedding

Moving things about the studio

I know full well that if I just go for it and settle down straight away that I can work flat out for hours, but once I get into my little routines it can eat into hours of precious time. I remember reading that Steinbeck could only write on file paper with a certain type of pencil, in an isolated writing room; I can fully understand the little ways of creative o.c.d as it is deeply embedded in my phsyche.

The original (and successful) purpose of my 'Kick-ass boogie' playlist was as a kind of work trigger; put on a succession of super fave upbeat tracks and work follow obligingly behind like the metaphorical donkey. I always imagine, maybe wrongly, that Picasso would have been spared this neurotic tendency; his prolific output and confidence make me think that it came easy to him, but this could of course be totally unfounded. Who knows the workings of another mind?

Steinbeck's pencils lead me to comparing my own drawing superstitions and preferences; it took me years to find a sketchbook that suits me totally and I could never manage to draw in a habitual way until I did. Before that I would skip from pillar to post using different books and papers on different days in a haphazard way that was positively irritating when later trying to locate an idea or sketch. I am only on book two of my chosen ones, which goes to show how long it took to settle upon them - and still I fill the back page with pieces of paper and till receipts that I have used in the absence of the book.

Biro versus pencil is my other ongoing battle; sometimes I prefer the former, sometimes the latter and usually manage to pick the wrong one for the job at hand. I did a lousy sketch yesterday that I laboured over for half an hour, then rattled of a wee gem in two minutes later in the day. I guess a forced sketch is doomed to failure, as I know so well; reminds me of school homework for art, which involved such inspiring ideas as 'draw a sink'. I am annoyed with the teenage me for not seeing past the obvious and setting up something great to bring it out of the ordinary, but I remember the half hearted effort I turned in only too well.

A friend had a similar experience recently in a drawing class she has been taking to refresh her skills and bring back the enthusiasm for it; after maybe twenty years she found that the quality of line she had been hankering after was the product of a willow twig. Simple when you know but sometimes it can seem like a lifetime before the fact is unearthed. I remember very well the moment when I realised that 'things' do not actually have outlines. Might seem simple, even childish to you, but it was a real 'lightbulb' moment for me and meant far more than the simple statement would imply. In many drawings, frustration occurred when I had been trying to render a 3d object, usually the face, as a series of outlines. How much easier it became when I started to see it as a series of interconnecting planes and painting straight on the board without an 'outline'.

In the quest for materials that fulfill my needs and suit my drawing style I am sure I am not alone in becoming a hoarder of pencils, pens and other creative paraphenalia ; it is always fun to find a long lost crayon as it can suddenly be exactly the line you were searching for. For some reason this tendency also materialises in me as an obsession with collecting scissors. We have lord knows how many pairs in the house and a box set in a shop window literally sends me a-quiverring... I have failed to find a name for this condition, but it must have one. Freud raises an eyebrow slowly...

Oh, and the title. I once did a deeply unsatisfying painting based on the very lovely title 'Chanson de matin'. I was thinking of it today with regards to finding a new painting to fit the title when I chanced upon a sketch for a potential angel pic of the mohican angel holding a toy rabbit. Yup.