The love of leaf mould

The dog days of August; I love the autumn in Scotland - the skies stretch out and relax into the beginnings of the icy winter cloud formations, frost haunts the shadows in the mornings and the ground colour starts to shift from green to ochre. The horse chestnuts are my favourite indicator tree; always the first to really pop to green in their lovely limb-stretching way and the first to give up the ghost and start turning umber at the end of August. Conversely I always worry about the weeping ashes in Princes Street Gardens as they are always so late in coming into leaf; each year I am convinced that they have been frost bitten and no-one will notice until they are still bare in July. They always come through in the end and stay doggedly green long after the chestnuts have shrugged their leaves. For some reason ash trees fall into the bracket of things that I have only recently learned to love; maybe their beauty is less obvious than the gnarly oaks and strong shady chestnuts, but I have come around to their grace and kind of aloofness.
I have always had the urge to connect with plants, trees, the soil; it is just in us, I think. Maybe forgotten or dormant in many, but it must be a primeval, inherant thing in us to want to 'mess the soil' as the lovely line goes in a Kris Drever song. That says it perfectly for me; not to cultivate or control, but to mess; I was deliriously happy when we bought our first little house and realised that it came with my own little patch of land. My own soil to mess.
The urge to commune with nature often takes me and one of my favourite things is still to wake up under canvas; alas, my love is not shared by any close to me just now, so it was a real treat last year to go on a small solo camping trip to Weston-super-Mare when I had a show down there. Fell asleep like babe in the wood wrapped in my duvet on a yoga mat and woke to dewy grass and a flock of long-tailed tits in the (ash) tree above me; oh, and a perfect mackerel sky.
Doesn't get much better than that... In childhood I used to entertain myself on car journeys by picking out promising copses and hedges where I could nestle; make a little camp and hide away from the world. My chosen superpower at that point was to be able to transport myself at will to such a location, where I could while away the day in peace with my botanical chums.
Talking to the Whole Swede about a similar feeling she has for berry picking, which she maintains is an intrinsic Swedishism, an inbuilt feeling of the hunter gatherer; I am inclined to agree and this fits in with my foraging instincts as well. Only a few (literally) generations ago on my father's side 'his lot' were reindeer herders up in the north of Sweden; it makes sense that the echoes of their originally nomadic lifestyle should reverberate down the generations....gives me goose bumps thinking about it.

Now it is autumn -
But no shadow of return
Falls on The Island

Mini-rant

Every now and then when I have time to sit down and catch breath I am amazed at the view from now to then. A few years ago I saw some images a friend had put up on his website which were photoshop abstract manipulations he had done. My first thought was how brave, and possibly foolish, he was to share his work in that way - with other humans?!! Nothing was further from my thoughts than sharing my painting with anyone other than myself between the four walls of my house; if someone rumbled me and asked about it I would blush and mutter that yes, I painted, but... I was rubbish, I didn't do it so much nowadays, I just do a bit for myself; I couldn't possibly show it to you.

Now, this was only around five years ago. Fact is, my confidence has come on so much in the last five (sober- no coincidence) years that it is unrecognisable to even me. Now, I have a website featuring not only all my work, but a 'front page' photo of me with a blue printed face; my Facebook page is constantly updated with new pictures, images of me in a face mask and dressing gown, and I blog to the world about whatever comes into my head of a day. Big change.

Looking at lots of amazing work by June Carey tonight on her website as I am in love with her pictures and the way she describes her working process; I think we have a lot in common in this way, although she is streets ahead in terms of technique and proliferation of ideas. ( And I am rubbish etc etc). Looking forward to hopefully meeting her in Glasgow on Wednesday as there is a show of five printmakers including June at the Big Mouth Coffee Company. Also interesting as they may be looking for other artists to show there, so must put in an appearance no matter how scary a prospect it seems right now.

My sketch books are full of ideas that never made the cut; pictures that could have been if I had only had the time and energy to fully realise them as finished pieces. I look at them and wonder where they would have led and how many other tangents I could have followed. This used to piss me off but now it makes me more determined than ever to reach this point in my work.

I am sure that if I can move from point a) where I was personally and artistically at the end of 2008 to point b) where I am now in such a short space of time, who knows where I can be by two, three, ten years time? I am totally committed to finding out.

Stu has started his work learning how to create the kind of frames I want to use too; he is looking at paint finishes and effects, waxes and oils. It is a beginning for him too; trying to find something beyond cooking peoples' dinners for a living and harnessing the creativity that is very much a part of him, however undeveloped.

Just getting excited tonight about the next ten years really; I think we will have a blast and create things that we will love. I also don't think this would have been possible without the trip to Arran that pushed down the walls of our comfort zone and forced us to think of alternate futures, not lazy options. Here we go, cooking another budget dinner and talking about our day and the future; planning ideas and projects - Stu is sanding wood in the kitchen and I am hurting my eyes blogging in the dark as part of my need to communicate and stretch my little creative universe. We are the calm little centre of our new brave world.

Discovered a great new word today as well via a New York chum; 'asshat'. Somehow it doesn't seem as crude as 'a-hole' and has a cat-in-the-hat quaintness about it; I love the mental image of the object of your annoyance with, for want of a better description, his ass as a hat. Works for me and I can think of plenty people I'd like to apply it to. Now lets draw that smily face with punctuation...

The First Century

There we go; the unthinkable is achieved -my one hundredth post of the year. When I have tried to write anything in the past I have suffered a lack of discipline so this form of working obviously appeals to my need for structure. The same is true of my painting and the frittering of time before settling down to work is a similar phenomenon; I need to organise my time quite well if I am to get anthing done- lucky I am the Listmaster! Nearly let me down tonight mind you as tiredness led to incomplete listmaking, which in turn nearly led to *lack of ice cream* a serious state of affairs for any household. Thankfully the near-error was corrected with an emergency dash to the local Super market for a pack of Feasts; close one though.

Just finished some new potatoes for printing; I'm doing some chrysanthemum clouds on the new one, which is a kind of Swedish landscape by the sea with cloudberries. I've just discovered from my wee Swedish chum that cloudberries are yellow, not red, so some alterations may be needed. Typical. Good to catch up with the news from the Motherland though; I just love to hear about the 'summer house' and days by the lake, so I can build my own iddylic picture for use in paintings such as these. It all looks very Tove Janssen in my head - must get around to finally visiting one day, I'm sure it will all be quite emotional. The other connection to Swede chum is my painting 'Archie's Park' which was based on the view out of her window and is now one of my top selling cards (in their first two weeks at the Book Festival). I hadn't visited the Park for ages as chum had been Motherlanding so it was really funny to see how much I had kept true to the place - little round cherry trees, dogs doing dog things and the lone football goal which says it all about football for me... take away one of the goal posts and they will still keep firing the ball in; somehow it reminds me of headless chickens. The football at Hearts was in full swing when I swung by for coffee which meant that parking by the Park was impossible and I discovered a few new and interesting neighbourhoods getting lost in the immediate vicinity and beyond. Had that surreal moment as I crossed the Park when someone (presumably) scored and I heard a great disembodied multiple cheer drift across the lawn.

Just ordered a new album on the strength of a t-shirt I saw on someone today - The Decemberists - checked them out on Amazon and decided to go with a hunch on this one; anything that uses folk-prog-rock-pop +++ in the description has got to be interesting at least.

Started looking at some new ideas around the old angel theme concerning the idea that angels are also all amongst us; thinking of using the filigree potato print that I used as clouds to form a kind of 'aura' around some fairly normal individuals in portraits. Maybe wings as well or not; I'm not clear on that yet, but definately something to explore in the sketch book.

This is a quickie as we had a super late night due to Stu's work so I'm off for curry and bed. Ciao.

Something Fishy

Fishcakes tonight; the other half of the smoked haddock that I bought for the kedgeree and overestimated - made a mountain of kedge and still enough for the cakes of fish tonight. Cakes of fish are enough of a reason to trip along down memory lane to a time far, far away when I was a young innocent recently moved to a new city. My story with Stu began in Creelers fish restaurant; he had started days before me as the head chef and I was fresh off the proverbial boat from London, a few months waitressing my only qualification for what was to become my profession for over ten years. Strangely enough our story could have ended in Creelers too, on Arran last year; tensions ran high and the ferry seemed an easy option some days. Just to slip away back to the mainland with never a backward glance... luckily our patience and tempers held and we survived that most rough of tests. Unforgettable, but unrepeatable.

I have been catching up with one of my fellow waitresses from the second Festival of fish service recently and it has sent my mind a-wandering, and from the depths of its archive I unearthed a small ditty I wrote to myself that very summer; never wrote it down and for some reason my obscure memory saw fit to savour it, so I feel duty bound to record it for posterity.

'Dear diary, today I ate

A sandwich, tattie, slice of cake;

Bread-butter pudding if precise
And surely it was very nice

Despite it really being left

Upon the table so bereft

Of food and drink already eaten

By some scholarly from Eton

(Papa gave him half estate,

No income on an hourly rate)

So what! we work ungodly hours

And take most brief and sleepy showers

Again to rise in hazy dawn

And prep up for another morn;

The joys of catering exist

For those who stagger through it, pissed.'

Mature, no. But it summed up the times for me, capturing the feeling of being out of control on a one-way fish kettle to somewhere...

Sincere apologies for the obscure nature of this post, but I am fascinated by what the memory retains and what it deems irrelevant. Why, when I can barely remember the names of the people I worked alongside that summer, do I remember my ode to the recently discovered joys of the hospitality industry? I am more than a little worried about my memory; it seems to be retaining less of the 'important stuff' and letting me down on short term details and names more and more frequently. Is this just another little joy of passing forty, like weird hair growth and things hurting more than ever before?

Just finished up the creation stage of the fishcakes and I can state categorically that I have broken a few records for kitchen technique tonight. The record for number of utentsils used to create a single dish has fallen, especially when taking into consideration that the heating process and the salad creation stage are still to go, not to mention the addition of utensils and eating surfaces. Oh yeah, we are on a winner here; not often I can count masher, food processor, collander, scissors and entire spoon selection in my armoury. I am also right up there in the final three for the 'greatest spread of a single ingredient over kitchen surfaces' for my superb distribution of breadcrumbs; some are even to be found in the utility area by the washing machine; that is quality work.

Hot from the hob

I feel I have been neglecting the cooking aspect of my blog as advertised in my original mission statement; to redress this balance I shall impart a couple of recipes that we found in magazines and then made our own. Tonight we are having the optional extra leftover version of one of them, having already had the dinner version and the lunchbox version; we are kings of thrift!!
Okey dokey, first the afore-mentioned multi meal recipe:
Transylvanian Meatballs with yoghurt, capers and mint (a room temperature salad not a million miles from the Thai ones in theory, but less spicy)
This involves making little meatballs of lamb mince, cooked rice, cooked-off onion, cumin, thyme and paprika; we added some chilli too because we like that. Roll the little fellas up and fridge them for half an hour while you knock up a dressing of greek yoghurt, spring onion, capers and lots of fresh mint. In hindsight I might have added finely chopped cucumber as well to make it a bit more like a Raita as I am a cucumber fiend; try that next time...
Cook off the meatballs in a frying pan and leave to cool a little, then toss in loads of the dressing. We ate them for dinner with salad and warm pitta bread, for lunch cold with some rice and tonight it is sliced up in a wrap with tomato salad and rocket. Well yummy. If you are lucky enough to have a Polish bit in your supermarket there are often interesting capers to be found that are also cheaper than the ones in the other section.
Recipe two is a wee twist on a favourite; Smoked fish and coconut Kedgeree:
Fry off some curry paste (we used Thai Yellow) with some onions and garlic. Add the smoked haddock and cook on, then tip in coconut milk a dash of fish sauce and green beans. Poach for 4 mins until fish cooked then chuck in chopped spring onions and ripped up coriander and parsley.
Stir in cooked rice (to make enough for small giant if you are in our house) and serve with lime wedges. Again, chilli could be added.
There you go; recipe part of contract fulfilled for a while. Someone showed me a recipe this morning for 'Eggs in Purgatory', which sounds ace, but I didn't have time to get a look at the constituents; I was reading about Dante last night though so it must be destiny; I shall search the internet.
Dante features in my growing angel quotation bank too; the chapter I was reading last night in Umberto Eco's 'Serendipities'; he had been debating the language spoken in paradise by Adam and Dante's quest to rediscover it. The passage ends: 'If by chance Adam has joined the party (with Dante and Abulafia in heaven) only God knows what kind of language those three characters are speaking together. Perhaps the angels are providing an excellent service of simultaneous translation.'
The other quote is even better, and from a somewhat less highbrow source, although I'm sure he'd enjoy the proximity;
'There are few things as fetching as a bruised ego on a beautiful angel..'- Stuntman Mike.
(Quentin Tarantino's 'Death Proof')
I'm a happy snail tonight as I finished the big picture of the angels rampaging over the northern forests and in doing so created a new heroine; Cecilia, the gothy rock-chick Swedish angel is sure to make more appearances I feel. I also noticed that the angels are wearing more and more nighty-ish dresses which must have come from the sketches I made in Vietnam of people wearing such garments at the drop of a hat in wonderfully mismatched patterns and prints; I really thought I could get into that as a dress code for life.
The day has sped on its speedy way again and the nights are drawing in.. I am heading for my hundredth blog post and feeling better about my painting by the day. A very lovely friend called me 'brave' today for my artistic endevours, but it no longer seems that way - I am positively breaking down the walls of my comfort zone.

Time is waiting in the wings

Reading the blog of a friend who has just returned from an art symposium in Russia; the whole time she has been out there I have been transfixed with the images coming back and the looks on the artists' faces - it just said 'life changing'. Its a cliche I'm well aware but it is amazing how much connection can be achieved through art and artists; for a small space of time I am quite sure that all the participants felt that anything is possible and that we actually could do the decent thing and sort out this world of ours. Lets hope they all stay feeling that way and manage to spread a little of the vibe out to their surroundings; that has got to be a move forward in a small way.

One of the artists at the symposium, whose work I am now in awe of is Anna Sikivonchik; please go look her up on Facebook or the internet at large and see her magical work; it is very 'me' it has to be said, in that it is the kind of work I always fall in love with. Mystical, magical, a little narrative and a little darkness worked in. Questions without answers and stories to ponder.

Which could also apply to my new and long overdue crush; Max Ernst. Resorted to the internet to have a looksee (hello Google) and found many images that made me think that I need to see more. Didn't manage to track down even a Taschen book in the limited time I looked so I will have to go back with renewed vigour as I think he is someone I need to know more about. I have feelings that I have read about him in proximity to Picasso in Paris and the wee blurb I did read mentioned that he was 'that rarest of creatures, a German accepted and appreciated by the French artists of his time.' Back to the art history; there is so much to look at - the only regret I have educationally is that didn't just go for a history of art course, sparing myself the years trying to find a creative course that fitted me at the time. Long since decided that such a thing didn't exist, mind you, and that was more to do with me than with the education system. Maybe one utopian future day I will return to study, but I think it would be in the history side rather than the practical; for now there are libraries, galleries and the computer and I can get on with that.

Had one of my stupid 'lack of time perception' days today; started with the aim of doing a postcard sized piece for the Art on the Rock auction in Stirling (I think I am misquoting that name; must look it up...) and then finish another piece and start a third - maybe even finish that too?! The postcard took me two hours, then had to do the shopping, clean the house and get prices for window boxes and plants for the cash job (don't ask - just be careful what you volunteer for). This took me up to lunch, which I ate while tying up wysteria and honeysuckle and murdering rosebay willowherb and dock.

This afternoon I completed the big pic I had been working on - 'Over the Roof' which is about the meeting of the angels over the northern 'trade routes'. A Far Eastern and a Swedish angel fly over the northern forests, where a mixture of animals stampede; the cause unknown. There is a bit of an apocalyptic thing going on, or maybe that's just in my head. I like the fact that the curvature of the earth gives you that feeling of the angels' 'all seeing' nature and their constant travels around the globe. The Swedish one is a bit of a rock chick with a Taylor Momsen/Avril Lavigne vibe going on; I like that, she may well become a regular!

And that was that; spoke to mums, checked emails and sat down to blog; next painting not started, let alone finished. Dinner not made, books not read... these days really need to be longer. One of my more brutal mantras of the moment is 'you can sleep when you're dead'; to be used at times of sleepiness during valuable painting time. Didn't snooze today and still things to be done at close of day - roll on full time painting - how many days to go??

Souvenirs de Voyages

Strange bittersweet feelings tonight considering the people that pass in and out of our lives. I have managed to rediscover a few old friends this year thanks to the power of the internet and having reclaimed my life from catering and it is so good when we catch up; just odd sometimes how water and bridges move on and you realise that whole chunks of life have passed by.

I hasten to add that this is not necessarily a bad thing; the friend I met up with today coincided originally with a bit of a wobbly phase in my life that really revolved around alcohol, work and feelings of inadequacy. Friend in question was essentially a shining light in quite dark times.

The title was brought to mind both by this feeling of friendships passing and enduring and because a lovely Canadian I once worked with found a map of Paris in an old coat pocket the other day - the classic keepsake rediscovered, wrapped in the memories of the last time the coat was worn. Love it when that happens, like finding a piece of clothing long lost but loved, or an elusive photograph that shows a group long since disbanded.

Bought myself an autumn cosy hoodie today, which was excellently timed as today was totally toasty and I arrived in town looking and feeling distressingly like a small hoodie-clad strawberry; very seasonal but not quite the look I was going for. Slightly disturbed that I might have overdone the college look and be mistaken for a Festival act in that 'Krankies' older lady in school uniform look - maybe lucky that it was warm after all..

My quest for Max Ernst and surrealists lead me to Waterstones, not very helpful on the art book front at the best of times and not very helpful at all today. Flicked through a book on Magritte, but he doesn't really do it for me it has to be said, so the quest remains unfulfilled for now. I read somewhere earlier in the week how the author of the piece had been in Dali's neck of the woods and seen the classic 'surreal' skies of his paintings with the low lying baguette clouds and huge defined shapes in the sky. They were just there in the sky like a huge 'Dali' without the melty clocks; and the assumption is that he made them up for his own artistic ends, but no...

Reminds me of some of the amazing skies I saw on Arran, especially on the winter mornings when the sea looked as if it was made of brushed platinum. My favourite clouds were the 'thumb smudge' ones that sat low in the sky like Dali's baguettes, really thick water vapour (or whatever it is!) that looked like thick oil or acrylic smudged through with a big fat brush or a thumb. Never managed to get the paint to do it as well as the cloud though; different medium I guess. Nature has all the good tricks.

Awesome clouds tonight, coincidentally, surrounding a cool peeking moon that rose behind the houses and launched up into full gothic horror mode ducking in and out of the light-rimmed clouds as it went up. Awesome.

The Wall

A contradiction is at work. Reading the first section of my new book on Paula Rego I am at once struck by the emphasis placed on her 'very academic' study at the Slade School of Art in London, followed by her attempts to unlearn this and find a return to the painting she had experienced as a child. I have no doubt about Rego's talent as a painter and have no argument with her methods of finding her artistic mojo; what pisses me off is how it is always considered so important to attend art school and write it up on your artistic CV, only to begin the deconstruction of any teaching you may have had to find the 'real' painter within. I failed to complete my degree due to my total allergy of educational institutions and a failure to operate within their constraints and ideas. I found it a horrific waste of time and money to make myself miserable for three years in order to afford the honour of writing some letters on my CV.

Maybe I am over sensitive, but I still feel that my lack of formal qualifications mark me as less relevant, despite the fact that formal drawing and painting skills were pretty much ignored by the time I was studying, in favour of the installation and the conceptual piece.

Having said that, my own personal journey through illness and other obstacles had doubtless contributed to my ability to work and its content; is art school another way of doing this? Build up to knock down to build up again; its one way of learning.

Sat and looked at my Paula Rego book again and her favourite picture which features in the intro: Max Ernst's 'The Virgin spanking the infant Jesus in front of three witnesses.' Besides thinking 'oh my god that is awesome' and wondering how I had never come across it before, I was also struck by a huge and strange injustice that has been in my mind for as long as I can remember; a weird bias against the Surrealists. I am, as we speak, trying to puzzle over this state of affairs as I can see no logical basis for it, but I know that when anyone has compared my work to any of them or suggested 'surreal' elements I have shied away in horror. My initial diagnosis, that it must be familiarity breeding contempt, is fatally flawed, as I am totally naive when it comes to the bulk of the surrealists work as I found when reading things about other artists that touches on them. No knowing much about Ernst at all is hardly familiarity and I have a feeling that there is probably more to Dali than 'The Persistence of Memory'. In fact I would probably find something to love about that if I were to look at it properly...

More, I think I have fallen prey to plagarisations of the surrealists, especially Dali, and all the bastardisations used in advertising and the media for the last x years- lobster telephone this, melting clock that. Hmmm. A gross misrepresentation I fear, which I must correct with all due haste.

Off into town tomorrow for day two of my Festival 2010; more days than I have managed in any other Festival since I was at college, I think. Meeting a great old friend who has been absent from our fine city for some four years, giving rise to some serious catch-up and gossip mongering being required; where to begin... I know his story is pretty interesting so I am looking forward to some first rate chat.

Oh. Sold one of my favourite paintings via the wonders of the internet to a fellow emerging artist down in England. So pleased to see it go to a good home, and I have involved a bit of barter for a piece of her work, increasing my happy painting wall; my living room will resemble a pretty hot gallery space before we know it:)

And... I have been so excited following the travels of a fellow artist who had the fortuity to be invited to an artists symposium in Russia; the pictures and words she has sent while on the trip have really moved me as it looks like the kind of two weeks that can change a life. Look forward to more news now she is back on our shores.

Melting pot

Constantly fascinated by the way in which influences from years before or yesterday find themselves amalgamated into my art. Talking last week about how interesting it is when other people are viewing paintings and come out with suggested influences (or plagarisms depending how friendly the conversation is) and made a mental note to start recording these suggestions. Last year on Arran I had the strange and often not wonderful experience of working in a restaurant with my pictures on the wall, but with no obvious connection from them to me. Thus I would be serving a table who, for example, were coming out with obscure comments like

'What is that? A shark?'

'Dunno, but those look like billiard balls'

'Yeah, and the dog's running from the shark..'

It was a beach, a dog (hurray), an island and some rocks; I thought that one was literal verging on the cartoon. Others were accused of being about global warming or just proclaimed as crap. Made me a bit less sensitive I guess; happily I also sold some, one of which went to hang alongside a Banksy. Funnily enough the people who bought it didn't have a discussion about what it was 'supposed to be'. (Is there any other phrase more annoying?)

Today someone likened some of my folkyisms to Tore Jansson, who I share the double ss with and I hadn't thought about for many a long year; she created and illustrated memorably the Moomin family, which was familiar bedtime reading in my childhood. So; have the echoes of Moomin mama and papa reverberated through into my present work? I think so; there seems to be a kind of random visual library up there influences and colours the visual creations of today. I looked up the Moomins on Google and the memories I had of some drawings was extremely vivid despite a gap of some thirty years; things I had long forgotten in my conscious mind are still alive and well and no doubt translating themselves into my drawings.

It puts a different slant on plagarism as well.

Another very strong image memory for me has always been Paula Rego, whose paintings I love with a passion and have seen in fragments over the years, but the only book I had was lost a few years ago. Today I was delivered a new one from Amazon as a pat on the back for selling the elephant painting and it is going to be well thumbed. The old book I had probably only went up to about 1990 so this is far more recent and finishes the story for me; it is like finding the missing later chapters of a book long lost.

Doing some postcard sized paintings for a charity show in October tonight and went to check the dates, specs. etc from the original letter; found that one of the senders is June Carey, whose work I admire greatly and whom I have been trying to befriend on Facebook. Hopefully I will meet up with her one of these days as I would love to hear what lies behind her wonderfully monumental figures; in a way in a similar vein to Rego - solidity and sculptural monumentality.

Rego's figures also echo the thoughts of yesterday as she depicts figures in narrative scenes suggesting mental illness and institutionalisation; very, very strong images that are now no doubt adding themselves to my mental library.

Is Fingers my angel?

Thinking this evening; 'what would I be doing now if I decided not to paint again?'. Not finding an answer; not having had TV for over a decade now I have lost the habit of coming in and expecting to be entertained - even with my new glasses I'm not sure I could read all night, every night, and I just don't see me discovering my inner social butterfly this late in the day. Better just get back to the easel. I really can't imagine doing anything else now.

Just reading a piece on Candia McWilliams, a writer whose work I have not read, but I must add her new biography at least to my good old wishlist. For reasons not blogworthy I am always very attracted to artists, writers etc. who have suffered from depression, alcoholism, low self esteem, and come through because of or inspite of their work. That said I am also fascinated in a more scared way by those who have failed to make is out of such conditions. Yesterday I read a piece in the Saturday supplement about Issie Blow; a serialisation of a book about her by her husband Detmar. My second job in London was working in the archives at Conde Nast, the publishers of Vogue, Tatler et al and I had the immense pleasure of knowing Issie at that time when she was working as a stylist for Vogue. The Stephen Meisel shoot mentioned in the piece which Issie styled using 'posh' London girls as models was in 'my time'. She was noticeably depressed then, not long after marrying Detmar, and deeply upset by her inability to have children; it is fascinating and terrible reading the full extent of her depression and despair - numerous suicide attempts before the successful one. Depression and self doubt seem so often so inextricably linked to creativity and glorious eccentricity and individuality.

Candia McWilliams, having harnessed a great gift for writing and published successful novels, fell prey to alcoholism and depression; then as if this wasn't low enough, she lost her vision. An operation has restored her sight and she has been sober since 2001, but as she states, this is 'no simple tale of triumph over tragedy'. Her self worth seems fragile and she maintains she scares babies with her looks; how ironic as what drew me to read the piece was the photo of her so expressive and wise face.

Working today, as most of my cash-job days, puts me in contact with a variety of souls, not least the residents of the local hospital. I have no idea what the current PC term for its occupants are, but they all suffer from lesser or greater degrees of mental instability and/or addiction; in other words, not a million miles from many of the artists I greatly admire. It was suggested today that in my quest for angels I may need to look no further - a great idea for a book, but I am quite sure someone has beaten me to it! I can't help but feel drawn to the hospital 'patients'; they ask the questions we all have of the world and how it is run, and seem to me a reflection of something in us all. Maybe we have all learned how to interact with other humans, say the right things and wear the right clothes, but it is learned. Somewhere bubbling under the surface is an identity that is not informed of these things; how would this appear?

Welcome Fat Swallow

Having one of my 'marking time' days; I hate it when I find myself mentally ticking off a day in order to move on to days with more perceived potential; I know I should be making the most of the day I am in, living in the 'now'.

Started a painting last night that I have been really looking forward to doing; started off fantastically well with new colour palette I have been toying with in my mind but not yet put into practise. Noticed how much subtle differences in colour combinations make such a huge difference; mixing phalocyanine blue with white in the last picture I did gave a great, really strong true blue; half way through I mixed it with unbleached titanium instead- a kind of creamy beige - and lo and behold a lovely subtle turquoisey blue/green was found. The picture ended up looking so much better for the use of it as it ceased to be about variations on the theme of blue dilutions and became about the blue - green contrast; the different areas of the sea described by the different colour mixes. I would love to do something similar with an even more muted palette and lots of greys as I adore grey, but I am kind of keeping the focus on works that can also work as published pieces (cards, prints etc.) and the subtler colours can get lost on that.

Another funny conversation I had yesterday with a painter who was producing and selling prints brought back into mind something that keeps making itself obvious; that there are as many wisdoms and opinions on the state of and the approach to the art market as there are commentators. This gentleman was of the opinion that prints sell and originals don't; that galleries are all about ripping off the artist and it is better to go it alone and self produce. Last week I was hearing that originals are selling, not prints and it is best to find oneself a reputable gallery to act on your behalf in the tangled forest of art sales. At the end of the day I think it can only about doing what feels comfortable and natural to yourself and staying true to your aims, whatever they are. If you are after a fast buck and maximum profit you are in the wrong game anyway I would imagine, so gallery commission is a necessary evil unless you plan to squat the art markets constantly and use the internet, but I wouldn't imagine this would produce much in the way of sales by the experience I have. I am following my nose, but I like to think that my nose is a finely tuned instrument with which to smell out a bad 'un; the only times I have ignored it and gone with galleries or publications that I was unsure of it turns out I was right to be unsure. Trust yer nose.

Tonight I am off to play with potatoes again; the one I am working on has the ochre sky I have been dreaming about, but I want to add some kind of 'filigree potato clouds' over the top; intending to 'up' the oriental/Russian folk art vibe. Having loved and wrestled with painting swallows for years I have finally hit on a 'fat swallow' that I am so happy with- I was being far too 'streamlined' in my drawing and for some reason this chubbier chap is just what I have been trying to find; he is turquoise at the moment, I shall have to try not to overpaint him as it works so much better when the drawing is relaxed. 'Fat Swallow' is an excellent potential trade name as well; you never know when you may need one.

Just dawned on my that my 'down days' in which I am frustrated by perceived lack of momentum are a direct creation of the daily blogging process. Oh, if only I had a bona fide piece of positivity to report each and every calendar day, but my baby steps are not timed to the 24 hour mark, so I should get used to the phenomena. Probably lucky to get to day ninety-something before I noticed that it was happening.

Lime and Oxblood

In retrospect I loved that colour combination so much I had to use it as a title. Looking through and old sketch book the other day from Thailand I found a page where I had written a long list of colour 'matches' or combinations that were evocative of the place and it was surprisingly effective at opening the door to my memories of the place. Colour can do that just as smells can.

I had a conversation the other day about Milan and how it is forever inextricably linked in my mind with the colour yellow; I have never seen so much yellow in a city - on the houses, in clothes, books, paint... And really beautiful, subltle yellows, from chromey and ochrey to primrose and barely-there aged lemon. I didn't really like yellow until I went to Milan and realised how beautiful it can be in the right context.

Spent my spare day in town today checking out a few exhibitions that had caught my eye and going to pay a small pilgrimage to the first public sale of greetings cards by myself; at the Edinburgh Book Festival. After a couple of days promoting this monumental happening on Facebook and telling all and sundry that I was finally 'out there' in print with my name in black and white on the back, it was unsurprisingly an anticlimax to round the corner of the bookshop marquee and confront the little whirlygig stand. The proximity of so many amazing books didn't really help my enthusiasm as I had already had to resist purchase of multiple additions to my shelves by truly talented individuals; suddenly my own contribution seemed a little paltry.

I am as proud as I can be now it is later in the day and I am looking at the photo I took; it may be just a section of a whirlygig in a marquee but it is the culmination of much effort and soul searching over the last six months and the one thing that should have struck me was that the quality of my paintings was no longer in doubt in my mind. A few years ago I would, rightfully probably, apologise for my creations before showing them to anyone, and would have curled up and died if someone had displayed them so publicly with my name to acknowledge their parentage. Walked out today, postcards in pocket, ready to befriend any artist that I happened upon and declare my status as a fellow struggler with the thing we call art; this in itself is a major seachange.

The artists I did happen upon today (or at least their work) were Victoria Crowe in the Scotland Gallery and Ethel Walker in the Flying Colours, plus a number of printmakers, painters and makers in the West End Craft Fair behind St John's. Victoria Crowe is someone I have seen work by in passing but never en masse; I have to confess that I prefer them individually and felt that the work somehow suffered in numbers. Each piece is delicately built up in layers of filigree tree branches, pencil tracery and a patchwork of imagery into a very beguiling whole, but something about their delicacy and intimacy doesn't entirely work for me, at least when they are filling a room. One little example of a cyclamen in front of a frosty scene through a window drew me in, and in others I loved her use of ocres, umbers, and the tree filigree broken by sudden accents of bright blue. I would rather see one piece nestling in a corner of a room and let it work its little spell than see all the bigger canvases vying for attention; not sure why but that was what struck me most.

Ethel Walker I was wholly unfamiliar with which was a bit shabby considering the stunning pictures she produces of my adopted homeland and the fact that she is now in her seventies. She has been tied to Flying Colours gallery in an exclusive deal for the last x number of years, however, so I guess I have just missed the shows they have done, and I haven't noticed anything at the exhibiting societies. Her land/sea/sky scapes have an elusive, instinctive quality where she catches exactly the feeling of fleeting light and peeks of mountain that are so Scotland. I particulary liked a couple of images where land and sea were subjugated by huge grey-blue clouds through which glimpses of pink shone through. Fantastic command of colour and the experienced hand of someone who can really use paint.

Picked up various cards and chatted to printers and potters at the art/design fair, which I had not managed to visit since my early days in the city. A couple of lovely woodturners, one of which runs courses, so I shall have to suggest this to Stu just to satisfy some of his desire to work in wood. I am sure he would enjoy the chance to do something that would be a tad pricey to set up from scratch just to see if it was fun! Some lovely printmakers producing their own stuff and working out of Printmakers Workshop makes me doubly determined to try one of their courses (picked up the leaflet) as I have not done any formal printmaking since college; my original degree application was for printmaking at Norwich, but alas I was young and foolish and it was not to be. Must follow that up though, maybe once I have managed to reduce my hours of cash work. I find myself a little down tonight even after such a creatively exciting day, as I am once more frustrated by the limited time I have for everything I need to do; my studio time is now down to when Stu gets home; two/three hours tops, and my self flaggetory nature is already beating me up for not getting to work sooner, despite the trip into town being my only visit of the week to the thing we call the Festival, top artistic event of the calendar...

Time to stop beating myself up about things over which I have no control (ie: the need to pay bills) and get on with that which I do; angels, elephants and some other imaginings.

Woodworks

Left Stu with his first task as official art-tech today; altering a couple of paintings to fit some frames that previously belonged to older work. He suffers just now from a lack of equipment and a prevalence of cats, but it is yet another baby step in the right direction; it was amazing how positive it felt coming home to find two newly framed paintings. Even we are currently only remaking and recycling, it is saving me oodles of money which I could be reinvesting in paint!
The long term plan is for Stu to learn framing and begin the thankless task of being my full-time framer and technical support; the smaller frames I did to house my giclee prints have set me thinking various things about the way I hope to go with the framing of all my work, and of framing in general as a further viable option for earning a living between us that does not rely on Stu cheffing. The frames I did with potato prints in bright colours work really well for the little prints, but I think that approach will be a bit overwhelming on most of the larger ones. That said, we were eyeing up some paint in Homebase last night and Stu automatically picked out some really lovely oxblood and a limey green, which would have been stunning together, possibly with a more monotone painting to complement it.
My aesthetic is more 'knackered French country' or similar Far Eastern furniture; either layered pale colours sanded back and 'distressed' then waxed or darker more intricate designs, but likewise layered and sanded back to give them the feeling of something beautiful and old rediscovered. Research and bitter experience has shown how easily damaged, and thus how shallow the paint is on most commercially available frames. I have just been reworking a big one which some unhelpful person damaged at a show earlier in the year just by stacking two pictures front to back, meaning that the fixings on the reverse of one frame gouge out the paint on the front of the other. The paint didn't take much gouging, however, and when I sanded it down it came off like butter; repainted with a couple of coats of rust, grey/parchment and gold and then sanded looks awesome, and that was just a bit of a rush job.
Four more paintings heading across the city to Ritchie's gallery in Leith, including the newly renovated frame; it is great to have somewhere for them to go! For so long the paitings have hung about the house, gone to shows and returned; now I think we are really on a roll at last. The more I paint the easier I find it and the easier I find it to concentrate.
So - off to find Stu some wood to practise his framing paint on; and check out some waxes and varnishes to use; hopefully the start of another little development in our creative plan.

The roof of the world

Woke up twice this morning; first the ritual Twig wake-up call at somewhere around six o'clock. Quite why we adopted her, tiny fuzz ball, having heard her mother's voice, I have no idea; she is quite able to wake the dead and communicate with distant solar systems, I imagine.

Second time I was in a heap on the bed covered in cats, a towel still wrapped around my still-shower-damp hair; just thought I'd have 'a little snooze' after showering and passed out for two hours. Bet the cats loved it - lucky they aren't teenagers or I would probably have no eyebrows by now... So that kind of threw my day out of kilter before I had even started, although I am secretly glad that I have made up some of the dreaded 'sleep deficit' that I am convinced that I am suffering from. Problem is that I am a neurotic stress-monger, so I had now put myself in the position of imagining all the tasks and paintings I could have completed in the crucial two hours.

Now, being a pro-active sort, I thought I would try and shrink the list of things I am waiting for by actively chasing answers to them; this at least managed to knock two off the list. 1)Man who had said he would call about buying a painting from gallery had not called. However, someone came in yesterday and bought one of my big elephant paintings, so a result was achieved alongside the ticking off of the item on my list. That sale essentially means that I am home free for the Angel show in November; I had been worrying (no..) about framing costs, but this should mean that I can get the lot done, especially if I follow my current thinking and paint the frames myself. The difference for unfinished wood is pretty hefty and the idea of doing distressed and/or printed frames is a good one anyway. It will look soooo cool.

2) Popped into the Publisher and ascertained that my cards are in the Book Festival and people are buying them! Hurray! This is genuinely exciting as every one has my name and website on, so every one is further spreading the name and images. The elephant, 'Beautiful Alluvium' is selling best, which is not surprising as I have never had an elephant painting hanging around the studio for long - the first one I sold was to a lady on a plane back from London. I was all excited having been to the show at the Mall Galleries where I had a painting hanging, and she was returning from a successful interview and had a husband with a thing for elephants (in a non-scary way); a sale was made and I delivered the painting to her house on Christmas day.

So the words on the lips of both Gallery Guy and Publisher are 'angels' and 'elephants'.

Suits me; most of my favourite paintings to date involve one or other, if not both.

The new one I started with glee today is putting together my thoughts about the angels and their wandering ways with my interest in the connections between Far Eastern and Scandinavian folk art and culture. Featuring two angels, one from the east, one the west, meeting over 'the roof of the world' as they travel the northern angel trade routes (there's another following working title 'trade paths'). Below is a bunch of spooked animals; elephants, moose, reindeer and horses, careering across the northern forests; the curvature of the earth visible below the red sky. Shame I have to go to work tomorrow.... can't see this sitting long on the easel; it is just dying to get painted.

Elephants and angels; I can do that.

Return to sender

A cool episode from work world today which, if it falls into the bracket of 'guess you had to be there', I apologise.

Well dressed, manager/businessman packs shopping methodically as I serve him. As I finish the transaction he asks 'So what does my shopping tell you about me? Psychoanalize me from that.'

Rescue Remedy, beer and a poussin. "Well - a neurotic alcoholic with portion control issues or anorexia?" He laughed, luckily; so often the evil customer sets you up for a fall. I shared my own version when I happened to be purchasing a colouring-in book and a bottle of wine late one evening. The cashier just smiled and asked "Quiet night in?" (It was a present for a child, honest. The colouring in book. My thing is sticker books actually, I would still be happy for an hour with one of them.)

Playing the waiting game tonight; luckily not tables any more, but waiting in the frustrated, empty inbox way. The curse of the unlimited communication offered by the computer age is the empty inbox. I know, I know, 'outflow =inflow' but I have flowed already and the inflow is not happening.

Waiting on replies from a) Publisher saying 'yes, your cards are in the Book Festival' (Note positivity here; not waiting on publisher saying 'sorry, cards not going in Book Festival, changed mind, cards are rubbish, you are rubbish etc. That would be against new positive spirit...) b) Customer saying 'yes, I want to buy your painting', essentially removing worry of funding framing for forthcoming Angel show. c) Gallery owner saying 'yes, the guy did call back and say he wants to buy your picture that I mentioned last week who said he would phone but hasn't.' d) Framer and gallery owner saying 'yes, you can look after my gallery in October as a little working holiday and familiarisation with framing process.'

I shall sleep on it again and hope at least one little message reaches me tomorrow; my patience is pretty good but I do hate having to sit and wait for reactions. It has finally sunk into my head that my timescale does not always correspond with everyone elses' ie: just because I am thinking about these things all day on the hour doesn't mean that others are doing the same. They are worrying about events happening to them, now, and thinking about things that matter to them all day, on the hour.

Did a swine of a painting last night because I broke my own golden rule and barged on with painting when the drawing wasn't solid. Drawing bad = painting bad. No way around that one, and the delusional nature of the painting process can persuade you otherwise for a long period until the 'step back moment', often too late in the evening, when you realise that for all your expressive and experimental brushwork, the drawing underpinning it is fatally flawed.

Lucky I have discovered the wonders of sandpaper when dealing with acrylic paint; in oils it would be a 'scrape-back' moment; now I resort to sanding the offending portion and starting from scratch. Which I shall do once I am all blogged up and made a prawn and sweet potato curry. And snoozed a little, and played with the laundry, and phoned one mother or other.

No worries tonight, mate, tomorrow is all mine and I intend to paint like a b*****d.

Saatchi online via Facebook posted the question today; 'When did you start calling yourself an artist'. I am not alone in being unsure about this label; its not even a modesty thing - I think of myself as a painter and always have. I have tried the label on for size but on my lips it always appears in quotations; maybe a confidence matter? Maybe I just hate labels?

Tales from the frozen north

A friend is sending posts from a symposium in Russia; amazing pictures of onion domes, hazy valleys and interesting vegetables; they are painting in a town I must look up, in thirty-plus degree heat, with a whole bunch of nationalities and backgrounds. It just looks fascinating and I am following the posts with total rapture. I was lucky enough to visit St Petersburg (then still Leningrad) and Moscow back in, I guess, about 1989; still behind the iron curtain and so, so alien and beautiful. I was included on an art exchange from Norwich School of Art despite not actually being on the degree course; a spare place arose and my then boyfriend was a painter on the Fine Art degree. Hence my freedom on the trip was total; I had no curriculum or schedule other that watching what everyone else was doing and joining in wherever possible.

We went in the winter, January I think, and everthing was frozen; the rivers, the sea, our breath as we breathed it. One day in Moscow, wandering (insanely) on my own through the city, gipsies stole my gloves off my hands and it was only then that I realised how cold it truly was; without them I had to keep my hands fimly in pockets until I made it back to the hotel.

One day, when everyone else had gone on a guided tour of the Kremlin, we (for reasons I really forget) decided to wander off into the woods opposite the hotel we were staying in. It was largely birch, full of unfamiliar bird song and thigh-deep snow; sun shining and turning the whole scene into a folk-art fairytail fantasy. I truly think it was one of the most beautiful natural scenes I have ever witnessed, and our breath was tinkling as it fell in ice crystals to the forest floor. Very vaguely the noise of the city and the cars could be heard, but always as if it was a different world or parallel universe. Deep into the woods we found a fairytale bridge into an open glade and slumped down in the snow just transfixed by everything; then we heard a long, low howl from somewhere in the trees.

More answered almost immediately, comic horror noises in a fairytale forest. One look at each other was enough to know we were thinking in unison and we plunged, fell, crawled, and somersaulted through the snowy woods and back to civilisation. I have very rarely since felt so vulnerable and aware of the smallness of myself in the universe; I have certainly never tried to run in deep snow again.

That evening, quite by chance, we overheard a conversation in English about the problems with wolves in the area and warnings delivered to another group of tourists not to stray into the 'wild areas.' This, funnily enough is one of my most vivid memories of Russia.

I was thinking of Russia also as Ritchie mentioned that a few visitors to the gallery had likened my paintings to Russian icons. I am interested to know the connections between the art of the northern nations as I know there are similarities between Scandinavia, Russia and the Far East; I certainly see parallels and maybe this is what is coming over in the pictures. My stronger influences have been from Thailand and Vietnam, but I am also always looking at Scandinavian art due to my heritage. I saw an awesome programme last winter on the early religious art of Russia, and the icons, and of course there is some mind numbingly beautiful church art in Tuscany that we were lucky enough to see last year as well. A veritable melting pot of influences.

This is why I try to work instinctively and use the unconscious mind as much as possible rather than planning images to fit a certain title or subject; the influences absorbed then come out in a blend, worked by my own creative mind into something of my own.

The angel paintings have taken a few directions that I would never in a million years have predicted when I first started out on the series and I think that is important. Some of my worst work has undoubtedly been carried out to commission and I am sure this is true of other artists.

At least the 'angel' brief is loose enough to give me space to follow my brain where it will lead, but enough discipline to create a cohesive show. Fingers crossed, I am pleased so far and think it will be my best work to date; it is definately making a big difference painting every day and having that experience has made me adament that I need to keep doing this.

Straw to gold

Getting used to the experience of wearing glasses, which is very strange for a life-long non-speccie, especially when I am supposed to be using them only for reading; the tendency is to put them on and walk around feeling sick and dizzy, or put them on top of the head and wonder why the small type is still fuzzy. Already found one major design fault relating to the way I treat objects; they are way too see-through and are destined to be forever veiled in a layer of finger-dirt or worse, paint. I'm sure my brother's glasses when we were kids arrived with a handy fuzzy cloth nestling in the (solidly made, fake snake) box. Mine have a synthetic thing which is no use for wiping and offers little in the way of padding either; the box is also distressingly plastic and an insipid pink/purple shade in pearlised effect. Wrong. Lucky I took the step of finding a felt lined tin box of the correct proportions bearing an amusing multiple print of cats; far more in keeping I felt and actually more suitable to the job in hand. I have two pairs of specs as I qualified for the two-for-one special offer which always struck me as a bit random, and even more so now I have two pairs of very similar spectacles to do exactly the same job. Putting one away for safe keeping seems a bad idea as I will only lose it in the same way we lost Stu's house keys after our holiday - they are still at large somewhere in the house and knowing my hiding places, may never see the light of day again.

I had a major breakthrough a few years ago when I hit on the hardly novel idea of actually having set places where things live in the house; before that every drawer in the building had at least one pair of scissors and probably some form of selotape. To find the item you wanted or the specific type of tape or scissor a thorough search of the house was necessary; nail clippers?- more like a week before they were run to earth. For some reason I have always had a bit of an obsession with scissors and feel excited in the presence of new ones in the same way that I imagine some ladies feel about jewellery or shoes. Actually that is a bad example as my shoe fetish is another story entirely; I have at least got this one under check by the simple method of poverty. The under-bed drawer is still testimony to many an indulgent purchase, however, and unfortunately my preference is of the flip-flop/sandal variety - so handy for the Scottish climate, I find. That said, I do manage to sport my Birkenstocks most of the year round, but usually accompanied by a wooly hat as compensation.
Found my elusive inner domestic goddess today and I sit here happy in the knowledge that home-made meatballs are ready to pop into tomatoey vegetable sauce, risotto is made (enough to feed small army) for lunch boxes and I even cleaned the car! That, it has to be said is a rarity rarer than polishing my shoes, both of which jobs fall to the male element of our household; I justify this by pointing out that hours wasted in mundane washing and polishing are hours when I could be honing my craft for future glories. Stu's first ever gift to me back in neolithic times was a shoe polishing kit; the writing was on the wall from the start and I was too blind (ahh, lurve...) to see it. I was entering a relationship with a neat freak. Luckily, as can happen, we have both successfully rubbed the corners off each other's obsessions over the years; he tolerates paint on walls, jumpers and taps ; I clean things occasionally and wipe up paint spills if they are noticed in time. Aside from my pathological urge to potato print the wall the other day I am pretty house trained for a painter; it is necessary to clean the studio on a frequent basis anyway due to the presence of the furry two (le deux velus); unless I want to pioneer cat-fur art it is in my interest to see Hoover action at least a couple of times a week. I always have to check boards for fur when I take them in to the framers; one time I forgot and oh the shame; reminded me of my grandmother's expression when I did... well, anything really. (No hard feelings granny, I know you couldn't relate to a tomboy with learning difficulties and a decidedly strange imagination.)
Which reminds me; when I was small (er) I dragged a deflated balloon around on a string pretending it was a dog; it that didn't point to a career in the arts I don't know what did. Probably my obsession with making slippers out of towelling, card and foam, which never worked; Tracey Emin eat yer heart out.
Away to the studio where hairy boards await their transformation into Swedish Forest Angels.

Alchemy.

Sonnez les matines

Ah, the answer... Painting is all about finding how to let out what is within; how to fit the outlet of creativity into the rest of the mundanity of life. For me this means working at certain times and designated places where I know my annoying chattering mind will relax and allow the work to flow. Morning is the best of all; wake, drink tea, enter studio; no clumsy slights from co-workers and bruised egos to dwell upon - all washed away by sleep. There is something wonderfully single minded about the morning hours, preferably starting as the light rises and rising with it to grow into the day in a thoughtful state free of interferance.

And it happens again; the serendipity thing; whenever I am thinking around and about something I seem to bump into the perfect quote to fill the space in my insufficient writing ability. Tift Merritt is one of my super-fave 'Americana' singer-songwriters (although the label thing doesn't really fit as is so often the case); just read a piece in the Wall Street Journal about the creative process that nails it for me:

'Some of her songs have filled entire notebooks (lately she prefers unlined, 120 page Moleskins with soft covers). The notion of ever being expected to write hits, or even to write with someone else in the room, "makes my stomach hurt", she says.

That relationship with your creation as a personal and private one is something I can relate to; no matter that she goes on to perform her creations in front of thousands, the creative act is an intimate one. I am happy to show my paintings now that my confidence is growing, but I am still very defensive and private about the process that brings them into being; it is a kind of superstition, a kind of o.c.d.

And it's not even nine o'clock yet; two paintings on the go and a blog post underway; I like working like this - who knows, next year I may get to do it all the time... we are beginning to make plans for life after the year of poverty. I'll say no more for fear of cursing it.

Spent a happy day driving around the city again watching the chaos unfold; wondering whether my greetings cards were on their stand in one of the marquees at the Edinburgh Book Festival on Charlotte Square as I passed, popping in to the framers in the middle of the Old Town and not only finding a space but finding one right opposite the gallery. Another massive coincidence struck me there; I was after a favour as Stu is interested in learning to frame so he can help out with potential hand painted frames and the like for me. I was a little concerned that it was cheeky asking a framer how to frame as in effect it will be removing work that she would have carried out. No need for caution; turns out that she is looking for someone to babysit the shop for a week while a long overdue holiday is taken, and framing lessons would be a fair swap for such services; couldn't be better actually as Stu is rubbish at taking holidays when he is not actually going anywhere and he has one that - spooky - coincides with the week at issue. My copy of Umberto Eco's 'Serendipities' arrived today, as if to remind me how often we stumble on such happy accidents of fate.

Feeling a bit smug tonight, think that's the only word for it; pleased with the two pics I have on the go at the moment, two potential sales on the burner and new foxy glasses to help me actually see what I am doing! Maybe the success of tonight's painting is due to the unfamiliar feeling of clear resolution.. Played with some blue paint and my super large potato print as well, for what may well be its last use; a split has already appeared across the base and it was warped to a degree that I had to stand on it to print with it this morning. Great result though and I have used it on three paintings, two t-shirts and myself; that is one value for money spud. Next up I am hoping to carve an elephant to use on dresses of angels, and no doubt t-shirts; the house walls are in mortal danger too as the urge was nearly too strong with the last one and I don't know if I will hold out with an elephant in hand. I'm sure we need to decorate soon anyway.

Oh and here's a thing about colour perception that will probably make no sense to

man nor beast but it means things to me:)

"What am I seeing?"

"It's the blue of chocolate

And the ocre sky."

"Qu-est-ce que je vois?"

"C'est le bleu de chocolat

Et le ciel d'ocre."

Gimme happy

Long ago, it seems, I was present at a kind of motivational day for the workers at the restaurant I was then employed in; I was sceptical at best. However, what emerged were some valuable and I might even say subliminal messages that have stayed with me ever since. One of them was an exercise in optimism and positive thinking; we were set the task of memorising everything brown in the room before closing our eyes. 'Now', said our coach, 'what is blue?' And yes, as he predicted, we all started naming parts of our clothing as the fact was, we hadn't been focusing on it, we had been looking for brown. The main point of the exercise was that we can make a choice what we see and how we see it; choose to see the negative (brown) or positive (blue). While I have some issues with the choice of colours - why does brown get to be the baddie? - I have found it useful over the years as it is often so easy to be bogged down in the brown.

Another trick I learnt, which is probably bleedin' obvious to some people, I don't know; is that your mood can be altered with the right prompts. I have mentioned my 'Kick-ass boogie' playlist before, and that is my version of the mood enhancer; when I am really procrastinating and not even vaguely feeling like painting I can usually jolly myself along into a state of creativity with a carefully administered dose of disco heaven (and boy, there are some cheesy ones on there!).

And so to my point. Tonight I am in a kick-ass angry mood which I just cannot shift and the reasons are multiple and verge on the infantile.

1) Someone nearly bought a painting from me and then went away for the weekend. So I may or may not have sold a painting. This is perfectly acceptable and in the shoes of the purchaser I hope I would do the same thing; fact is that I wouldn't, I am never that rational, so it is outside my modus operandi and therefore unsettling. This is not, however, a reason to be in a bad mood.

2) I was hoping to hear from my publisher that my cards were going in the Book Festival despite last minute technical hitches, but no email greeted my return today. Thus, short of visiting the first day of the Festival tomorrow, this is another Thing That I Won't Know Till Monday. However, focusing on the blue, I should be glad that I am getting published in the first place. This is not a reason to be in a bad mood.

3) Someone at cash-day-job patronised the living daylights out of me and I am still not entirely used to being in such a subservient position that I have to curb my natural reaction to rip them apart, at least verbally. No doubt the person in question will already have no memory of this occurence, so why am I thinking about it? Definately not a good reason to be in a bad mood.

4) Mum called just as I walked in the door, cats yowking at my heels and bags everywhere; then proceeded to keep me on the phone while my mood went rapidly south and my tea craving intensified. Still, she is lonely and older than she was, and I should rise above it. Nope, not a good reason to be in a bad mood.

5) Twig the wonder kit, once fed and watered, decided to dig in the box containing my postcards, totally trashing about ten. But yeah, you guessed it, there are still a few hundred in there and she is just an ickle kitty cat who doesn't understand mummy's silly postcards. No reason at all.

See what I'm doing here?

And you know what, I'm not sure it's working even now I'm typing it as well...

Nothing for it; I shall lie on the ground for a while staring at the ceiling and thinking slowly and clearly of all the amazingly good things that have happened thus far on my journey.

And then eat chocolate.

Here come the girls...

It struck me today that I have been exclusively inventing girl-angels - not deliberately, but the entire fleet is female. This is doubly odd when my C of E education steeped me in tales of Michael, Gabriel et al; and I'm pretty sure they weren't even gay - certainly didn't dress it, and that would be an opportunity wasted. One of my defining hymns when thinking of angels starts "The angel Gabriel from heaven came, his wings like drifted snow, his eyes of flame." Awesome imagery and introducing my adolescent mind the idea of angels as scary creatures; powerful and not necessarily as they seem. Certainly not fluffy things sitting on clouds strumming celestial harps and sucking on angel smoothies; I never did get the cherub thing either - as an image I find them borderline scary in a weird, David Lynch way. Definately not Christmas card material, especially the worryingly sexual Cupid pinching Venus's nipple - who painted that? Must look it up, that is one disturbing angel portrayal.
So the male, flaming eyed angel is in William Blake territory for me; cool but not my cup of tea. My idea of angels developed from the ones I 'saw' in a tree in my dream; timid but mischevious creatures that go about their business (whatever that is) right under our noses, invisible to all but the more 'sensitive' among us. These would be the Engel Flusterers, Angelviskare, Angel Whisperers... Having said that, if you Google 'angel whisperers' you come up with some scary-mary people, so I hasten to add that my angels dwell clearly in the realm of narrative fiction and bear no relation to my real feelings for what lives in my hedge; they are sparrows. Just ask the cats. (Actually, bad idea; if the critters could speak they would probably say "Yeah, angels." just to mess with my mind.)
So; we have girl angels of a timid and fun nature and their accompanying 'listener' who I have called Madame Suki Tabere. Suki has appeared in my paintings for a while, I have just repositioned her in the lead role of this particular series; I think she relishes the part!
The joy of the whole enterprise to me is that there is (in my head) a whole world of angels out there all over the world waiting for Suki to discover them in her fishing boat.. this can run as far as the limits of my imagination. The Swedish Forest angels came about through my fascination with various things; henna tatoos, folk art, far eastern art (I know, in Sweden, but there are parallels...) 'green man' imagery from church architecture and old illuminations... that's what I love about creating things like this - the influences are endless and the resulting melting pot is inherantly unique to me and my brain.
The other angel hymn that I love and which makes me sad is 'It came upon a midnight clear', which continues 'that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold.' Now in this circumstance I can deal with the harps and trust my instinct that we are not talking about cherubs here...
Anyway, I am bouncing tonight as someone is interested in buying 'Maja', my first and favourite (to date) Swedish forest angel. I am getting better at letting the pictures go out into the world and would really be pleased if this one went to a good home. Cross those toes and think of angels.
Nearly went away and left without mentioning the new girls at the top of the page; this is Greta (forest angel) and Suki in a contemplative pose and is also an explanation of my ongoing habit of using two suns in the images. I have called it 'Aurora, Hespera' for the two ends of the day (those Roman gods again) which is what is shown by the two suns; the continuum of days, the cycle of life and the connection of us all to the patterns of the earth. Simple when you know.

Charlie big potato

A treat for us both today; a picture blog. I have been struggling all day, in a good way because it is a full day of painting, but struggling all the same as mine eyes are needing their vision aids..

Great day though, started with a bit of self doubt and worries, slowly got into work via reading, doodling, computering and eating new favourite snack 'sesame snaps with coconut'. Mm mm.

Today was the day I was determined to rise to a challenge set the other day. Not exactl

y set, but set in the same way as saying 'bet you can't lie in front of that train' has an effect on some people.

Innocently enough, the girlfriend of the gallery owner who has some of my paintings a

sked if I had tried using a really big

potato for one of my prints. 'No', I replied cautiously, already realising that the full answer was 'but I have a

feeling I may do soon'... So here you go, the story of a big potato print in pictures. I have a cool t-shirt out of it too.

Here's the fella as I started cutting in the design, which I

just did freehand in the end after considering drawing it out. The blue is so I can see what I am doing!

And here he is again with the cutting pretty much done

And then inked up, good to go!

The finished pic it was intended for is 'Aurora, Hespera', which I'll photograph

& present for your perusement tomorrow. I also printed up a smaller picture using it as the dress design and also a big sheet of Fabriano which will come in handy for collage or birthday cards...

Slightly frustrating news on the greetings card front; technical issues have slowed my progress to publication and it is now only a 'hopeful' appearance at the Edinburgh Book Festival - which is only a few days away, so my fingers are seriously crossed. That is the only disadvantage of having someone else publish your work - lack of control. I do of course realise that it is a necessary evil as I couldn't do it myself and thankfully I have every confidence in my publisher, so my natural impatience will just have to be kept bubbling under. It's not like I don't have enough to keep me occupied!