Category: Photography
-
An Edge to Reality
In my work documenting decay on the English South Coast I walk with a camera and record what I see with a view to taking it into the studio to process into paintings. This is a developmental path well known since the 19th century, flowering in the 20th in the work of many artists
-
Stalled but engine running…
In my last post in November, I wrote of my mental confusion and the twists and turns I was making to find a way forward with my work. Since then, I have done plenty of work with the camera, but the problems remained unresolved. I am beginning to realise that many of the problems stem…
-
Moving Forwards?
For a couple of months, I have struggled in the studio. Drawings based on Gropius’ house in Dessau fill sketchbook pages. Images of the trees around the ‘masters houses’ of the Bauhaus, printed out, litter my worktable. My ‘bag’ is colour of course, and like most war time images the photographs I have taken in…
-
Autumn Clocks In
As October drifts to an end so we change our clocks – or not, depending in part on the clock. Clocks on computers change automatically, supposedly the car is linked to house Wi-Fi so should change with the computer but won’t, so will stay on French (or wherever) time until I can be bothered to…
-
Living is Easy
One of these mornings you’re gonna rise up singing. Yes, you’ll spread your wings, and you’ll take to the sky. But ’til that morning, there’s nothing can harm you. Gershwin In my last piece I wrote how being away with the faeries led to the fall – not into the devil’s hands but a…
-
Away with the Faeries
Bore Da as they say in Wales. Good morning Some of us honour our roots, our predecessors and their construction of the Judeo-Christian culture in which we live. It expresses itself in many ways and yesterday I went on one of my favourite memory walks through a copse. This small strip of woodland, almost a…
-
Mark Making
There was only radio for entertainment for many of my early years. I have written before of how my father taught me to draw. My formative years were spent in physical exploration of woods and fields, making model aeroplanes and filling books with drawings. Aged six I spent months living with my grandma and going…
-
In Slater’s Footsteps
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas With the addition of a photographic record of decay, the four books of images of paintings and photographs of the sea defences at the Cuckmere…
-
Mary Watts
Mary who? I tried to find her in my art reference books. Mary Seton Watts, wife of the Victorian establishment painter and sculptor George Frederic Watts (1817 – 1904), and he is definitely in the books. First British artist to have a gallery devoted just to him, it is claimed. His work, including his portrait…
-
A Garden Studio
We moved to the seaside when my partner retired as she was born in this area and waited tables in a local caff as a teenager, having happy memories of the coast. Her roots were here, whereas my RAF upbringing wedded my heart and soul to England but not to any one place. So I…
-
Emma Stibbon at the Towner.
Now the Turner prize has gone, and we have our gallery back. Still not free of the corrosive Arts Council social work arts programme, but ignore the excrescence on the ground floor, despite its claim using the Bayeux Tapestry to justify the size of its awfulness. No, bypass it and head for the stairs leaving…
-
Morning
It tickles my cheek, this flicking furry tail. I snake a hand out from under the duvet and rub his head. Fumbling, I struggle to see the luminous glowing hands on my watch face. 05.55. Early but light is coming under the curtains and cat is doing the ‘I’m starving’ act as if he hasn’t…
patrickgoff.com 