What’s my line
I talk to you
Pastel popping Mama.
Miners progress from pushchair to car
Non drinking miner
End of the line.
Not as cold as Norway
But you could see your breath
“Rhubarb” she said were off to the pub
Pulling it out of yourself
Red acrylic spreads like butter
Darkest of umber
Red purple blue
Vibrates with emotion I hear it said
Something new for the exhibition stimulates new ideas
The space itself the canvas
Like an unfinished memory
She traced the building
With her finger
“It’s Wood Street”
Then she cried.
She danced there on D day.
Tough and gritty feeling thwarted
Laying on her bed
What you been up to pastel popper?
With sunlight in her bouffant
Thought and intention spilled out
From chalky depths
If growth is taking place then something is working right
Keeping moving but still going over the same ground
Then it wains
Millions of little factories at work
We know very little about
Got to appreciate the ability
Let your mind roam free
I am is the place be.
Holbeck at night
it’s a wonderful sight
looking for dark arches
it’s left park up
be quick holding up the show
kids in a new hiding place
spirits soar a firm response
I choose the oar
hot water bottles blankets it’s cold
wine flows a pound a slug
ruby ruby ruby mac when will you be back
A firm of poets
Holbeck at night
Experiment try new materials
new techniques, new goals.
there’s fun in asking questions
if you stop it’s the end of the game
seeing beyond the day.
The un created
ideas positive chain reactions
life as a rhythm but we run out of time
hear the beat keep it simple
In a short tweet.
For better or worse
your in my red purse
because it was worse to be without you baby.
A day out
creaking of timber fisher mans yawn smell of dampness early dawn
gulls like scavengers set the scene of animation as in a dream
I did on Whitby gaze it helped me enter a blue phase
saw prints & a hints in many hues for some help take away the blues
fish and chips pink candy floss black jet not for got goth
sand in toes crashing waves come on let’s run to the cafe for a bun
oh Whitby quiet Maxine Gemma and her dad.
I had no intention of drawing it came as a complete surprise things can and have changed. we have all being trapped in a short life.Our ability to control our life seems to be always in doubt we have only ourself to trade .The web is live how did that happen file in line gallery,post and publish the digital drop in the tech stuff finding out what was needed keeping it simple.The tools are there to use the dashboard now draws me in I could not stand more digits in my head.Something new stimulates a positive chain reaction ..change.Something was happening the more I focused the less I was aware of what was going on round me always winning and losing .
Stop and reflect think about what your trying to do
You might change what your trying to do next .
Playing with the paint
A young girl I used to be what has changed is external to me ,
To my studio I go it’s just as I left it the day befor
The door is open the smell of paint is strong
a picture unfinished but not for long.
I want to bring my work to life with passion and panache
drab not a happy place
I cut a swath of colour that will bring the slate to life
past and present meet .
Tubes of paint with out lids
liquin and varnish shades of grey not to mention the tray
the aftermath of a great day.
Brushes on table tops
rich plums and sienna too work well with Prussian blue.
The knife is bent how did that happen
canvas or board it matters not
there’s still paint in the pot.
Charcoal smudges work of fingers
finding colours to inbue
nervous of cause
but terrified of not going out there.
With paint as fresh as a bright idea
we’re nearer to winter but closer to spring
you’d like to sketch
I felt strong so easel and paint to town I went
views from lady or gent
a wink a wave on the subject of art there not too hot .
burning “grass” smells all a round
the soul as gone to return it must
source and focus of creative activity
is it not in our domestic
Sienna tint on canvas blushes of the bride
red knickers on the line
the colours of the heart we can not see
nude silk stockings and suntan bodies
a mixed palette so true clash blend those colours new
my eye can see the hand holds the brush I am nothing without the heart within me ; it is everything nothing the art we produce
innate creative power.
The power of play