Category Archives: Painting

Edge of the Wood

the wood copy
Edge of the Wood (Watercolour)
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Images

IMAGES

Everywhere we look
Images present themselves
Like the discovery of clothes
The digital revolution has taken hold

Our new parchment caressed by cursor
Clicks us here en route to there
Images like accordions unwind
Millions become the new tens or twenties

Glut – image overload –
No choice given – just choice to turn away
Barbed-wire of all kinds getting in the road
Something new everyday to unfold

We make our way to what we want to see
To find it wasn’t what we thought it to be
Like the sea and it’s wave-roll
Against us it comes – beating us to succumb

More opinions than can be numbered
Communication wires-crossed
Spaghetti junction overload – of phrases
Headlines and cameras capture all of life

Nothing is left to the imagination
As the imagination has spewed all things seen
Images – like a gigantean archive to be sorted
We pick and choose and no longer are surprised

We can only find meaning and value
With discrimination’s guide
Taking one image at a time to behold
While still hanging some on our walls

Is it possible to come to the end of images?
Are schools of thought ever – redundant?
Do they reach an end to the road?
– Image overload

Acquired taste – might peruse the menu now
And find our seal of approval
As we separate the jigsaw pieces
To form – what means something – to view

Discriminate –
and find something worthwhile
As we take our eyes off the banal
And fix them on what is whole
Staying in control of this post-modern scroll.

Life by Paintings Measured

LIFE BY
PAINTINGS MEASURED

Life and it’s years
Measured by reflection
Recorded by another art work
Through choices of introspection

Forgotten or remembered dates
– written or not recorded dates –
signed pieces of spent time
scribbled on front or back –

Many escaped the cameras cache

Thus opening the door of surmise –
When – where – how – what – ?
Not sure and can’t remember

Marks of my own making
have gone out there
as fully-formed relatives of
heart and mind

Gone out there

There – under the sun – elsewhere
under the skies and ceilings of
other homes
Lost they are –
No tag upon the ankle
– hanging on the wall
Gone from me their first love.

I’ve lost you – children of mine

Who could you possibly
mean more to – than I…?

Time ticked by
as I remember time ticking by

Whilst I studied you – changed you –
added to your import

As I filed you – sold you –
alas – oft with regret

Gave you – itemised you –
folded you – ironed you –
cut you – framed you – forgot you
or got you back.

Gave you to – unworthy foster parents
who put you somewhere –
closed off out of sight in
chest or attic

Years gone by –
measured in spatters – washes
– and dry-brushed patterns all amok

Time recorded in
frantic marks – that scurried across
one hundred and forty pounds cold-pressed

Some stood/stand the test of time –
others – disqualified by those in a
daze of incomprehension

“I don’t know much about art…”
was the rubber stamp at the
custom’s gate of their minds

Still – can’t complain –
‘cause some will not let you go
a pillar of time you represent in
associated thought:

“My husband loved that painting of yours
I still have it – wouldn’t part with it”

Time – years – paintings gone
Out of sight – owned by others
– never to return

Many of them have worn well
Others heard man’s benediction
spoken over them:
“Time for a change –
remove her from the wall…”

What possible worth
can be found in these –
the inanimate?

And yet – thought is
art engrafted-on-paper
and thought is Still Life
revealing – there is still life

Inanimate perhaps
but what stories they tell –

Vincent did well know
His paintings oft rejected –
before he had to go

No artist can measure his years
except by Retrospectives

He alone was at the secret birth
of images coming out
delivered to the picture plane

Years measured by paintings
All unique –
Dark and sombre or all aglow

Years measured by paintings
This will have to do
to document a life

On these – man places worth
If enough will say – it should be so

Years measured by paintings
A raft of scattered years
Recorded in line and colour
and form and tone by what appears

I wonder at them all
Categorised with equality
If rejected by the Salon
It doesn’t matter to me

Years measured by paintings
I have quite a few
still wanting to leave home
to make their way to you