Promenade
With nowhere to live and nowhere to paint, I took a house on the street where no one wanted to live: Waterloo Promenade. The house was 4 stories high. I worked in half, my son and myself lived in the other half; the paint crept over the boundry. The street was inhabited by the lost, the doomed and the self destructive;I fit right in.
Luckily my 3yr old boy was oblivious to the agony; he picked dandelions for the girls sat on the grass; while the blindmen drifted by, coming to and fro from a facility for them at the end of the street.
I first made very simple line drawings in pencil and filled, over a year or two, dozens of sketch books. The gloomy terrace and over grown vegatation, with its crumbling inhabitants reminded me of John Cooper Clarks poem and song: 'Beasly Street'; where everything seems to be coming apart at the seams.
I threw the sketch books away in another chaotic move, wrote them off as abortive, more bagage. Later I found at least half of them stored in a black plastic bag. I quite liked the look of them and discarding them seemingly fit the feel of them. I have since began to use them as a source to paint from. No, more as I manipulate the paint and more often than not, end up at a dead end, the surface seems to be begging for one of these crude, almost bad Lowery, sketches to be thrown upon it.
Luckily my 3yr old boy was oblivious to the agony; he picked dandelions for the girls sat on the grass; while the blindmen drifted by, coming to and fro from a facility for them at the end of the street.
I first made very simple line drawings in pencil and filled, over a year or two, dozens of sketch books. The gloomy terrace and over grown vegatation, with its crumbling inhabitants reminded me of John Cooper Clarks poem and song: 'Beasly Street'; where everything seems to be coming apart at the seams.
I threw the sketch books away in another chaotic move, wrote them off as abortive, more bagage. Later I found at least half of them stored in a black plastic bag. I quite liked the look of them and discarding them seemingly fit the feel of them. I have since began to use them as a source to paint from. No, more as I manipulate the paint and more often than not, end up at a dead end, the surface seems to be begging for one of these crude, almost bad Lowery, sketches to be thrown upon it.