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FROM MEXICO TO MOSCOW.

Of late I have been reading Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenin. Apparently Fyodor Dostoevsky declared this novel to be "flawless as a work of art". I enjoyed it beyond words. Reading it made me see things a little differently, to question a little more, to find myself lost in another time, lost in another’s world. Could one ask anymore from a piece of art?

I hope you can loose yourself just a little in my watercolour. I wonder if Anna would like to wear this?

(Necklace of red glass beads and repoussé silver ornaments from Oaxaca city.

From Mexico to Moscow

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Uploaded on Jul 8, 2009

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THERE WE WILL SIT UPON THE ROCKS.

From my Mum I recently borrowed her Parker fountain pen and now I am enjoying how it feels in hand. It is the perfect fit for today. It is made for swift movements and also for steady hand. It is a sword to cut through tangled vines and clouded thought. It writes well. It makes me miss pen and paper days of my youth and I am reluctant to hand it back. I am writing titles for new collages and I am writing a list of things I wish not to forget. I am writing facts as Sir David Frederick Attenborough narrates them to me. I am writing a list of all I want to do this week. It is proving a long list; I’ll need to change the ink.

Today as I work, I have in my head the sounds of the Penguin Orchestra Café (the films Malcolm and Napoleon Dynamite may be called to mind, yes?) thanks to Joanne (it played on her blog last week). Whenever I am cutting collage pieces I listen to music. I try to keep up and I often don’t succeed. Whenever I am working on a collage and near to gluing the pieces in place I listen only to the thoughts in my head. These thoughts are sometimes in relation to what lies directly before me, but more often than not, they are incongruous and pedestrian. Sometimes though the wings of such pedestrian thoughts come laced with a little whimsy, for want of better word. Armchair philosophy also plays part as well but never the lion’s share.

In pyjamas usually, I work. Hair tied back and lost to thoughts in my head. It is a heady and intoxicating feeling and one that makes me think to myself that I ought partake in this drug more often.

When not hand-to-paper working, I am reading Stevie Smith’s The Holiday. Here's to beautiful melancholy suspended.

There we will sit upon the rocks.
Grow dark.
Nest.

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Uploaded on Jul 7, 2009

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GROW DARK.

The soft glow of twilight giving way to dusk, surely this is my favourite time of any day. As sun sinks below horizon I wake up. The rooms of the house grow dark and slowly, one by one, lamps are turned on or candles lit. A little artificial illumination so as to make things cosy but not too much so as to interfere with that soft and longed for glow of evening approaching. The corners of the room no longer distinguishable, sharp forms rendered fuzzy, I doubt there could be a more romantic time of day.

There we will sit upon the rocks.
Grow dark.
Nest.

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Uploaded on Jul 7, 2009

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DRAWINGS OF LATE.

It is time for a little winter colour.

Now for some colour
Day of the Dead
Civavonovono

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Uploaded on Jul 7, 2009

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