So what’s that supposed to be, then?

In idle moments of lockdown I’ve been catching up on some of the televised portraiture competitions from the Battersea Arts Centre. 

I paint, write, doodle on the keyboard, and am blessed with some exceptionally creative relatives, and so in a personal way I’m familiar with some of the tribulations of the creative process, but I know little of portrait work. Therefore the following observations may be tritely familiar to those who are better informed. If so, I apologise, but the fact is that I found watching these artists, struggling to achieve something inevitably very difficult, against the clock and under the glare of the TV cameras, inspiring and comforting during these anxious days of ambient death and disease.

Typically, in every programme there are three sitters, each of them drawn or painted within a four hour period by three artists - amateur or professional - who have already demonstrated their ability by submitting self-portraits. Naturally, all the artists featured had their own preferred way of doing things, which under the pressurised circumstances proved to be to their advantage, or not. Many techniques were employed, some conventional, some far less so, and the results weren’t always convincing or satisfactory. Nor were they necessarily “interesting” failures, although all the efforts were well intentioned, fuelled by a determination to succeed. Some were absolutely wonderful.

Given the nature of a competition, the objective being to win, understandably there were pressures to be daring, to stun, to elicit something more than the politely mouthed “wow” by the sitter (finally permitted to see what has been made of them, hiding their horror and disbelief), and so it was. The journey towards “getting there” could be fascinating, even if the destination sometimes disappointed.

Rather than attempting hyperrealist precision – impossible anyway given the time constraints – very often the candidate was trying to create something unexpected or even slightly wild, to add artiness and painterliness, consciously avoiding simple verisimilitude. Vagueness and abstraction might be introduced, along with colours and dynamism not objectively visible, qualities felt in some way by the artist to be latent in the sitter and needing to be emphasised, plus trademark special effects that they hoped would add something personal and appealing. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, or rather the four hours, the essence of the subject had to be captured, had to “look like them”, otherwise the attempt had – pretty much – failed. However much subjective sparkle is added, realism cannot be denied entirely

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A few things I noticed. 

Fairly early on in the process the artist will often “get” the look of the subject, so that one can say, “yes, that’s him” or “that’s absolutely her”. At this point one can see that they’ve captured that distinctive “look” perhaps almost in a shorthand way, a caricature or cartoonish kind of way. Sadly, infuriatingly, so often they then go on to labour their chosen medium until the likeness is lost among a mess of unfortunate brushstrokes and bright ideas that didn’t quite work out. 

Knowing when to stop, with any art form, is a skill that cannot be taught and is always situation-specific. When is the work finished? Is it ever? Surely an unnecessary cheesy adjective (like unnecessary or cheesy) could be removed here, a comma inserted there; that dark patch on the chin ought to be softened; that high note could be attempted again, the bass could do with a tad more echo. If the moment when it is best to stop is only 20 minutes into a 4 hour competition and everyone is watching, the temptation to “improve” will be well-nigh irresistible. Otherwise, what are you going to do for the next 3 hours 40? Tinkering can be so detrimental, hindsight so cruel.

On occasion, the first version of something, whether of a painting, a poem, or a piece of music, may be the best that can be achieved. If the artist is on a roll, is in the zone, in the flow, is inspired or is enjoying any one of those near-synonymous labels of rare but magical highs of creativity, the work pours out effortlessly from the unconscious mind, ready made, down the arms and out through the fingers, as it were. The first “take” may be the most inspired and absolutely right version that will ever be achieved. Usually, it isn’t. The form or content may be all there in principle, but polishing and tidying up are normally required.

Very often the artist (or musician or writer), has to work “against” something, which in practice is what he or she has already produced, either in the current work or a previous one. The first marks on the canvas (or other recording medium) may be feeble, crude, awkward, inarticulate and wrong. However, they need to be “got down” so they can be worked upon; a start has to be made somehow, otherwise indefinite floundering may ensue. Parts as yet undecided in detail will need to be blocked out, overall structure planned. You don’t want the left ear falling off the edge of the canvas.

Once the initial attempt has been made, then it can be altered, deformed and improved towards the final product, with details added and tweaks performed as deemed appropriate. This process is similar to but is not quite the same thing as “doing a rough draft and then writing it up properly” – as we were perhaps taught to do with school homework. No, this is a deeper creative process, perhaps closer to carving or sculpting – or even wrestling - than to editing or striving to be neat. 

Typically, despite many notable exceptions in all creative media, the artist doesn’t know in advance what the final product will look, sound or read like, although they may have a mental picture, and recognise it once achieved. Or, at the end, they may be forced to accept that what they have produced isn’t what they had in mind, isn’t good enough, doesn’t “work” – or is acceptable only as something other than what they had intended.  Only once the creative process is well under way they may discover what it is that they are in fact trying to do; they may surprise themselves. In an essay published in 1998 the late Jenny Diski wrote: “One of the great pleasures of writing for me is starting out in the wrong direction and discovering how all points can eventually lead to home”. That particular writer evidently had her own demons, but more generally it can be said that a creative individual works his or her way into a work of art of any kind, writes into it or paints into it or plays into it - into it and against it - slowly finding out what it will be, experimenting, withdrawing, plunging in again, trying this and that until they have it.

Particularly annoying - or in a more positive assessment particularly revealing and informing - is when the painting, piece of music or item of text is completed, or nearly so, and then its creator suddenly realises in a eureka moment of supreme horror / excitement how it should have looked (sounded, etc), how or what it was “supposed” to be. The response at this moment may be despair, rejection, abandonment, exhilaration, a risky attempt at “fixing” the problem, or it may be the start of a motivation to go on to the next thing. There has to be a mechanism whereby a creative person moves from one project to the next, and this could be one of the components. 

This late-in-the-day realisation may be accepted as just another stage in the “working against” principle, part of that uncertain and meandering journey from first daub, scribble or squawk to finished masterpiece. Under normal circumstances that’s all to the good. Unfortunately, if the four hour deadline is approaching, for those brave bared souls on public display, it may be too late. Let’s hope that – at “time’s up” - what they’ve done is good enough.

A “Havengore” moment

Last night at 8 o’clock I, like millions of others, stood outside the front door and clapped, expressing thanks to the NHS for the wonderful work they are doing, many of them in horrendous and distressing circumstances, many of them risking their own lives, during this crisis.

Though it was absolutely the right thing to do, it felt odd, not the sort of thing that English people of a certain age would do, but once one realised that other neighbours were also clapping, the self-consciousness went and the spirits lifted. We all knew that we are in this together. 

I was reminded, strangely, of that haunting moment 55 years ago when the Thamesside dock cranes dipped in acknowledgement of the passing of the “Havengore”, the barge taking Churchill’s body from the funeral service at St Paul’s to Waterloo, for its onward journey to the great man’s final resting place in Bladon, Oxfordshire. Another gesture that was unfamiliar, slightly abstract, slightly artificial, but right. Weird, spine-tingling, tear-provoking, powerful beyond words.

Many parallels are being drawn between the dark days of WW2 and the dark days of the present. As before, London is getting the worst of it. In support of all those people self-isolated there I offer a song and an image. My wonderful daughter Rosie has performed a version of the greatest song ever written about the world’s greatest city, in response to a request from her cousin, but to be enjoyed by everyone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayumdwfZAR8

 
The image below, a sunny, almost deserted street, as it probably is today, is of a short thoroughfare called Alaska Street. On the right is Waterloo East station, and straight in front is Waterloo main line station, the focus of the song.

© R. Abbott 2017

The emptiness aesthetic

There can be few positives extractable from this current global tragedy. One of them is the friendship, kindness, generosity and altruism of neighbours and strangers alike, qualities which so often lay dormant until activated by disaster. It’s good to know that they still exist. Still the same old country.

The second benefit, although in a normal sense hardly desirable, is the enormous reduction in activity in almost everything. Suddenly, the world is a quieter place. Environmentally this is good, and it would be even better if some degree of it could be sustained when normality returns. If this terrible episode doesn’t conclusively define and condemn what a disaster so-called globalisation has been, and lead to a fundamental change in how we manage our world, then we’re all stuffed.  Already over the last few days the sky looks bluer - probably just a meteorological coincidence - with the Spring flowers at their best.

 People are naturally gregarious, and enforced separation is distressing for many, as it is for me, grumpy introvert though I am. But when I see on the TV news images of commuters on the Tube, squashed together, noses in armpits, breathing in each other’s diseases, my reactions are a combination of nausea and relief that I’m not involved, although at many times in my life, normal times, I’ve been happy to endure and even to enjoy such conditions myself. There are sensory and psychological pleasures in congestion and busyness; they are among the appeals of a great city, expressions of life at its most intense and, some would say, most civilised.

While urban vitality is important, conversely, there’s something to be said for emptiness and quiet among the bustle. In London, the many parks, squares and commons cater for this need, and contribute their particular loveliness to this greatest of cities, throughout the seasons. Many other British towns and cities are similarly blessed; many aren’t, and finding a pleasant spot, quiet but safe, may not always be so easy. But for now the streets are empty too, and that is unusual and unnatural.

As an older person, rapidly approaching the official threshold of coronavirus vulnerability, I remember years with much lower population densities, little vehicular traffic, and tourist destinations which could be enjoyed in relative peace. When I think back to my suburban childhood the essential quality I recall is that of peace and quiet. You could actually hear how quiet it was; just a kind of distant gentle hum.  Not much traffic, no unwanted intrusions of other people’s electronics (except for “The Archers” theme tune wafting across from the old ladies round the corner - dumpty dumpty dumpty dump etc), just the occasional Vulcan bomber which was tremendously noisy and made your ribs rattle if it flew low. Today, scarcely a couple of miles away from where I grew up, as I draft this blog, the only sound I hear is lawnmowers and, bizarrely, the jingle of a cruising ice cream van. Though the ultimate reasons for this state of acoustic affairs are appalling, purely as background, as ambient sound, it makes me happy, reminding me as it does of more satisfactory times.

Cities are primarily about people, but as architectural and geographical entities they have other roles to play, including visual and spiritual ones. As someone who likes to draw and paint cityscapes I know I’m not the only one who has preferred to exclude people and / or traffic from the painted scene. Artists far better than I have exploited the same instincts for urban visual emptiness, whether they were trying to portray alienation and loneliness, a mood of noir, desolation ecstasy, a sensation of space, an architectural peculiarity, a time of day, or otherwise. In my case this habit has been enforced  partly because of painterly incompetence, but also because I love the paradoxical quiet sometimes to be found in the heart of a major city. It’s a state of mind I like to experience and to express as best I can on paper or canvas. It’s the sound of early Sunday morning. 

                                                        Notting Hill      ©  R. Abbott 2014

 Now, it seems, in the last few days, we have had this quietude thrust back upon us, unasked for - the empty streets and parks, empty squares, empty cities. Not so much a month of Sundays, as an unknown number of them to come.

Sensible advice therefore would be, for someone like me, to enjoy the sight while it lasts, to make the most if it. Much more sensibly, the advice is, not to. So I can’t, even if I wanted to. I have to imagine it instead. All the same, artistically, aesthetically, selfishly, I can’t help thinking that it’s a kind of missed opportunity.

 
Meanwhile I’d happily exchange this nightmare for a chance to inhale some armpits on the Tube. Armpits aren’t great, but in a normal world they’re rarely lethal. Stay safe.

Four Sturges

Well, we had the Three Esses the other week, and now it’s the turn of the Four Sturges. Just think Ronnie Barker.

As a child, I loved to draw. I still do. Drawing accompanied most of my passing fads and phases, all my visual obsessions, from shabby sheds to space rockets, from steelworks to stadia, from battleships to bridges – always bridges. Subject matter came in waves; I would have an idea about something, a temporary passion to pursue, to illustrate on paper. I’d get on with it for a while, and before long it would burn itself out.  A fallow period would ensue until the next enthusiasm took hold.

My problem was that my desire to draw was constant, it was an urge almost physiological in its intensity. But every now and then I would be stuck, sat at the dining table ready with paper and pencil, mind’s eye constipated; I’d turn to my parents and wail “I don’t know what to draw”. They would offer helpful and plausible suggestions – something we had noticed on a walk together, an episode in a story I’d read, a seaside pier we had strolled along. Well meant, often imaginative, and dovetailing with my known visual interests, but these suggestions were never any good. Never. Eventually I learned not to ask; I knew that the inspiration had to come from within, it could only come from my own mind. What I didn’t realise, for a long time, was that such patterns of up and down, peak and trough, boom and bust, are perfectly natural. To try and resist them is unwise.

At present I feel I’m emerging from a spell of “painter’s block”, having long ago switched my primary allegiance from pencil to oils. This follows a spell of activity at the end of last year, so it’s not unexpected. I’m in the fortunate position of not having to worry about it, being an artistic unknown. I’m due to exhibit locally at the end of this year, but that’s a long way off at present, and I feel no pressure. A few ideas are starting to gel, but for now I don’t have to do anything.

Nevertheless, I can see how it can be a worry. An acquaintance of mine, modestly commercially successful in the art world, wrote to me before Christmas to say that he is due to contribute to an exhibition at the end of March. He said he was currently  several works short, and was evidently struggling and concerned. Clearly, he wasn’t enjoying his chosen activity, which had become a chore rather than a pleasure.

Success, achievement, can bring with it commitments which can be uncomfortable and unnatural to accommodate. Urges can’t be forced, and if they are, the outcome is likely to be unsatisfactory, wooden, stage-fraidy, self-conscious, boring. You see it with poet laureates, the moment they are crowned.

You also see it every summer at the Royal Academy. Every year I tell myself it will be the last time, but I’m always there again next year, groaning and wishing I hadn’t. Once more I see the well known names, the Academicians, hogging the prime wall space. Because I like landscapes, seascapes and townscapes, I know which artists’ work to seek out. It saddens me, how painters who - when they were more or less free to do what they wanted, weren’t famous, and had no commitment to actually do anything - were brilliant, but now that they are expected to perform, to contribute, and they churn out the same old same old every year, only with increasingly insultingly greedy asking prices. But far worse, they paint with no evident enthusiasm, only boredom and slapdash “this will have to do”, even hints of self-parody. Not all of them are like this, but those that are have become, in short, POFs, Precious Old Farts, the consequences of the forced urges hinted at in today’s blogpost title. Where is the satisfaction in that?

I detect a natural progression. A creative theme emerges for someone, develops, gets better, gets very good, gets recognised, gets desirable, gets wanted. It becomes a product, a proper artistic artefact. More is demanded. The theme or style or concept, whatever it is, peaks and plateaus. Sadly though, in due time, the urge starts to dry up, while still the product continues to emerge, ever more routine and lacklustre. Natural decline and death are resisted. Quality and interest level fall away simultaneously. The expectation remains, but the inspiration wanes, disappointment sets in. Is this a happy state of affairs for the artist or the viewer? I believe not.

 
In a way it’s a paradoxical situation, because many people are at their best if faced with a deadline, or if their process of production is constrained in some way. In general, though, it seems to me much better if one can be free to produce whatever, whenever, however one wants, or not at all. I’m in that lucky position; no one is interested, and if I don’t want to, I don’t have to. Four Sturges are surely worse than none at all.

“Interchange”

Yesterday afternoon I hung in our dining room the biggest painting I’ve ever done, 60 cm high by 80 cm across, oil on canvas. Not huge by conventional standards, but it’s taken me longer than anything I’ve done before. “Interchange” is its working title.

 

“Interchange”   © R. Abbott 2018

Mostly I avoid working too closely from photographs, as that can lead to pictorial sterility and other difficulties, although as in this case I sometimes have photos to hand for reference. For “Interchange” there was quite a lot of detail I needed to capture, and the perspective was a bit of a bugger – a technical expression used by artists. Briefly I contemplated a photorealist approach, but that’s not really me, and I couldn’t be doing with all the faff, and so the end product looks more impressionistic, but is consistent  with my other efforts. Yes, I think it looks like one of mine and, though paintings rarely turn out as well as one would hope, and the accompanying photograph does nothing to flatter it, I’m not too unhappy with the outcome.

The subject is a panorama of the District Line platforms at Earl’s Court station in West London, looking in the direction of Warwick Road. Earl’s Court is notoriously one of the densest, most opaque, and most unwelcoming parts of London, on the axis leading in from Heathrow. “Cosmopolitan” would be a naff descriptor that seems to have fallen out of fashion. It has for a long time been popular with ex-pats and transients of all sorts, agencies of many kinds, hotels large and small and occasionally dodgy, students and the reclusive elderly, enthusiasts for specialised forms of sexual fulfilment, television sitcom actors, and it presents an overall atmosphere supportive of the popular notions of loneliness, anonymity and alienation in the big city. An area characterised by single occupancy, it is one catering also for large exhibitions and mass entertainment. The station, though a frequent point of transit for inhabitants and visitors alike, is quite different. Sub-surface,  it is, as it were, atmospherically detached from and immune to its immediate surroundings; it could be somewhere else entirely.

A glance at the diagrammatic Underground map will show that, besides its connection with the Piccadilly Line which runs beneath, the District Line (the green one) has its off-centre focus here, its systemic nodal point. This greatly affects the nature of the station’s usage. Assuming one is not alighting here, but is merely passing through, typically one arrives here from suburbs like Wimbledon or Putney, Ealing or Richmond, comfortable, sporty places to the west and south-west of the city – indeed, green places. At Earl’s Court, depending on the origins of one’s journey,  one may need to change, probably crossing conveniently to the adjacent platform, or waiting on the one where one has just arrived, in order to continue onwards towards Kensington, Paddington and Edgware Road, occasionally to the exhibition spaces of Olympia, but most probably to head for the West End or the City, or even further on through East London to Upminster, half way to Southend-on-Sea. One will be aided by ancient and very unusual destination screens, blue, with electric white arrows. Interchange is a principal function of the station, hence the title of the painting.

 
Because of the proximity of several affluent retail areas – Kensington, Chelsea, and Knightsbridge – over the last century or so Earl’s Court station must have featured in the pleasant shopping trips of millions, especially in the season leading up to Christmas. I feel this place to be very English, rather feminine in its clientele, self-contained and psychologically safe, cosy, with happy associations and connotations, and a sense of historical continuity – indeed, it is somewhere that has often made me feel very good to be alive, and to be in the capital city. Slightly pretentiously I could call the painting something News of the Worldish like “All human life is there”, or “Life Itself”, but I won’t. It’s a valid implication, though. While not specifically representative of the pre-Christmas period, that was the time of year when I painted most of it, although it took me into the new year to finish. I hope and believe that I’ve caught some of the atmosphere I wanted. I hope you like it too.