(Note to reader. I have no structure on which to write anything considered, I just wanted to indulge my love of writing about something I do indeed love so apologies for a passage of nonsensical writing)
When I am drawing I feel it is a love hate relationship. I love the act of drawing and making marks in a way that is peculiar to myself, a method in which to leave my own mark on the world, no matter how small, leaving a record, a comment of what I have been thinking or feeling at the time of each mark. What I hate is the fact that it flows out of me but is then bottle necked at the tip of the pen or pencil. You see I have developed an intricate style of drawing that feels so natural and so like second nature that sometimes I barely need to think about what is coming out. The problem is it is so time consuming – sometimes to even make the smallest gains. I don’t tend to know how the drawing will ever look when it comes to that magical moment of perceived completion, however, I tend to work in waves that cover the paper which builds in stages and can envisage these…this is when the size of the task ahead always sprawls out in front of me – I sigh.
I think I am slightly obsessive about some aspects of my work and this is not always a beneficial thing, sometimes though, just sometimes it is. It helps me ensure the honestly and integrity of each drawing I make. It has taught me to focus and enabled me to plunge ever deeper into each piece. This I love. Sometimes though it is a fucking heavy weight to bear. Things must be so, sometimes the smallest detail that would never be noticed by someone else viewing it makes the largest difference to me. It’s a pain in the arse.
I’ve always considered my work…well considered but organic, scrub that I’ve always prided myself on this and it has always been a founding principle within my work. I love the unstructured structure of what goes into my head to what comes out of the pen on the paper. This I know is a shockingly romantic notion but to me art IS romance. This may of been instilled in me by the beautifully pastel colours and idyllic scenes from the impressionists I feverishly studied as a child from the safety of the family sofa. (I know the reality was rather different to this biscuit tin notion. That of artistic rebels struggling to work, live, survive and be acknowledged by the then art world). What is wrong with this romantic notion? Well for me nothing, it enriches what I do and also allows me to tip my hat to the sumptuous past.
Anyway that brings an abrupt end to this instalment of my self indulgence, if anyone has managed to get to this point – I thank you.
