ANGELAGOODMANART
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It was during the dream time. The time when we were suspended between universes, between light and dark, life and death. The time when I saw the falling star and the fox.
 
The world was in semi-sleep and dreaming, but as always with dreams, the dark mares flitted with manes like black water, through consciousness and unconsciousness. Tales of horror and trauma infiltrated those almost silent sunshine days. Echoes of far off battles, corridors and machinery, exhausted running feet, precious breath, the push of the ventilator and the beeping of monitors… the valiant and the dead… yes that was there, even in the quiet of the night and even in our deepest sleep. We were there, and not there.
 
Death waited in the touch and in the breath.
 
I had trouble sleeping. Woke at four each morning with heart pounding, and speeding, circling, go-nowhere thoughts. Fear prowled the room. What if. What if. Guilt blacked out all hope of dawn and made the future dark. I was alive. Did I deserve it. Would it even last? What if. What if. I rose. Made tea. Tried to read. Went to a window and watched the sky to the east and waited. Weeks… months… we were all waiting, so what was one more hour, to sit and watch and wait? We also serve, who only stand. And wait.
 
I thought of the Bristol churches with their watch towers looking eastwards, the faithful watching and waiting for another kind of dawn.
And waited.
And looking eastwards, there it was. My first ever falling star. A lonely Lyrid, falling… falling… briefly a light to our world.  Out there was hope perhaps.
 
As the sky greyed, things took form outside.
 
A moving shadow caught my gaze. It stopped. A glow of white fur under the body and face. Darkly silhouetted ears, inscrutable eyes, and stillness. Our eyes met through glass: the human being, trapped inside, locked in my own darkness and the small fox out there in the dawn. And I heard her, as if she spoke to me … no… not heard… sensed?... a message without words.
 
This is not a dream.
 
There is always hope.

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Pandemic

September 08th, 2013

8/9/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
Each time I've entered the Bath Prize I've ended up thinking 'Why... oh why... do I do this?'

Plein air isn't completely my forte.  You'd think I would have learned that from the experience at Pintar Rapido (not that it wasn't fun but...) .  Yet I just can't resist.

So now it's The Bristol Prize.  It seems Bath's rich seams of locations (and exhibition venues) finally expired. maybe it just got too expensive.  But Bristol. So refreshing. So many interesting semi industrial landscapes - so many quirky buildings and stunning vistas - so much vibrant history mixed with multicultural colour and graffiti and modernity. So much opportunity for innovation...

And what do I paint? The classic figurative view of Clifton Suspension Bridge.  There will be about a million of these already.  There are a million zillion already floating around the Artiverse.  My excuse is that I was given Hotwells Rd.  Not the best excuse of course, because Hotwells Rd is a fantastically varied and wonderful location with lots of possibilities.  I could have painted Dowry Square, the Swing Bridge, docks, traffic, pubs, Georgian Terraces, more traffic....

But this dawn lit painting was what had to happen so here it is.  Yes it's very purple.  I wonder whether I should just throw that Dioxazine Purple away but I can't I can't it's such a delicious and hypnotic colour for me.  And I can't say I haven't enjoyed it - have loved every minute of it. And yes I know I won't win any prizes and it's usually not the best selling venue....

But enjoying what you do has to be what makes it worth it in the end.


1 Comment
Bags
9/9/2013 06:05:39 am

Why oh why? Because your work is so good and deserves high ranking in Bath, Bristol, Buenos Aires or anywhere that celebrates fine painting, woodcuts, or other expressions of the superbly observant spirit. Avanti!

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