Night Enters the Kitchen
Each session so far on this drawing has provided a growing enthusiasm. Each time I have waited for the daylight to drain away and for night to come, only then have I dared to look across at the window to draw this area.
I want it to boldly establish a strong effect of contrasted light so that it cocoons a vibrant intricacy and that the drawing sparkles.
I want to start a very intricate large abstract painting, which cascades like the tumbling of leaves and seeds as nature meanderingly penetrates the 'sieve' of gravity.
The second drawing of the kitchen, this time seen again through the beaded bamboo curtains, but from deep in the passage outside Jason's room. The drawing can only be made at night. An intense effect of light is sought and it will finish as a detailed chiaroscuro ink drawing using 02 and 05mm drawing pens.
The seven ceramic spheres are being glazed. Two will be fired tomorrow, and whilst those two are tasting the heat I will dress their companions in coats of many colours.
The drawing of the passage is now in technicolour with coloured inks glazed over the black pen lines. It fills me with a strange excitement, although I cannot yet control the means of projecting this. If the drawing fails, which I fear it must, at least it will move me closer to total expression. This drawing has raked up feelings of colour fresh from my past in the 1960's. I am so happy to meet these old feelings again.
A few days ago on Radio Three there was an excellent programme about Eskimos. In particular there was an old Eskimo aged 85 years who seemed to be carrying in his mind all the heritage of the Eskimo culture. The interviewer, who clearly delved with the obsessive intensity of a man who loved his subject, recorded the old man for posterity. It had the poignancy of being in the presence of the last dodo.
One story concerned a hunter who after many days of fruitless hunting had become tired, hungry, lonely, and extremely depressed whilst wandering over the icy wilderness. Suddenly he came upon travellers who immediately displayed great kindness, giving him food, drink, blankets and their most beautiful woman. He soon was under the blankets with her and very happy. In the morning he awoke cold and alone. No travellers, no blanket, no woman; only on his chest some feathers from the wing of a ptarmigan. He had not met people; he had met the ptarmigans.
This is so symbolic of the elusive love that I have always searched for that I would like to make a painting about it.
I also wish to paint some nude images of a woman suspended in time. I will stretch canvases and try to find a suitable model.
I 'see' the children with a new crystal clearness. I love them so much and this despair has enabled me to be washed clean. It is a deeply religious experience and the feeling for others has displaced my own needs for breasts and personal comforts.
Suddenly I am a healer. My painting is my life.
The despair will perhaps intensify, but my being grows underneath.