How, Why, What... who, when, where...
The above drawing was made around 1997/8, I had returned from Turkey with suspected Tuberculosis, was diagnosed as having Sarcoidosis and spent 6 months convalescing in South Devon, taking steroids and doing regular cardio. At night I’d draw while sitting up in bed, a portable TV for company, I remember it was NBA playoff time and the Chicago Bulls were at their zenith. When sharpening my pencil I’d glance up at the screen, usually to see Pippen sink a 3-pointer, or maybe I was controlling the baller from my bed by pencil sharpening 3-point baskets into being, in order to drop my shavings through the hoop? I was in England, so this was probably between 1 and 3 a.m. A good time for thought-letting and pencil play.
I didn’t feel particularly ill, the doctor said we were dealing with a fungal infection on the lungs that would affect my breathing in later life. I was in my early 20s at the time. For me, convalescence was a free and gentle time, I’d walk into Totnes via the public footpath through Staverton woods to visit the gym, and return on foot, have lunch and maybe swallow a pea-sized particle of marijuana resin, (legal now, calm down Doris!) listen to music, listen to dishes not being done, and then being done, by me, I hasten to add. I’d Vacuum clean, water my Mum’s plants, walk the dogs along the river Dart, read, cook something, it was a relaxing time.
Many drawings from this period were made-up, simply imagined onto the paper by hand. I felt adrift from routine, an unaccounted citizen who did not need to justify their time, and as close to a metaphysical state as I’ve ever been. Sometimes a feeling or sensation would accompany a basic urge to draw. “I wanna draw something, but I don’t know what… just start drawing then!” – I’d say to myself, and still do.
As a teenager I loved to fish, but sold my gear when I went to college. The drawing above imagines a lake which features a peninsula of partly sunken trees, one of which appears to be walking toward the viewer in the foreground. Here is a typically suggestive landscape that many an angler could identify with, particularly having reached the obligatory zen-like tranquility caused by hours of staring at a float, bobber or tip of a rod anticipating a connection with the unseen.
In 2020 I took up Angling again, found a good spot to fish from at a local lake which included a fallen tree lying in the water on my right. This prone wooden skeleton extended out into the lake for about 15 meters and I’ve fished this location numerous times. On one morning I sensed a warm familiarity, something like an extra layer of temporal reality pasted into the space I occupied, so I took a photo.
I‘m not suggesting that the two images are facsimiles of each other, or even that they bear much resemblance. However, there are similarities: Note the ripple on the water in both drawing and photograph, indicating a wind of similar direction and strength. In the drawing the addition of short diagonal marks helps to describe the surface space and introduce the notion of movement caused by the breeze; In the photo, natural forces do their thing.
Secondly, the texture of bark on the ‘walking trunk’ as described in the drawing mirrors that of the tree in the photograph.
Furthermore, although there is no growth of foliage on the dead tree in the photograph, one can observe leaves at the far right of the foreground bearing a likeness to the shape and size of those in the drawing.
Finally, and probably most significantly, the point of view in both images is seen from the same height distance and angle, with comparable space between tree and point of view This could be attributed to the fact that both pictures were made by me, but this nonetheless is key. It is the vision of an individual person.
In addition, these images are psychically synonymous and offer a bridge between the zones of imagination and the here and now, or the ‘here and now then.’ I experienced a sensation that was part deja vu, hallucination, ecstasy, epiphany and wholeness, something I had a small hand and heart in manifesting. Is it possible to imagine something into being? Positive Mental Attitude? Perhaps this is fundamental to artistic process and practices. “not knowing why, but knowing what for.” to quote Martin Kippenberger. I had experienced a twenty four year gestation period before the work reached fruition, or turned the cosmic corner.
Incidentally, at art school I recall being reprimanded for submitting preparatory project materials retrospectively. I started right off the bat with the finished artwork, and was chastised for offering supposedly initial images and notes after the fact, which I had ‘inconveniently misplaced.’ In reality I’d rapidly manufactured the the absent materials post-deadline. We were taught, probably correctly, that the artistic process should involve brainstorming, experimentation with versions of ideas and images teased out over a series of developments and only following this extensive researching and editorial refinement could we arrive at a finished version.
What would’ve probably held greater traction with my teachers at the time would be the notion that from the photograph, I had done a series of thumbnail sketches using the image as a springboard and triggering a variety of customization and enhancements, riffing, if you will, on the original. This anthropomorphic notion of a fallen tree trunk rising and walking across a water surface would only be accepted by the pedagogues if it had occurred subsequently.
Below is what subsequently occurred…
Clothing worn on the bank or in the woods can be similar to garments seen in the neighborhood. Generously fitting jackets, trousers and jeans that allow ease of movement. Hooded sportswear, and peaked/woolen hats pulled down to the bridge of the nose. A display of style and controlled swagger which announces to the onlooker “I know what I’m doing, buddy!” all the while one’s wand of choice at hand, be it fishing rod, firearm or phone.
The idea popped-to-mind that I should do a version of the sunken tree drawing, but actually show a few anglers rapping with their rods as if they were extended microphones, it struck me that bling-enhanced fishing equipment might appeal to rappers, or Country and Western artists for that matter, but exponents of Hip-Hop have always been a personal preference.
At first, I considered the concept of rappers enjoying an afternoon’s fishing a surreal proposition, particularly if they were using jewel-encrusted equipment, but over the years I’ve noted a development in the genre of urban fishing, that is, streetwise individuals moving about the cities of the world with rods in-hand catching their share of fish. As for the bling element, a trip to the Country Music Museum in Nashville will testify to the range of functional objects bejeweled to the verge of indecency, I definitely recall a silver plated, diamond encrusted Armadillo, I could scarcely look it in the eye. Indeed, there is even a specific term within British fishing vernacular to describe this idea, an angler with fancy eye-catching gear is referred to as a “tackle tart.” Looking forward, perhaps ‘camouflage bling’ will soon be paraded along bank side catwalks and back woods trails, if it isn’t already in our midst.
Charlie Chaplin impaled on his cane
Circa 1.00 a.m. 1990, I woke up in a flower bed in Princess Gardens, on Torquay seafront, South Devon, England. The busses had gone and I was alone with a booze-addled head. I stumbled out of the horticulture and began to walk home. Looking at Google Maps, I now see that this journey to Staverton was 10.5 miles via Hellevoetsluis Way, (Yes, ‘Hellevoetsluis,’ it’s a town in Southern Holland with cultural ties to Torquay and currently the name of a bypass in the area). I realize now that I could have shaved a full mile off my walk if I’d elected to take an alternate route along Preston Down Rd. But that would have felt too insular and after all, I’ve always considered myself a European.
After trudging a few miles and regaining some clarity I picked up the pace a little, it occurred to me that I was in fact marching and I began to recite an old U.S. military marching song my Grampy had taught me during childhood.
“I left my wife with thirty nine children to die of starvation without any gingerbread left, right, left, right, left.”
I repeated this line thousands of times out loud during my march home, caused horses to bolt from behind dark hedges, unidentified fowl to hissy fit, and hooters to hoot, which in turn, had the effect of accelerating my own footwork through the country lanes. I did not encounter any other human beings during my walk, save for a few drivers which I’d evade in the confined space by leaning backward into the hedge itself, I don’t even think the motorists realized I was there.
Consequently, I understand why the military use the discipline of marching to cover ground on foot efficiently. The rhythmic repetition of steps to song drove me forward as if in a trancelike state, perhaps what I was doing was a form of authoritarian dance.
Sgt. Major: “Lance Corporal Shaman, halt and stand at ease!”
LCS: “I can’t sir, I’m in a trance.”
Sgt. Major: “What did you say?”
LCS: “I dunno Sir, I’m in a trance!”
During the final couple of miles, as my back started to ache, I focussed on what I’d do when I finally entered the sanctuary of the house. Maybe something to eat and watch some TV. What I didn’t expect was the urge to draw would take hold. I found a sheet of A4 paper, a felt tip pen and in a matter of seconds unthinkingly executed the line drawing below. ‘Unthinkingly,’ I say because it just flowed unselfconsciously, no pondering of composition, proportion, or even contemplation of what the identity of image might be. However, it seemed to me that the drawing somehow represented my walk home and how I felt about it.
Looking at the drawing decades later, I see it as a portal to a very specific phase of experience. A giant surrealist metronome, powered by Chaplin’s indefatigable energy but eternally frozen mid-swing. A monument to my secret pilgrimage home, sealed by a drawing which also acts as a graphic record of my march.