An English Artist in Brittany

Geese Are Getting Fat- Already!

2011-11-12T14:49:00.009+01:00

Cross-Channel Ferry, Rain

“Is it really that time again? It doesn't seem like a year since you were round last!”

Well, yessiree, it is- we've travelled in the rain from Roscoff to Plymouth, and through the drizzle heading North to the market town of Clitheroe, Lancashire, where we'll brighten shop windows with our jolly and festive paintings.

We have the luxury of a house in the town this year which means we can walk to work and get home in the light if we finish early enough. We can see the castle from our street, and there's a fish and chip shop on the corner- such a novelty for the exiled Brit- and a particular delight to Mr. Price! We haven't actually had any as yet, but it's just the knowing that it's there.

I was almost happy, too, to be woken up in the early hours by a milkman making his deliveries. And I've seen a coalman. Small but important pleasures!

While we're here I have paintings to deliver to the Colin Jellicoe Gallery in Manchester and the Calder Gallery in Hebden Bridge. The latter is a new one to me, and I've enjoyed depicting a different landscape. The Calder Valley area of Yorkshire is so full of contrasts- high, bleak moorlands stand over the old factory and mill towns in their deep, lush valleys.

Last week I was in Salford to sign up for an exhibition at the Museum and Art Gallery. The room where I'll be is enormous and I felt very small... probably because I'm very small! But filling the space with my work will be a wonderful opportunity for my own development as an artist..I can only improve!

In the meantime it's out with the red paint for berries, reindeer noses and Santa, and the green for trees and decking the halls with holly. The red red robin bobs along to the Estate Agents; a mother lays her baby in a barber's window; the Three Kings traverse afar by field and fountain, moor and mountain, and call for refreshments at Molly's café on Moor Lane.

With a smile on our faces and a Ho-ho-ho, we're ringing in the new and the true... yes, already!

Nativity.. Alastair Price

Dances with Bretons

2011-09-20T16:59:00.018+02:00

St.Quay, the old port

Brittany in September is recuperating from the summer influx of tourists and Parisians.
We drive on quieter roads to see our friend, Yann Lozet, up the coast from here.
Yann is a true bagpipe-playing, bombarde-blowing Breton, but at six foot eight in height, he's far from 'traditionally built'.
Our connection with his family goes back a very long way.
Before the Second world War, Mr. Price's father was still at school in Wolverhampton and had a French penpal called Christian Savary. When war broke out he heard nothing from him for several years.
Then in 1944 came the sad news from Christians sister, Denise. He'd joined the Resistance movement and had been captured and executed by the Germans in Rennes.

The correspondence continued with Denise, however, for around fifty years.
It's up to us, now, to keep up the contact.
Yann's invited us to see him playing, and, after a spot of sketching before dusk, we find ourselves in a large hall packed with dancers. We're strongly encouraged to join in with the jollifications and after an hour my calves are aching and I'm still confusing the hops, skips and jumps. There are so many different dances, each with its own local versions.... gavottes, ficels, bals and avants-deux.

Hurray, here's a refreshment break. We drink cider and there's chocolate cake. Curiously, in a big earthenware pot, there's rice pudding, which people try bravely to eat from floppy paper plates, until some bright spark produces plastic bowls.
More bewildering dances with some of the throng taking themselves very seriously, and beginners, like ourselves, collapsing in giggles. I bet they don't like that.
It goes on 'til after midnight- how do they do it?! I want to go to bed, but now we're invited to stay on a while here with Yann and the musicians and organisers, and... to his house afterwards.
We drink more cider and eat more cake, and Mr.Price (due to his size) is asked if he's related to Yann, who has to bend double to speak to a lady.
"For once, I wasn't the biggest bloke in the room" he says on the way home, at half-past two in the morning.

Caroline Johnson

Breton Dancing at St Quay

Holiday Time!

2011-08-09T16:30:00.013+02:00

It's the holidays, the family are over and we're busy visiting favourite places. While the 'children' and grandchildren play it's a great opportunity to get some sketches done.
What a delight to sit on a sunny beach, lean against a rock and draw this lovely scene!
This beautiful 'maison de maitre' at Dinard was built in the late eighteen-hundreds and is called 'Les Roches Brunes'.
It was bequeathed to the town and exhibitions are now held here.

Another popular place for a day out is the heavenly Pen-Guen beach.

Between dips in the sea I practise drawing the chaos of rocks at the foot of the cliffs....

..........while Mr Price sketches his favourite subject- people.

Caroline Johnson, Rennes and Manchester

Urban Sketches, Urban Paintings

2011-06-27T15:09:00.012+02:00

On the ferry, English Channel

It feels good to be back in one's own country and last time was no exception. In May we sailed from Roscoff in Brittany to Plymouth in England and journeyed to our homeland in the north via the motorways M5 and M6. Early summer was upon us, with the elderflower just in bloom, small farms on the hills and red-brick towns like rashes across the landscape, their chimneys coughing smoke. Here and there, the tower of an ancient church rising from the trees evoked an earlier, less fickle age. Motorway Travel

We went to the private view of an exhibition at the Calder Gallery in the old industrial town of Hebden Bridge, now generally cleaned- up and very arty and touristy .. we arrived early and to while away the time we were forced to have a cream tea and sit by the river watching the ducks. Quel dommage!
Earlier that week I'd had the opening of my solo exhibition 'The Secret World of the Ordinary' at the See Gallery in Crawshawbooth. "Where the hell is Crawshawbooth?" I hear you ask- well, it's:

" a small village on the edge of the Pennine Hills in England just north of the market town of Rawtenstall, Lancashire, and just south of Loveclough It is part of the valley of Rossendale, an ancient royal hunting ground. The majority of surrounding land is farm and moor land and
many walkers come to the area."

For me, Urban sketching has a parallel in urban painting, and this is mainly what the exhibition is about. Thank to the tender ministrations of Mr. Price, we had some great publicity for the show:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-manchester-13595893

The See Gallery is a wonderful place to exhibit and the 'galleristes' are human and approachable. You have just under a week in which to visit, and to claim a cup of tea when you tell them I sent you!

(My many thanks go out to to Julian and Jackie, to our friends and family, and to everyone who came along to the show.)

A Care Home Sketchbook

2011-05-08T13:02:00.005+02:00

Last month, Mr Price and myself have a week's residency in a care home on the South coast of England- I'm invited to fill a sketchbook with drawings of the staff and residents, and my fellow artist is to paint a jolly mural in the entrance hall.
"Careful they don't keep you in" quips Mr P on the ferry over.
The first day's spent meeting staff and finding our way around. I get an anxious text from my son ..' does it smell of wee?'. Well, no, thankfully and there are pretty tablecloths and fresh flowers in the dining room.

I don't want intrude suddenly into the lives of those who work, or even pass their last days in the home and it's best, I think, to draw the gardens first, so that folk can see me from the windows and get used to my small figure snooping around!

After a day or so, I ask the residents in the TV lounge- those who've stayed awake during Alan Titchmarsh- if they'd mind my sitting with them and sketching.

The elderly have a habit of dropping off, which makes for easy portraits...
.........but on Wednesdays, the hairdresser comes. There's a hidden sink in the cupboard in the corner of the lounge for washing hair, then she puts the rollers in, which gives a more animated series of sketches.

Meanwhile, Mr. Price is getting on well with his mural, despite the attentions of an elderly admirer who tells him he's a big man, he's got big legs and a fat belly .

One of the ladies invites me to her room to show me a book of drawings she'd did when younger and later on I'm able to draw her room full of memories. I'm told that some resident's rooms are stuffed with objects from their past life, and others bring nothing with them.

The staff, too, are important it's essential I capture the day-to-day hard work of running the home.....
..... and their many acts of kindness towards the residents,

I'm touched by people's friendliness and feel privileged to have the

opportunity to document such an interesting place!

Drawing Rooms

2011-03-29T10:07:00.001+02:00

For the past couple of years I've organised a sketching group which meets once a month.

In the winter, we meet up at someone's house and draw what's round us.

Last time, we met up at Suzy's near Dinan- it was the school holidays, so the younger ladies who had children brought them along and they sat and sketched with us.

There's always tea and cakes to hand- this time there were three different kinds to choose from!

Suzy's dog: AD Price, aged 44

Bookshelf: Manon, aged 7.

Washing Day Blues

2011-02-25T15:03:00.021+01:00

Brittany's still wet and cold at this time of year and now's a good time to get some drawing done indoors. I can't go in the studio with the heater on as we're on a system of electricity which means we get expensive days, and this week's full of them.
What better, then, than to hole up in the kitchen with the woodstove a-burnin' and the kettle a-singin' and the cat a... you get the picture.
Kitchens are wonderful places to draw and in my head I'm singing Robert Johnson's 'Come On In My Kitchen' as I work.

Thoughts turn to this, the most important (sometimes the only) room in any home. The heart of a home, it's said, and ours is no different.
The ancient, simple table is one I bought at auction, already worn by a hundred years of use. This ink stain at one end must be where 'Father' sat and laboured over his letters, where down the years his hands smoothed and oiled the surface to a rich, deep sheen.
Here, too, have congregated our own friends and families.Although " some have gone and some remain.. some are dead and some are living" (Lennon-McCartney), they sit here still, in the mind's eye... the babies Sam and Ben brandish their spoons; my son sits with a 'lucky dip' of girlfriends; my daughter and her new boyfriend are here- she's pregnant but she doesn't tell me; a German photographer is beguiled by scones with jam and cream (he took pictures of us for an alternative guide to Brittany!) and Mr. Price's rock band Dynamos snack on home-made biscuits.
Here's Mark from Birkenhead with tales of his love-life; William with one wife, then a second; our neighbour 'The Only Intellectual in the Village' sweeps back his long black hair (his ridiculously pointed shoes are under the table) And here, too is poor doomed Tom- "Tom with the scruffy hair" my children call him. Tom who a couple of years later fatally falls from a cliff.
Unexpected guests take their place round the table- one July a tall fair stranger and his son knock on the door at midnight looking for shelter. They've travelled from Holland that day and, puzzled, can't find accommodation on the lowliest campsite or the fanciest hotel. He's Mat V, who is a well-known face on Dutch television, but of course we don't know him from Adam and why should we? We drink some beer, put them up next door, they end up staying all week, and visit us regularly down the years. Although, now, they never travel to France on Bastille Day!

Friends in High Places...

2011-01-31T20:39:00.001+01:00

Old Rennes, the Ty-Anna Tavern

We have younger French friends who live in and around Rennes. This is thanks to Mr. Price's musical 'bent' and his rock band members.
Some of them have lived in the medieval quarter, in buildings with narrow twisting oak staircases and sloping wooden floors. The rue St. Michel, for example, with its half- timbered buildings set at jaunty angles to the perpendicular. These would have belonged to affluent merchants and craftspersons- and I'm not talking cute pottery frogs here, or a hand-crocheted toilet-roll cover!
Elodie and Fred's large room on the first floor overlooked the street through long, wide windows made up of small panes divided by wooden mullions and lead glazing bars. Or muntins as I just found out.....
Everywhere here was built of oak- floorboards, partitions, ceiling, which gave a feeling of being on board an old galleon, or in the heart of a forest, protected by trees.
Contrast this, then, to the uncompromising high-rise apartments which pierce the skyline of Rennes.

In England, living in a block of flats often carries with it a stigma, the cheerless vision of graffiti-scarred, pock-marked stairwells with the heady reek of urine. Not so for our Gallic friends! It's acceptable, even desirable to live in the town where you work. I know a doctor in Rennes whose collegues found it curious- and- laughable when he bought a farmhouse in the countryside a whole fifteen-minutes' drive away.
Inside and out, these French 'grandes immeubles' are bright, clean and well-designed.
Unmistakable among them is the thirty-storey 'Les Horizons', built in 1970 and designed by Maillols. The facade is waves and troughs, light and shadow and, in the evening, when the lights come on in the flats, they make oval shapes.

We've been invited to dine on Saturday in one of the flats, and I've promised to make dessert. It's time, then to open 'The National Trust book of Traditional Puddings' and choose a dish which will prove to the doubting French that English food can be sublime. And I'll can rest safe in the knowledge that when we get there the lift will work and we won't have to carry it up a dark and desolate staircase to the umpteenth floor!

Caroline Johnson - Rennes.

Back Home from Home

2010-12-27T14:50:00.015+01:00

Clitheroe and Pendle Hill

A happy Christmas has been had in Brittany after six weeks away.
We painted over thirty shop windows in Clitheroe, a pretty Lancashire town nestling in the shadow of moody, infamous Pendle Hill.

AD Price at Clitheroe Dry Cleaners

It's a delight to be back among friendly folk and the cold days are pierced by plenty of hot drinks and " Do you want a bacon butty, Caroline, only we usually have summat round now?" ; "I made this flapjack last night" ; "would you like a mince pie?" ...well... yes, yes and yes!

Caroline Johnson at Revolve Gallery, Clitheroe

This time the weather's much kinder than last year's constant rain. We've rented a cosy cottage in a nearby village.. and what a treat! it's just a two-minute walk to see my daughter and her family, sit in their kitchen, repel the over-enthusiastic dog who eats my new hat, ("Bad Dog, Trevor!!" ) and do a drawing.

Mr.Price is chuffed, too, to be able to stroll to the shop for The Guardian or an actual pint of milk in a proper bottle.

Parking on the village street's a bit tight, though- feelings run high and an angry note "DO NOT PARK HERE AGAIN!" is left one morning on our windscreen .
Caroline Johnson: Roo's Kitchen #3

Window painting takes up a lot of our time but I manage to get a few sketches done. I'm pleased to get a couple of hours drawing the great view from the back bedroom window towards the church. Here is a delightful muddle of old stone walls, gardens and their clutter of sheds, coal-bunkers and a row of what must have been the old cottage toilets. I wouldn't fancy trailing out there and exposing myself to the season's cruel blasts, I muse, and think of Christina Rossetti's poem....
' In the bleak mid-winter, frosty wind made moan'.

Caroline Johnson: The Backs of the Cottages

On the Road Again... Again!

2010-11-08T13:22:00.007+01:00

Apologies are way overdue for my absence, my excuses sound like this- being away for most of August; producing new works of Birmingham for my agent ( sounds fancy but means I get even less cash) and five wee paintings of Manchester to do for the Colin Jellicoe Gallery. All this hasn't given me much time for writing.
Mr. Price and myself are once again itinerant artists now staying in a pretty village in the hills of Lancashire, on the edge of the Trough of Bowland, where Tolkein got his inspiration for The Shire.
Like last year, we're painting shop windows with a Yuletide theme in the market town of Clitheroe; to date we're eleven shops down and twenty-odd to go.
I've painted ten robins already and Mr. Price has had his 'baptism of fire' with- for an electrical shop- his depiction of Father Christmas emerging from a 3D television along with various desirable goods... radio, headphones, toaster.
A difficult one, that- but we aim to please! See us in action for the next couple of weeks, take us for a coffee break!!

On the Road Again

2010-09-03T10:26:00.003+02:00

Since the beginning of July I've been working hard, travelling and preparing for my daughter's August wedding.
On our travels in Britain Mr Price and I stopped for an hour in Chepstow, promising ourselves a bit of sight-seeing and ice-creams before crossing the Bristol channel by the Severn Bridge.
Chepstow's a pretty Welsh town with, disappointingly, no home-made ice-cream shops along its cobbled streets... frustrated, we opted instead to sit on the sunlit castle lawns to sulk and to sketch.
It's a beautiful ruined Norman castle, perched on a limestone cliff above the river Wye. Building started in 1067 and it's the oldest surviving stone castle in Britain.
In the second Civil War, the parliamentarians, led by Colonel Ewer, took the castle by storm and breached the walls with their cannon.
This was in a fit of pique after they discovered there were no ice creams to be had in town.....

Working On The Railway

2010-07-04T10:22:00.018+02:00

Merdrignac is a pretty town on the inland road heading towards western Brittany. The highway runs by Loudeac, Rostrenen, the Daoulas Gorges and the Black Mountains- which aren't exactly vertiginous, but more like high moorland.
After a drive of two or three hours from here, you would reach Finistere of the shipping forecasts and the grimly beautiful Crozon Peninsula with its giddying cliffs and the furious sea thrashing on the reefs.
However, despite its charms, Merdrignac has nothing so spectacular to recommend it to the guide books. Even the trains have gone, but where the railway ran has been made into part of a 'voie verte'- an 18km hiking/cycle track .
Along the way, several old railway passenger shelters are being renovated, and we were asked to paint some reminders of the past inside the one at Merdrignac.
This is what Mr. Price has been doing for
the last week or so and on a searingly hot day I go along to have a look at his work.
He's painted a fifties-style stationmaster and he's added some clutter- a box of lettuces, a shopping bag, an umbrella, torn cinema posters of the era. There's a newspaper on the bench, too, and I see he's shown the article where some poor unfortunate was guillotined the previous morning.. featured later in 'Qui Detective No 552'!
While the artist applies some anti-graffiti varnish I go for a wander. The old station building's used as a council depot now and the yard's full of signs, compressors and other machines- a world that, thankfully, I know little about.
I'm somehow excited when I find a bit of the old railway track glinting through the surface of the 'voie verte', a souvenir of a gentler time when a journey was ruled by a train timetable.
There's a convenient bench further on where I sit and draw what must have been a railway workers' house.
Nearby is the town's swimming pool and, as I work, this provides a backdrop of childrens' cries- "Elise, Elise!!" " Venez les filles!!". It's a class of schoolchildren and the shouting stops only when someone misbehaves, the teacher blows his whistle and tells them off. There's a deathly silence, and even I feel guilty!
Back at the abris voyageur the varnishing's finished- how smelly it is, like nail varnish remover! "Amyl acetate", my Dad once told me, in the days when we could talk, when he wasn't so deaf.
Let's hope the naughty teenagers who hang out in this shelter, drinking beer, kicking the walls and spraying their tags will leave off out of respect for the artist's handiwork!

Armchair Football

2010-06-13T15:36:00.008+02:00

Now, I'm not all that keen on football but I once saw an excellent World Cup Final on a TV in a bar in Chamonix in the French Alps. That was in 1966....back....back in time....... on one side of a long table were the English supporters, and opposite us were the... well you get the picture and I'm not one to gloat. Not here anyway.
It's England versus USA tonight, so to turn our evening into a more positive experience for several people at once I suggest to Mr. Price that we take beer round to an English neighbour, (a keen lady football fan, I assure you!) and watch the game there... thinking I can draw the two of them as they followed the match.
There's just one' jumping-up-and-down -and -shouting- YES!' incident from the pair when England score their only goal, so I can work quite solidly as they sit slumped in their armchairs.
And a convenient space on my picture means I can write down bits of commentary from the TV and from my companions.
Someone's got his jumper on his lap while I'm drawing him and complains bitterly that I've made him look like he has "a massive prolapse or something" so I slap on some white gouache to remedy the offending lump and go over that bit again.
Still not quite right, but it'll do and the match is over and we're off and away home with no other cars to be seen, only the flash of moths and a scurry of rabbits in the limbo of the twilight country lanes.

Dinard, Hitchcock and The Birds

2010-06-12T16:29:00.003+02:00

Dinard's such a lively and pretty place! It's an old-fashioned Breton seaside town, nestling around white sea-strands and an emerald sea.
In the late 19th century American and British aristocrats popularised Dinard as a fashionable summer resort, and they built stunning villas on the cliff tops and exclusive hotels such as the 'Le Grand Hotel' on the seafront during the French "Belle Epoque".
It's rumoured that Alfred Hitchcock (who spent time here) based the house in 'Psycho' on one of these villas.
Dinard has a British Film Festival each October, and to acknowledge this, a statue of the film director- complete with birds- stands on the promenade by the Plage de l'Ecluse.
A well-placed bench overlooks this and, as I sit and draw, a flock of marauding seagulls sweep down to the beach and attack the belongings trustingly left on the beach by some unwary bather.
In a callous and uncaring way I'm secretly delighted as a plastic bag of, I presume, culinary delights for the returning swimmer, is mercilessly torn to shreds before a sunbathing 'neighbour' stops the destruction by shouting and flapping his arms.
As I continue with my sketch I wonder if Hitchcock ever witnessed something similar? Before me, his bronze statue looks out over the scene and his dead eyes glint in the hot sun, but he remains understandably impassive....

Sunday Fun!

2010-05-25T13:53:00.009+02:00

It's a long holiday weekend in Brittany, for a religious feast-called 'Consumption', 'Reprobation' or somesuch.
We're invited for lunch on the Sunday chez some English friends and the twenty-minute journey to Evran takes us through several villages.
Usually, all to be seen on the way (if you're lucky!) is perhaps an old woman bent double, painfully making her way down the road with a bucket. "Why?" is Mr. Price's usual comment.
Today's different, it's hot and sunny, there's a car-boot sale in one village and a cycle race in another; the village cafes have put out bright umbrellas and tables and people are sitting at them!
Folk are out for a stroll, or gardening and there's an elderly man in a vest sweeping the path by his garden wall, watched by his wife.
"Why?!" says Mr. Price, predictably, "Why go outside on the hottest day since records began- probably- and, in this searing heat, sweep up clouds of dust into your face?!!"
We eat lunch outside, in the shade, with views across the fields to farms and barns.

In our own village, too, when we get back, there's a bit of activity. There was a wedding here yesterday, and, as is traditional, some of the guests have got together for a midday meal the next day.
Plus there's a delight of delights for the artist starved of new and refreshing subject matter on her doorstep! A breakaway faction of Bretons has set up a game of 'palets' just across the road
and in full view of the upstairs studio window!
Flowering hawthorn trees makes a beautiful backdrop to this charming evening pageant, played out on the lawn by the church. I find a page in my sketchbook that I've already prepared with a green wash and I work on top of this with a conté pencil, watercolour and gouache.
While the men get on with their game the women sit and talk and small children play.
By the time I'm finished, the palet players are leaving, taking with them their wooden boards and their metal discs.
Soon, I think, the hedgehog who likes to snuffle about on this quiet patch will come out to look for worms and insects and will discover his daisied lawn trampled underfoot. He will notice the traces of man: here a sweet-wrapper, there a discarded cigarette butt, and, I fear, the taint of pipi by the hedge.

Images: Caroline Johnson 'Palet Players Under Flowering Hawthorns, Brittany' and ' Across the field, Evran'. The 16th Century version of palets.

Out on the Town

2010-05-05T12:15:00.017+02:00

At about eight pm on a Saturday, our friend from up the hill, The Only Intellectual in the Village calls round. Do we want to go to the theatre? Tonight? At ten-thirty? Well, no, not really, kind thought though it is, I'd already planned an evening full of activities: a bit of telly, glass of wine or two, chocolate. It might even involve a pair of pyjamas if I can find the energy to trail upstairs to put them on.
"But yes! How nice! That would make a lovely change, wouldn't it?" I force a smile towards Mr. Price.
The big road to Dinan's blocked, says our friend later, and he takes a detour through a hundred villages, driving furiously with a remix of Noir Desir blasting out from the speakers next to me in the back.
I'm convinced I'm going to die- but I don't, and I survive to see the 13th Century Theatre des Jacobins in all its beauty. We aren't in the main theatre but in a less formal, relaxed venue with chairs and tables set before a small stage.
I've brought my sketchbook , in case of boredom, and I do a quick study of the audience before the act comes on and the lights go off. They're called Lui et Moi (Him and Me), a comedic musical duo who are (my translation):

"at the crossroads 0f reality and wonderland, between poetry and madness... first and foremost they are Two Fools, who, between songs, are mainly silent, interacting with glances and few words. Between black humour and flights into popular and romantic music, these clown-poet-singers question our society, our bad habits and give us hope and joy, in all humility"

They're really rather good, and I'd enjoy it even more if I understood more than a fifth of the cultural references and the plays on language.
I can remember feeling lost and stupid like this when listening to Georges Brassens in the Sixties. The audience bursts into laughter and I think 'Eh?" and by the time I've vaguely worked something out it's no longer amusing and I've missed half the next verse. Now and again, though, I do catch something and that makes it worthwhile.

Wow! Seven years studying the language at school to A-Level standard; two summers spent wasting around with French friends; seventeen years over here speaking fluently, but I go to see something like this and I'm floundering!
I'm in the dark with my drawing, too, but scribble on and I'm quite pleased with the funny results: detached heads, weird guitars and stripy socks, there's somehow a visual Essence of Performance which nicely matches my distorted, reduced-down understanding of the whole event.
The two make a pleasant whole and I don't really regret the pyjamas!

A La Recherche Du Thumb Perdu...

2010-04-30T16:41:00.008+02:00

Mid-week last week and we go back to the Polyclinique 'with' Mr Price's injured thumb. "The twentieth was yesterday, monsieur" the receptionist informs him, but kindly arranges for the specialist to have a look at him.
We have a long wait in a small room, and- wouldn't you know it! the doctor comes in when I'm halfway through sketching a counterful of grim iodine bottles, lint and bandage boxes.
In town later we meet up with our nice neighbour who lives up the hill from us: he's The Only Intellectual in the Village and one of those foppish, rakish bachelors who seem to typify the French male to the British. Thankfully, today he isn't wearing his ridiculous shoes with the elongated and upturned chisel-toes.... I'd have pretended I hadn't noticed him!
He's whiling away the time until the film starts at the cinema opposite.

It's a lovely sunny day as we sit outside Le Café Noir. I draw while the other two talk or discutent, I'm unable to do both as they're different sides of the brain- well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. They discuss world wars, books, music, art and film... and how that man who went by was staring so intently at that lady's bottom.
I'm sketching the bloke at the table just along from me who looks like he based himself on the Gallagher brothers- combat jacket, unshaved, a bit rough. He's sullen and silent and it's only when he gets up and mumbles that he's going to faire pipi that I realise he's with the young woman drinking Coca-Cola opposite .
As we leave we notice a customer with his arm in a sling and yet another in a wheelchair. Indicating his own poor bandaged hand, Mr Price quips "Café des Invalides!" .

Thumbs Down!!

2010-04-15T13:23:00.008+02:00

From the Polyclinique, Léhon

Sunday afternoon.... and Mr.Price somehow manages to run the power drill bit with countersink attachment onto his thumb, while doing a bit of DIY.
Barry Bucknell, for those of us who remember, never told us how to tackle this sort of problem.
At les Urgences the examining doctor says the tendon's damaged and to come back tomorrow for his colleague to look at it "sur le bloc" and I have visions of a butcher scraping down his lump of wood, wearing one of those bloodied aprons with the bits of meat stuck to it.
There's nowhere to park the next morning when I deliver the grumbling Mr Price to his fate, so I dump him- without time for any fond goodbyes- outside the spanking-new clinic in Léhon.
By the afternoon he's sitting up in bed in a first-floor room wearing a fetchingly inadequate paper gown. "One size fits all!" the nurse had said "We'll see!" said he.
Having to visit the Polyclinique has the compensation of great views- from here you can see across to the ruined Norman castle on its mound, the ancient abbey, and to the nearby medieval town of Dinan with its clocktower .
Sitting down to sketch to while away the time, I'm unable to see quite so far, but I'm delighted to have the challenge of drawing some weird angles- looking down on the parked cars on a steep descending slope, then the distant road beyond, climbing upwards. Of course, as if pre-destined, any car I choose to draw will soon have a hurrying figure approach it with a set of keys.... how selfish and unthinking!
Footnote: Mr. P is now on the mend, but unable to wash up for at least three weeks.

The Norman castle ruins, Léhon

Le Jardin Anglais

2010-04-10T10:59:00.019+02:00

from the Jardin Anglais, Dinan

Brittany has more than its fair share of medieval citadel towns and Dinan's one of them.
For those of you interested in a serious and academic history of the town, I can recommend the excellent French study (!) ' A Few History', which I newly discovered. Well worth a look, believe me!
I quote:

"..in the beginning of the XIIE century a defensive system outline exists, as testifies some Idrish historiengéograph Arab: <>
To this period spaces it closed comprise numerous prairies to feed the cattle and to provide to needs of the population in case of seat." "....During this disturbed period, English not cease to pester the city.."

On a wild and windy day last week, after calling in at the agents in the square to put the house up for sale Mr. Price and I go for a sketch.
From the Jardin Anglais you can look dizzily down onto the long sweep of the viaduct and the port below. Lovely though the vista might be, it's far too blustery to stand by the walls to draw, so we find a bench in the gardens with interesting houses close by.

Dinan in Summertime- moules frites, Place des Cordeliers.

There are tourists about, and schoolkids, and snatches of conversation float on the wind from the adolescent pupils from the college of Les Cordeliers- "I tell you, he wants to go out with you!"
"Well, I don't want!!"
And from two American ladies "... and then we go round the back of the church and then we..." "We already went there!"
After half an hour, it looks like rain, so we pack up and, nicely installed in a warm café in the Place St. Sauveur, wait to order. Then realise the parking ticket's about to time out. Visions of steaming cups of hot chocolate evaporate before us, but by way of compensation on the way home we decide to call in on a nice couple we know.
He makes a great cup of tea and she bakes wonderful cakes- what's not to like?!!

The viaduct and the port, Dinan, circa 1900

Poets, Pancakes and Pirates

2010-03-25T15:39:00.015+01:00

A friend of ours is sailing to Portsmouth and needs a lift to the ferry port, so we take the opportunity to spend a morning in St Malo
It's a dull grey day which is reflected in the stonework of this citadel town.
St Malo's seen at its best when approached from the sea, when the tall houses with their steep roofs rise above the rampart walls.

It's all the more impressive to recall that during the Second World War this was a German stronghold and was virtually razed to the ground by Allied artillery and fire- then carefully rebuilt.
This event forms just one part of St Malo's colourful history, which includes cod-fishing, voyages of discovery (Jacques Cartier lived here) and slave-trading. Another activity, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was preying on Dutch and British vessels- merci,messieurs! this gave the town its nickname of 'City of corsairs'.
Any Johnny-Depp-Alikes are conspicuous by their absence today, however- shame! and tracing the town walls are a small group of Japanese tourists, and a pair of joggers too intent on their task to return a friendly smile... the French take their pleasures seriously!

From here you can see across to the Emerald Coast and the seaside town of Dinard, and closer to are the islands of Cézembre and the inhabited Le Grand Bé, where Chateaubriand is buried. At the foot of the walls on the beach are lovely breakwaters, carved into strange presences by the wind and waves.

The town from the ramparts is a delightful mess of rooftops and chimneys... here are nimble couvreurs working high above a street, below, a bin-lorry creeps its way along the cobbles, here too are creperies, cafés and hotels...a house being renovated- and a tiny glimpse, a sliver between two buildings, of schoolchildren, more heard than seen.

Down in the street we turn our backs on the healthy joggers above and 'plump' for croissants aux amandes from a bakers' kiosque.

In summer these streets will be chocca with tourists, and bright with confectionery stalls selling those lovely sweets that look like pebbles and seagull's eggs, or chocolate sardines wrapped in tinfoil. A brisk trade will be done in stripey Breton tops and matelots' caps, model ships, carved Breton figurines, pancakes and waffles and I'll try my best only to come here outside the months of July and August, but will probably be lured here by visiting friends and family.

The Church Wall Has Eyes

2010-03-06T17:06:00.009+01:00

As seen from my studio window.
It's the French local elections soon, and over the last week cars have been stopping opposite the house disgorging eager supporters of the various parties, busy with posters and paste.
This means that for a few weeks we have a disconcerting sea of faces staring at us from across the road .
Those living over here will -of course!- notice that I haven't included the National Front candidate in my sketch- and, anyway, someone's gouged the eyes out on that one.... quel dommage!

Thoughts Turn to Warmer Climes

2010-03-03T16:53:00.008+01:00

Living on a hill has its advantages, and not only the ability to coast down it to start a reluctant car. A car like a 2cv. Or any car with no oil in it.
We've had rain-la pluie- and wind -le vent and more then enough this week. Not as much as elsewhere, thankfully, but the flooded valley at the foot of our hillside village reminds me of the lovely English Lake District.
Despite my now being an official Urban Sketcher, it's no time to be about on the streets of the town. I'm opting to stay in the studio to paint, and I'm only venturing as far as friends' houses to draw in their kitchens and from their windows, with tea and cake, thank you!

Here's some shameless publicity, but my mind turns to the South... the sun-filled days and balmy evenings spent at Chateau L'age Baston. I'm to do my stint as tutor in July this year, nota bene; with some new and deliriously exciting projects in store for the holiday-students, I'm looking forward to a happy, productive fortnight.
This is is where, after a hard day's work and before dinner, there's time for a refreshing dip in the warm pool.. where I once swam while swallows rose and fell against the sky and drank beside me.

Images: The View from Antoinette's: The View from Chris's: Six Cows and a Donkey, Chateau L'Age Baston.

A Grand Day In

2010-02-14T09:11:00.008+01:00

The kindly owners of 'Pharmacie Le Gouedic' in St Brieuc have said I'm welcome to come inside and sketch one day while Mr. Price does their window paintings.
I sit in the quiet Orthopaedic Department of the shop with its surgical supports, hoists and bits of strange furniture which I hope I'll never need. Monsieur has thoughtfully supplied me with a chair and one of those little adjustable tables on wheels for the bed-ridden, which is great for working at and I'm almost tempted to buy one!
I've forgotten my ink and walk into the centre of town to buy a tiny bottle at great expense from a stationer's. It's freezing and the cold air rasps in the lungs. Seagulls wheel and cry overhead... from here you could be unaware of the closeness of the sea, the nearby port and the lovely Bay of St. Brieuc..
At lunchtime pizzas are delivered, there's a bottle of rosé and we sit in the cramped kitchen with some of the workforce, surrounded by Childrens' Cough Mixtures and inhalers, drinking out of measuring glasses.
Two drawings done by mid-afternoon and I've exhausted the views from the windows, so I turn my artistic eye to the shop interior. I try, and fail, to draw the male mannequin with his neck-brace and corset, so I stick a bit of green paper over the offending scrawl and this does very nicely for a sketch with a Listerine display in the foreground. Never say die!!
Mr. Price finishes his painting just before closing time- he's done a charming parade of poultry along the length of the windows, with a few daffodils thrown in to give some hope of Spring to come... we pack up, walk the cold stone streets to the wind-blasted car park, and head for home.

Twisting the Truth

2010-01-31T10:38:00.009+01:00

This month sees the Art Day folk wrestling with the world of Picasso. Now, I've heard a lot of people scoff at him down the years... you know the sort of remark "my five year old kid could do that!".
Not so, as we find out.
We start off by really looking hard at one of his still-lifes and discovering things... here's a skirting board, these are tiles, there's a staircase leading down. And what we thought was a pretty pair of bosoms is in fact fruit on a glass dish!
I've set up a fairly complex affair based on and around my Nanna's old 1930s Lloyd-loom table, which has wonderful curved legs; quick preliminary sketches are struggled over, the only rule really is to twist the reality into a good, dynamic design. At one point I wedge a couple of objects so they're leaning at weird angles... "You WILL draw it crooked!"
We work in pastel on coloured paper and I have to be constantly on the alert- students keep sliding back into the world of the real and the literal. For example, a plant automatically coloured in shades of green or a book that looks 'normal' and ordinary -reverse that perspective, please!
Also to be avoided is the importance of subject matter over 'background'- both are equally important in the Picasso we looked at, and sometimes it's difficult to distinguish between the two.
The choice of colour's important, too, and we begin with just two or three, remembering that the tone of the paper counts, then add more if needed.
The moans and groans of the first hour change to interest, concentration, decision and finally surprise and pleasure at what's been achieved.
Well done, ladies, we got there in the end!

Here Comes the Sun..... doopadoodah!

2010-01-02T14:50:00.004+01:00

I've neglected my 'big painting' over the festive period ...it's of the castle mound at Clitheroe and all will be revealed, hopefully, in my next blog, but, dear reader, don't hold your breath!
So I thought that, before tackling it again today, I'd sharpen up my eye with some sketching.
Yesterday evening it snowed, and with clear skies and a 'blue' full moon the village and the garden were revealed with a ghostly air of faerie about them.... pretty, but too cold and dark for the indolent artist!
Today, the sun was out - as I drew, the snow was slowly melting, and as I write only the shadows are holding on to their precious patches of white.
Snow outside the studio-dip pen, ink wash and watercolour.

'Tis The Season

2009-12-26T18:24:00.006+01:00

This is the doorway from our kitchen to what is now our living room. The house used to be the village café and grocer's shop, and when the door was open it allowed anyone in the kitchen to see what was happening in the bar.
The greenery came from the edge of the wood up the road and this year I was lucky to get there early and find holly with berries- a few days later all the rest been taken.

On Saturday we woke up to snow and had a pretty walk up the hill as far as the old stone cross. In the early afternoon we tried to drive to a friend's house as she'd got the Christmas edition of the 'Radio Times' for us and they're like hen's teeth round here, but we had to turn back after getting stuck partway up a very slippery hill and narrowly escaping a JCB which slewed out of control on its way down and headed in our direction. More fun as a car skidded into it with the bucket smashing into the driver's window. Now, that's what I call excited Frenchmen! Enough thrills for the day, thank you very much, and we headed home. It was just starting to go dark when I drew the the snowy scene from the bedroom window. It had a sense of urgency and oncoming night, time to close up the curtains and stoke up the log stove.

At the busy supermarket on Tuesday large tables had been set up, laden with Coquilles St. Jacques, or scallops, covered with seaweed to keep them cool and fresh. I ordered a tea at the café and when I asked for milk, the man asked if I wanted hot or cold..the French rarely take milk with their tea.

A friend's small sons spotted me sketching and came over to have a look- I teach them drawing, and I was pleased they'd seen me working 'out in the field'- such a good example!

It's Christmas Day, and you don't have to be a monarchist to find yourself watching the Queen's yearly speech to the nation!

As I'm finishing off a drawing from the TV, our neighbour from the farm across the road (who's a bit of a 'rough diamond') comes round to use the phone. Apparently, he's no longer our neighbour as he and his partner have split up.. he tells us she's expecting a baby- they already have a six-year old daughter. He's worried because their Alsatian dog's loose in the village, and no-one home. When I ask him he says he lives 'nowhere' at present, but has work repairing and constructing earth-built houses, and the use of the works' van.

We give him coffee and home-made ginger biscuits and he says we can have his remaining chickens, then he asks if we could do a portrait of his daughter sometime, he would really love a picture of Tia.....

Starry, Starry Window.

2009-12-15T18:26:00.004+01:00

I'm woken early by a frantic knocking at the door- there's a train strike, local services are cancelled, and two friends on their way to the States desperately need a lift to Rennes station, in order to catch their train to Charles de Gaulle airport. I check the TGV is still running; Mr Price can take them but as he'll now be very late for work, it means we'll have to do together today's Christmas window painting.
It's at Tregueux, near St. Brieuc, at a bank, and, hurray, when we get there they say we can decide for ourselves what to paint. We've already discussed this in the car- it's a very long window which runs down the side of the bank, and we thought a wide ribbon of small stars, punctuated by shooting stars would look effective. The window is slightly tinted, so we keep to light tones, broken whites and gold-yellows.
The French take a long time over lunch, and so we go to eat at 12.15 at the bar/workman's café just up the road.
In France, even a small village might have one of these; they offer a cheap, mainly home-made meal, usually of four courses. This includes a bottle of red wine, but we can have rosé, cider, or fruit juice if we wish.
It isn't just workmen in here, there's a gaggle of office workers and, next to us, two women with a small child and a baby.
Most commerces here close for around two hours at lunchtime- even some of the large supermarkets, so service is at a 'relaxed pace'. The food's good, too, and it's with food and cider-fuelled enthusiasm that we return to the 'bank job' !
Back at 'Credit Mutuel de Bretagne' the window's taking shape, I'm painting the smaller stars- hundreds of them. People come up and say how lovely, it's a busy place and the girl behind the desk is sick and fed up of people asking for free calendars, which are only ready next Tuesday. There's a sign pinned up about this, but no one notices, and some have come back three times. She makes a strangling sign with her hands....
We make good time and the window paintings finished before dark. I take photos inside and out, it looks good, we're pleased, they're pleased, and we're off and away and home by dusk.

The Rain It Raineth Every Day

2009-11-29T15:13:00.011+01:00

I've been away for several weeks. I've been away and it's rained every day without exception.
This is Lancashire where the high and lonely moors soak up the rain like sponges and where the loud and swollen streams run fast into the rivers Ribble and Hodder.
Mr. Price and myself have rented the tiniest, cosiest cottage after that one on the little bridge at Ambleside. It's (and I'm being polite) 'up the back-end of nowhere' above the market town of Clitheroe. I'm still convinced it's in a heavenly spot, if only the weather would improve. We're here to do Christmas window paintings in as many of the shops as will have them; each morning we leave in the rain and the gloom and each evening we get back in the rain and the dark.
In town, folk are still cheerful. I'm painting a restaurant window with a jolly scene of a stagecoach in the snow and I meet two very old ladies who've come on a bus from Burnley for the day. They cast off their rain-bonnets and order soup then the roast beef dinner. "Such a shame our friend isn't with us today to see your work," one says, "She usually comes along with her camera and she's ninety-seven!".
Elsewhere- and we paint twenty-six windows in all- there's always a cup of tea on the go, sometimes with cake or mince pies.
I'm in an empty shop, brightening up the dull facade with a vision of happy snowmen decorating their Christmas tree when the thoughtful owner of the Health Food shop across the road spies me and runs over with a drink.. this is kindness itself!
How different from Brittany. I've kept fairly quiet about this, but generally the ratio of drinks to hours worked is nil to limitless. It's a rare event here when liquid refreshment's offered to the toiling window-painter. Typically, this week Mr. Price worked for five hours in a hairdressers, where the clients were furnished with fluids, and where he was given none.
However, it's heartening to know, n'est-pas, that the locals don't neglect their livestocks' basic needs and that pig-rearing and milk production continues to thrive.
Ah yes, we've been away and it rained every day. But what brightened the dullest of days was the respect and the goodwill of the folk we met and worked for.
The milk of human kindness.. and the tea and coffee!

Grandma's Treat or Another Grand Day Out.

2009-10-25T12:42:00.010+01:00

I'm the 'Grandma' element of a family outing to Moncontour when my daughter and family come to stay in summer. It's a fortified medieval town on a rocky outcrop.
Mr. Price and I have worked here in the past, painting medieval style windows, often copied directly using images from the time.
As we stroll round the town I point out out the few that remain- there's even a brothel scene from the Middle Ages. This is painted on the window of the PMU bar, only yards from the church- someone I know took great delight in sneaking that one in!
We indulge in expensive cakes from the Patisserie and climb a steep street to look out over the ramparts. I show the grandsons Probably the Smallest Front Door in the World, then we set out for the nearby village of Tredaniel.
Just on its outskirts is the small chapel of Notre Dame du Haut, home to The Seven Healing Saints
These are polychrome wooden effigies, and can cure many illnesses... colic, headache, fears, dogbites, sores, eye-ailments and one for ease of childbirth. Here also, there are plaques to give thanks from the healed..and here we find a weird letter hidden in a niche, praying for the favourible outcome of a court case with the writer's neighbour.. spooky!
There are candles burning, and the boys buy one each to light, declaring it's "against Fear!", which is understandable when you're only seven or nine.
Outside once more, into the sunlight and away from the gloom of superstition, the others trek into the nearby wood to look at the sacred fountain. There's a 'pardon' to here from the chapel every August.
I clamber up a grassy bank to paint. It's a sweet enough scene, so I limit my colour to better express the drama of this ancient place of worship, washed in sunlight with its dark background of trees.
The boys are back and climb up beside me.. "Sam fell over!" "We saw a nest!"..."Draw me, Grandma Caroline!"Pictured: the view from the ramparts; steep steps in Moncontour; Notre Dame du Haut.

The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd

2009-09-16T12:17:00.011+02:00

A van goes through the village, loudly announcing a circus close by- this very afternoon!
On my way back from Lidl I suss out where they've encamped and spot a bench perfect for sketching just across the road.
It's windy but sunny day, Mr. Price is game, so after lunch we head off.
Travelling circuses are small affairs round here- more of your 'Small Top', but the place is bright with colour.
We can hear the show from our bench, apparently it's an extra two Euros if your child wants to circle the ring on a pony... and another fifty Euros if they want to dismount and go home with their parents after the show...ha-ha, je blague, bien sur!
A clown rushes in and out, we can see a camel, ponies, a llama and a donkey, but there's no sign of the elephants painted on the side of the trucks, and the only trumpeting is from the piped music.
We're disturbed at one point by a pair of Bretonnes and have to move along the seat for a while. They're elderly ladies coming back from the graveyard- a favourite activity in these parts... I knew this would be Someone's Bench!
Being a couple of artists out sketching together puts me in mind of The Fast Show's 'Johnny Nice Painter'- and I strongly recommend you watch this before you continue reading.

A dapper French man in a hat approaches and peers over my shoulder, commenting that only the English seem to go out sketching.
Out with the paints.. I've worked up the drawing- and fixed it- on watercolour paper with a disappointingly scratchy conté crayon, go in with colour and then more drawing.
It's a lovely scene, with the bright reds and yellows of the vans, cages and the tent itself, and the
shouts of les enfants within... Mr Price turns to me and says "what colour are those tyres, darling, the ones in the dark shadows over there?"

Pizzapics!

2009-08-25T14:19:00.007+02:00

As mentioned in my blog for December 2008, I have five paintings reproduced as sound-absorbent panels in Pizza Express on Salford Quays.

A trip to the North-West means that myself and my accomplice Mr.Price have the opportunity, at last, to see the artworks. At the restaurant we explain why we're there and are whisked off by a waitress to a table for two... “I'm sure we can do something for you!” she says, and later assures us that “Manager says no charge for meal!”

The paintings look bigger than I though they might, and it's really strange to see them-my very own pictures! installed in public....eek! I feel pleased, proud, and oddly humbled.

Our lovely waitress, between the pizza and the ice-cream, tells us how much she likes the artworks, and how popular they are, and, after the coffee, says goodbye to both of us with a big hug and a kiss.

Mr. Price says he's so glad he met me.... having supplied him with a free meal and kisses from a pretty young lady!

Next stop- and just across the piazza- The Lowry, where we just have time to watch the excellent documentary on L.S. It's a moving portrait of a lonely man... without who my Pizzapics would never have seen the light of day- thank you, Mr. Lowry!

Grave Concerns!

2009-07-24T06:33:00.011+02:00

Yesterday- despite the showers- I was determined to get out to do some sketching round the village.
The cemetery's a quiet place- no-one here's going to come and look over my shoulder at what I'm drawing- hopefully!
It starts to rain just as I've chosen a suitable spot, so I shelter under the huge dark yew tree in the corner, sitting on a soft carpet of needles. Here, I'm obliged to draw pretty much what's in front of me, so I go for what I think could be a dramatic composition, with the nearest cross looming large in the right-hand foreground.
I've stuck some Canson paper on a couple of pages in my book, and decide to work tonally on this coloured ground, in pen, black watercolour and white gouache.
The size of the cross means it's big enough get the inscription readable on the page.
Poor Joseph Sourdaine - at least his mother died in 1911, before he was killed in action in the First World War...such grim and sobering thoughts. And now the sky is massing its own storm-clouds, accompanied by distant thunder-so I gather up my bits and pieces and hasten down the street to home and a cheering cup of tea.
I finish off the sketch at the kitchen table, just the sky to fix, really, and I stop when I think it's
suitably Gloom-and -Doomy!

Sketches: Brittany July and March 2009.

A Grand Day Out

2009-07-12T18:55:00.014+02:00

It's another lovely day in Devon, but poor Mr. Price has a frieze and some lettering to paint at Archway Bookshop in Axminster.
I leave him to his lonely task and decide to have the day out. He'll be ok, it's his birthday, I've tipped them off at the bookshop- and there's to be a cake!
I look at the map and Forde Abbey isn't far off.
It's just in Somerset... I follow two cars while another follows me, all heading for the Abbey down ever narrowing roads until everyone arrives for opening time.
Once through the shop and entrance there's a huge walled garden with sumptuous vegetables fit to make anyone relinquish their allotment...I can't spot anywhere to sit and draw so I take photographs.
Behind a big gate, however ('Please close as the chickens like the vegetables') is a good place to sketch. It's the back of the abbey- with said chickens and people dotted about the lawns taking tea from the restaurant ('Please shut the restaurant door as the chickens like to come inside for tea').
I do a passable pen drawing and then try to get the lovely warm colour of the stone. Sandstone, says one of the attendants later.
There's lovely pottery in the old crypt, and there's a pretty view, too, from the ladies' loo, but I can't linger in here, it would be selfish..what with all those elderly tea drinkers... I take a quick photo instead.

From the front, the abbey's quite stunning and I sit on a distant shady seat to draw the facade. It's got a lot of 'knobs on' and damn! I've missed out a bit of 'stringing'!

The Abbey interior is chocca with tapestries, paintings and fine furniture. I'm impressed by the huge four-poster bed in The Oak Room. The attendant tells me that when there's a recital on at the Abbey, "this is where the musicians sleep". In my mind's eye I see a string-quartet tucked under the covers, top to toe, with their instruments lying on the pillows next to them... such a pretty picture- what did he mean exactly?!!
Feeling like a rest after two heavily architectural pictures and the trek round the house, I do a quick watercolour of the garden topiary, but just in black.

That's enough, so I go for another cup of tea- even more people about now- then head off.

Back in Axminster, Mr.Price has eaten birthday cake, but has also produced a pretty frieze in the bookshop's children's department. Well done- now we're off for a meal at the Otter Inn, but not until we've changed out of our paint-spattered clothing!

It was only twenty four hours to Preston...

2009-06-28T15:10:00.015+02:00

Friday 12^th June. After a wearisome 24 hour journey from Poitou-Charente we change into our glad-rags in a back street of Preston and are cheered and revived by the UCLAN Fine Art Degree Show's private view.

We meet friends and family- hello to Jude, Bob, Sam, Dan, Roo, Steve and the boys, Wendy, Vincent and yes! we'd like a plastic glass of Bowland Dragon full bodied golden bitter with rounded fruity hop flavours........

......while being reminded by tutor Dave Alker that Al and Bob's degree show (twenty years ago in 1989) was the first to take place in the Hanover building.

It's photo opportunity time for yours truly, with the stark white walls, artworks and Artyfarty Folk milling around.

Here's a taste of the evening- sorry, the beer ran out earlier!

To The Chateau Borne, Part Three

2009-05-26T16:56:00.019+02:00

By the time this
is published I'll be ensconced at Chateau l'Age Baston
for my fourth year, tutoring the
Art Course there.

I'll let these pictures from previous years speak for themselves.

Back soon!

Hare's Running

2009-05-26T12:23:00.017+02:00

Good Luck with her Fine Art degree to my daughter Ruth and her fellow students at the University of Central Lancashire... the words 'Preston Poly' still spring more easily to my lips, I fear.
Four hard years have passed, raising two boys, house-movings, long journeys in unpredictable cars , family troubles and losses.. the horror of written work and the dread spectre of Power Point Presentation.
Then the artwork- a dozen Liverpool pigeons in waste-papier-mache, drawings, photos, a city made from scrap packaging, plaster Cokeheads, prints, gossip engraved on a hundred pub glasses.... half a dozen life-size sprinting greyhounds (involved a 'Godfatherly' sawing off the head of one!)..big prints, drawings, even bigger prints...
Well done, Ruby- and well done, too, to her partner Steve-it's the end of an era, the nightmare's over!
See you on the 12th- with the champagne!

All work: Ruth Orrell

Station Approach..

2009-05-25T16:35:00.011+02:00

I'm cracking on with my artworks for the expo in July at the Gare de Medreac, and I go to the station at Lamballe for subject matter.
Architecturally, the station building's fairly simple and functional.
Far more interesting are the houses across the road- they're grand villas in that 'with knobs on' French style found also in some of the old fashionable watering places along the coast- Dinard, for example.
I can't get on the station platform without a ticket, so I get some photos of the quaies through the fence on the car-park.. there's a weird canopy, a bench with folk waiting, a glimpse of rooftops . Vertical poles and the dark horizontals of tracks cut through the composition- and there are wires overhead, masses of them, madly dissecting the sky .
Back in the studio I enjoy working on this scene, putting down a grey ground on paper and drawing in black and white conte crayon with the subtle addition of colour in gouache and pastel.
I'm pleased with the results, especially the fine details- a distant parked car, piles of gravel, a black bag by a bench, that man leaning, this woman's shoes, a discarded crumpled packet.
And those round glass things on the wires, what and why are those round glass things??!

I thought I saw a Puddy Tat!

2009-04-29T18:05:00.008+02:00

Since our dear cat, Sparky, died, I've put out food for the strays who hang around.
Most of them ping off when I appear, but here's one who seems interested in me, as well as filling an already ample stomach, and who enjoys being stroked.
A few days later he's ventured into the kitchen....and here we are a couple of months down the line .... he's a well-established lap accessory- he's Ours and he's called Jumbo!
He's also new subject matter.
Like most animals he doesn't stay put for long, but it really sharpens the eye to line-draw quick glimpses, even if it's just the curve of a back. Once you have a few of these together on a page there's a lovely feeling of movement.
Charcoal, conte crayon, pen or soft pencil suit this- they give a good strong line.
At Art school we drew the moving model as a limbering up exercise, or did thirty second poses. And yet, come to think of it, I don't think the model was allowed to move then- this came in later.
Thankfully so for the 65 year-old monumental Mrs.Goldy who was our introduction to Life Drawing in the Sixties...phew!..I'll go and sketch the cat!
Pictured here: 'Jumbo' 2009 ADPrice
'Pebble' 2007 & 'Stray Cat' 2001
Caroline Johnson.

Salad in Peckham Rye

2009-04-16T10:33:00.017+02:00

I've been invited by the lovely Florence who runs the Velorail de Medreac to show my work for the month of July. The old railway station's been re-vamped and there's a trendy cafe room with good wall-space for paintings.

I'll be surprised if I sell anything and if I do 'je montrerai ma derriere dans la vitrine de Dior'! However, it's a good opportunity to follow through a new theme of The Railway. This fits in neatly with my other urban works and it isn't as though I've suddenly started painting flowers and kittens, or bowls of cherries with dewdrops on them!
I also want to put on a good show for Florence who- apart from giving us gainful employment- over many years has struggled against financial odds and local Breton intransigence to improve the Velorail.
So, for these few weeks I'm out following the tracks, looking at railway architecture or the spaces where it's been. I'm sketching, I'm taking photos .
There are some stunning train stations world-wide, and few, I fear, are round here.
This is a challenge, and it's just My Thing to reveal the yashmaked face of Beauty in the mundane and overlooked. The grey and graffitied gare at Caulnes on a damp day, a street festooned with telegraph wires near the old station at St.Meen, a bright vegetable stall by a dirty railway bridge in Peckham Rye... and lots more to come!

The Agony and.......

2009-03-21T12:57:00.012+01:00

Life can sometimes be a bed of pain and believe me, dear reader, I’m no stranger to a bad back or lady's 'trouble down there', necessitating a couple of days staying warm in bed.

I flatter myself I'm in good company with other, more famous, artists who’ve carried on creating regardless of their circumstances. And my own paltry complaints are diminished by their bravery.

Auguste Renoir, crippled with arthritis, chooses to stay in his wheelchair rather than use up his limited energy in walking- energy which he can then use for his paintings.

The painter Henri Matisse is diagnosed with cancer , but after an operation he finds renewed energies and the beautiful Russian-born assistant, Lydia Delectorskaya, to keep him company. Delectable! He turns to ‘cutouts’- cut paper collages he calls 'gouaches decoupes'. These are lush in colour and are among the most admired and influential works of Matisse's entire career.

"You see as I am obliged to remain often in bed because of the state of my health, I have made a little garden all around me where I can walk... There are leaves, fruits, a bird."

The list goes on...

Michelangelo exists on a diet of bread and wine, drinks the latter from lead containers, builds up uric acid in his kidneys and paints the Sistine chapel racked with gout. You can see his swollen knee- should you wish! in Raphael’s ‘School of Athens' ;

Van Gogh has epilepsy,... and, oh my, that ear really must sting- but this doesn't stop him!

Monet in his garden at Giverney struggles to see with his cataracts-a condition suffered by other Impressionists.

Hang on a minute...misty, sight-blurring cataracts. Aha! This, then, in a chicken-egg way, now begs the question ‘Does the disease produce the art? Or?’ . Such a vast subject, and we haven't even touched on Mental Problems... one to return to, I think!

Reflect now, if you will, on young art student Ronald Searle, called up in world War Two, and taken prisoner by the Japanese. Starving and diseased himself he draws the appalling scenes around him- on pain of death if his work’s discovered . Searle hides his drawings under prisoners in the last stages of cholera, knowing that the guards won’t come near. In a much later TV documentary a fellow inmate of Changi jail describes how he and others carried the dying artist outside to spend his last moments in the sunshine …..Searle demanded his pen and paper and continued to draw. And survived.

I've heard a thousand and one reasons why aspiring painters can't manage to even do a few quick studies in a sketchbook between classes. I've used some excuses myself- too busy, no time, not the right time, not the right weather, need a new book, pen, pencil, will do more when I retire/divorce/ finish this project/ kids get older. Someone once said to me, brutally, "If you're interested, you make time!".

And with that thought, and the examples above, I leave you.

Pictures: August 07, my Vertigo; Henri Matisse in his Studio; Ronald Searle sketch; view from my bed 20/03/09.

Faster than Fairies, Faster than Witches....

2009-03-12T14:52:00.009+01:00

Travelling can be seriously boring, so there's every excuse to bring out the sketchbook to while away the time.
Rapid sketches are de rigueur and greatly increase the power of observation- that child on the bus just won't stay still, we're only in this train station for a few minutes, the traffic queue's starting to move up ahead, and the boat's about to weigh anchor- whatever that means!

It's good to draw the landmarks as they flash by- don't try this when driving... all that passes is 'a glimpse and gone forever'. No time here to be tight or precious about one's drawing, but just to furiously draw and damn the result! A page crammed with small, even incomplete studies can look most charming..

Case study: I'm waiting on the platform at the gare de Rennes and I'm irritated already by the incessant loud chatter of two ladies close by. Dear God, I pray, please don't let them be in the same carriage! They are, and they're just behind me, and like yours truly they're going all the way to Paris. With my allocated seat I'm trapped for the two-hour duration. I turn this to my advantage and amuse myself by sketching the passing scenery, but also I write down choice phrases of their conversation- neatly turning a negative experience into a positive and
live-enriching episode- or something along those lines.

It might be, I recall, unlawful to depict airports, stations and ports- national security and all that. But -What The Hell! Live dangerously say I, taking out my threatening sketchbook and pen, and feeling Matahari-esque as I do so.... while remaining out of bed and fully clothed.

From a Railway Carriage

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows, the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away on the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
Robert Louis Stevenson.

On the Road Again.. With a Charming Man

2009-03-01T14:53:00.014+01:00

I've been away, and for the best of reasons- we won a pair of tickets, courtesy of Radio 2, to see Morrissey at the BBC's Radio Theatre...
February 11th at around 8pm sees us on the second row from the front for this bijou and intimate gig, hosted by an amiable Mark Radcliffe, with the rich and famous hiding themselves in the dark of the balcony. We have the better view with Moz only a few feet away.
Which gives Al the opportunity to pass him my postcard of Salford Lads club. See photo above- that's it in his hand! Honest!
It's good to be in London again and we have a great day as tourists with our friend Rhedd, who shows us Peckham Rye, Southwark, The Globe, and the Tate Modern. The sun's shining on the river and bathing the opposite bank in a magical glow. We have one of the Tate's frugal lunches (they're the same in Liverpool) and the serveur even warns me that the portion of tart will be rather small, and would I like a side order of potatoes? No, I would not, and certainly not at £3 a portion!
Lots of photos taken, and some sketchbook work. These are mainly done in cafes and on the cross-channel ferries, and when we're up North I'm especially happy to sit and draw in the mirrored and ornate Brucciani's cafe in Preston- almost unchanged since 1932... the ghosts of my student days linger here... where are you now, Chris, Doreen, Anna, Roger, Nesbitt, Melling, Steve and Viv- and who nicked my paintbrushes?!
Images: Rain at Le Havre; waiting for the ferry at Portsmouth; on board The Norman Voyager; Brucciani's, Preston.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It...

2009-02-07T10:34:00.011+01:00

Thanks to a worrying amount of the white stuff coming down I've had to cancel the aptly-named Saturday Art Day. Someone I know kindly abbreviated this to S.A.D- and the Monday Art.... well, you get the picture.
This week- I can go to The Ball! I've probably sold two pictures at the Seegallery in Rossendale and one at Colin Jellicoe in Manchester.
All three were small collaged drawings of Manchester views- the Cornerhouse, Central Library, and Sunlight House.
Encouraged by the carrot of success and driven by the whip of a rapidly diminishing log-pile, I finished another one yesterday- of Deansgate.
The building's in collaged parcel paper, the drawing's in pen and ink and- spot this- I've included myself rummaging in my bag for my sketchbook. Or was it my camera?

Pictures: Deansgate Girls, Sunlight House Distant.

“Baby It’s Cold Outside!”

2009-02-01T23:55:00.009+01:00

It certainly is, and they say there’s more to come, so any artwork en plein air has to wait ‘til the warmer weather.
Even when sketching in the car there’s about a fifteen minute threshold before my hands get cold. Turner lashed himself to a mast to see the effects of a storm at sea, but I see no advantage to wearing a hogshair shirt and beating myself with a bunch of paintbrushes in order to produce.

The last few weeks have seen The Ladies Who Sketch group gathering in each other’s warm kitchens…. I’ve been drawing friends’ kitchens for a couple of years now. At heart it's a place of work and I like the tools, the gadgets and the clutter. And the tea. And the cake.

"Another Year Over and...."

2009-01-11T12:32:00.011+01:00

Well, there goes another one, and, looking back, 2008 was artistically quite successful.
Apart from the usual activities, I sold six or seven paintings, landed a big commission, and spent a month tutoring Painting Holidays in France
And I found three new galleries to show my work.
The friendly and un-po-faced Seegallery in Crawshawbooth- Rossendale, Lancashire- took several paintings off my hands. These included scenes of Manchester, and a view of the 'iconic' Salford Lads Club, as featured on a Smith's album cover.
Seegallery has a bit of a rock-n-roll edge to it- we originally called in to see their Ray Lowry (cartoonist, Private Eye, NME) exhibition. Sadly, Ray had died only a few days previous to our visit, and we felt touched to be invited to leaf through huge binders full of his unframed work- hundreds of images.. our silence broken by the occasional snort of laughter and "Here, look at this one!" Prices were incredibly reasonable and we treated ourselves to a cartoon about Elvis and The Jordanaires.
PAD Gallery in Preston has also asked for work and I'm pleased with my picture of a discount carpet warehouse. This building's in a part of town which has been allowed to run down, a deliberate ploy so that the public will be relieved when it's knocked down and 'improved'! Preston has a fine record for this kind of insensitive Urban Renewal- ' the only town with a ring-road running through its centre' ( historian AJP Taylor).
The county of Devon has a more immediate beauty and visiting the 'in-laws' can now be combined with a bit of business at The Hind Street Gallery in Ottery St. Mary. Ottery's main claim is that Coleridge lived here, and I've done his portrait in my alter-ego as window painter .
For this gallery I doggedly tackled a painting of nearby Exeter Cathedral. It's a complex structure- how many saints in niches did they actually need? I drew at least 63, each one of 'em different, some with skirts, and cross-legged!
These small successes of last year are, of course, meagre pickings from the vast table that has Damien Hirst as King Henry VIII at its head, and myself as a mouse in the wainscotting- but I'm cheered, heartened and motivated and I will venture forward to see if anyone's dropping any crumbs my way!

Ho-Ho-Ho!

2008-12-09T09:04:00.017+01:00

At this time, the mind turns happily to all things festive.
Pity the poor window-painter- not myself this year, but my accomplice, Al. It's one of our busiest times and the red paint's slapped on like nobody's business.
None of our customers wants their shop window decorating too early for Christmas, nor too late, so it's a frenzied period of activity resulting in a sort of madness- a blur of holly, a whirl of snowmen, a sweetness of Nativities, forests of fir trees- and the dreaded favourite, Pere Noel, who, for this stressful period, is often referred to in irreverant and colourful terminology involving size and mother's marital status.
We work from photos and old cards. It's difficult to find a plumptious, white-bearded old fella in a red suit to pose while we paint, and the best-drawn images of Santa are the ones from the old Coca-Cola adverts. The offending bottle in his hand ( no wonder he's fat!) is replaced by a star or a dolly. Or, on last week's pharmacie window, a blood-pressure gauge.
I see that this year, Al's photcopied a picture of Brian Blessed as a possible model.... he'll have to bleach that beard, and add a few extra locks.
Other window painters crawl out of the woodwork around now and we see their handiwork. Some are ok-ish, but bad taste does abound in the city of Rennes. A semi-naked woman dressed as Father Christmas on a bike, smoking a tab somehow lacks the festive ring of Decking the Halls, Awaying in Mangers , and bringing pine logs hither.
And to Slade's perennial questions ' Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer, does he turn up on his sleigh?'- well, 'Yes, if that's what you'd like on your windows, M'sieur, Madame!'

Early Learning

2008-11-21T12:15:00.016+01:00

It's a Wednesday and high time to have another 'Kidzart'. I've been reading the excellent 'Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain' , so instead of doing what are essentially craft-based projects with the young 'uns we decide to give them a workshop that will, hopefully, get the creative half of their grey matter working.
We start off by copying drawings which are upside-down... we chose cats and dogs. The fact that the drawing is reversed abstracts the familiar subject matter into shapes, angles and lines. It also discourages using the usual symbols- by this I mean the tendency to think ' this is what an eye's like- round!' , or 'this is how I draw a tail!' . We're careful, also, not to name any of these bits.
The first drawings go well, but they tire after a while-poor mites! and start reverting to what they think or know is there. Or what they believe should be visibly there, eg a dog has four legs so I give it four even if I can't see them all.
We have a break and then they stand at easels like 'real artists' and do a painting of yours truly lying on a couch. We're amazed at how well they work- for forty minutes- remember these are youngsters aged four to eight only- and produce some great pictures. They all have an instinctive sense of design and even if the figure's badly placed in the beginning it's balanced out afterwards, somehow.
Well done Lawrence, Mathieu, Thibaud and Manon! And thanks to their Mums. And for the cake!

Phew!

2008-10-30T16:48:00.006+01:00

After a pause from this blog I can now reveal to you, dear readers, that for the last few weeks I’ve been working non-stop on a series of paintings of Salford for an interior design company- an excellent commission, and- frighteningly, my first of this magnitude.

They’re to be reproduced , much bigger, for an outlet of (so my pizza-literate friends tell me!) the most up-market of pizza restaurant chains.

And with a short deadline, small wonder that I’ve been akin to a headless chicken!

For starters, photos had to be taken of the area, both of the spanking-new, trendy Salford quays with its bridge and Lowry Museum , and the old Salford… factories, mills, streets of red brick.

Out of hundreds of photos I found the best sixty, eventually whittling it down to a dozen or so, choosing a good variety of subject matter. Colour, too had to be considered – I didn’t want to use the same palette on each.

I worked in a mixture of media which gave me the grand sweeps of colour and the delicate architectural detail I wanted to convey.

I was pleased with the results- I’d have liked a little longer to do the ‘ pizzapics’, but I stuck with what I knew would work well and I feel I’ve captured some of the atmosphere of a city under metamorphosis.

It’s been important to me also that I record the changing scene before the charwoman that is regeneration arrives, takes up her Mr. Muscle, and cleans away the grime- and some of the character- of centuries.

Pictured are small details of the work, more to follow!

Everybody's Mate, Rolf.

2008-09-14T17:20:00.014+02:00

Sometime late in 2006...
An Art job comes through from the excellent Axis Art website. It's the BBC who want North West artists to join Rolf Harris in Manchester for the day. I'm over in France and feel I can't be fussed- then I decide it'll be interesting . I email examples of my Manchester paintings and I'm taken on.
Rolfie's doing a programme on L.S. Lowry, culminating in Piccadilly Gardens, with himself and the chosen artists painting the scene that Lowry depicted in 1954.
The Beeb give us details of Lowry's palette of colours in case we choose to use the same. That's Prussian Blue, Vermilion, Yellow Ochre, White and Black.
I've never used this combination before and have avoided the all-pervasive Prussian, but when I try them out on test-pieces I'm pleasantly surprised. I leave out the black- 'not colour but the absence of light'.
The results are instant Lowry! I'll use them on the day if they're suitable.

January 2007
All the artists meet the BBC folk in the cafe on Piccadilly Gardens and we're given some idea of how the day will go. We're to be filmed working in a big marquee in front of the building. As we file out , an affable Rolf , swaddled in ten feet of colourful scarf, holds open the door for us.
Out in the open-sided marquee- after Rolf's foot-stomping rendition of 'Sunarise'- no-one can see as much of the scene as Lowry could. A mushrooming of modern buildings pushes us further into the square, so I decide to paint just the slice I can see without scanning.
We have around three or four hours . The BBC and the artists are jolly and friendly, despite the cold, and Rolf's doggedly working on an intensively coloured panorama from photos taken in dramatic evening light.
The artists are working in various mediums- charcoal, oils, acrylics, and - don't ask me how- mosaic and batik!
I meet some nice students from the Fine Art Courses at Manchester Uni. Although we're cordoned off, the public are close by and I loose count of the number of times I hear "Have you guessed what it is yet?" shouted out. But our Rolf's a patient man and poses for endless photos with complete strangers as the day goes by.
I think it's really naff and embarrassing to have your photo taken with Rolf Harris and I wouldn't ever do that, but later on I think 'well, everyone else is and I might regret it later'- so I do!
All the artists are filmed and interviewed towards the end of the day. It's nerve-wracking and we have to carry on painting as we speak (two different sides of my brain, if you don't mind, Mr. Producer!).
I say my bit, feeling daunted by the previous artist's encyclopedic knowledge of Lowry and I know that my paltry observations won't be chosen.
When the programme goes out in March, they have picked my bit and tho' I look pinched and my voice is cracked and ancient with the cold, I say what I really wanted to point out. I tell how it's easy to paint a beautiful picture of, say, a vase of flowers, but that Lowry depicted the ugly, the everyday and the overlooked, and he transmitted their strange beauty to the observer.
A word about Rolf..... I know he isn't popular with some... well, he's enthusiastic and approachable, and who said Art should be depicted in a po-faced way, to be enjoyed only by intellectuals?! His is one of the few TV programmes showing the craft and technique behind paintings.
There's nothing wrong with being populist, and as a schoolkid I was greatly encouraged by his Big Brush Paintings.. .encouraged down that chosen path to a life of penury- thanks, Rolf, haha!!

"When I was young I did not see the beauty of the Manchester streets. I used to go out into the country painting landscapes and the like. Then one day I saw it... I saw the beauty of the streets and the crowds" L.S. Lowry 1972.

Pictured: Lowry's Piccadilly Gardens, Rolf at work with myself being filmed, my own Piccadilly Gardens, Rolf and me!

Light In the Darkness of the Post-War Era

2008-08-31T17:36:00.013+02:00

A 195os childhood spent in a drab northern town was illuminated by posters for Startrite shoes, by Christmas annuals or the sight of rainbow starlings splashing in a puddle..... and Aunty Dorothy's bright lipstick left on a cup....
Best of all, and before me now even as I write, is 'The Whopper Paint Book'. Inside its cheerful cover is a world of cute puppies, ducklings, kittens, piglets and foals to colour in - some of whom are happily cohabiting with different species!
I wasn't as keen on the racing cars or the planes- even though the Vickers Valiant is one of the most up-to-date of British bombers and the Supermarine Swift was flown by Lieutenant commander Mike Lithgow. Not to mention the Sunbeam Talbot, "one of Britain's leading hopes in competitive motoring"!
In 'the Twins Birthday Party' their aproned and smiling mother cooks and organises games and father puts in a vague, suited appearance at the end.
"All the children are wearing gay clothes at the party " and we should "give the little girls gay dresses", Jumbo is grey and he has on a yellow jumper, Teddy is golden brown, leaves are green, but-look out! One of these Toadstool Houses is quite different from the rest!

To the Chateau Borne, part two.

2008-08-17T22:07:00.006+02:00

Down to chateau l’Age Baston once again to replace Mr. Price after his two week’s tutoring drawing on the Painting course.

I have a smaller number of students than usual, for the first week-and this gives me ample opportunity to hone my own skills. Back soon!

Images: gateway to the woods; six cows and a donkey; one red tomato. All Caroline Johnson

Football Magic

2008-08-03T15:26:00.009+02:00

Painting a window is hard work both mentally and physically, and is usually done in three to four hours.
In the lead up to football's World Cup, held in France in 1998, we had eight-six window portraits of players to paint, that's an intimidating forty-three each.
Such a huge amount of portrait work was an unique opportunity to hone our craft- and my 'own work' in the studio can only have benefited, despite at times feeling drained and distraught !
I compare this to the Beatle's arduous training in the clubs in Hamburg, although there the resemblance ends- not many 'prellies' available in the average Breton village, to enable the artist to stay awake and continue working!
I would hesitate, to their faces that is, to call the French an over-self-confident race of people... but we portrayed Zidane holding the cup on more than one window, before the matches began. After they won, we were able to say it was due to our paintings!
I could, in fact, visualise a direct parallel to the sympathetic magic practised in prehistoric cave art and other rituals up to and including the present day!
Mmm...... could be a lucrative service we could offer, perhaps we've been barking up the wrong tree..
'Miraculous Good Luck Paintings- they worked for the French, now let them work for you! Commissions taken in strict discretion.'
Picture:Barthez in goal, window in Plancoet.

Rock On!

2008-07-23T17:48:00.011+02:00

Midsummer means Glastonbury Festival. I've only been once, in 1987, but I now follow the event at home on the telly- with my own 'facilities' in my own bathroom, thank you!
This year, I noticed they have an artist in residence- and have had for years, unbeknown to me. He's Kurt Jackson, who auctions the resulting oeuvres in aid of Oxfam... good on yer, Kurt, I wish there were more like you around.
The World of Rock is familiar territory- my living with a musician, and having to be The Oldest Groupie Ever- gives ample opportunities for sketchbook work.
Drawings of the moving figure can't get too precious and it really sharpens up the eye.
At a concert in Rennes it was too dark to see the page, but the resulting pictures came out lively and amusing.
On a hot summer's evening at St.Malo's La Route Du Rock I struggled among jostling crowd to draw The Spinto Band- a particularly lively group. I was drenched in sweat afterwards- none of it mine, objectionably!
The entertainment business, for that's what it is, is another subject where it's useful and interesting to work from the sometimes-frowned-upon photographic image. And even Degas resorted to this, for his dancers!

We Shall Draw Them On The Beaches..

2008-07-23T17:17:00.012+02:00

So hot yesterday that a trip to the beautiful Pen-Guen beach just had to be made.

Simply lying on the warm sand gets boring though, so myself and Mr. Price take up our sketchbooks. He draws me from under an umbrella while I , stupidly, don't notice time passing , out in the sun with my sketchbook. Result, a prettily coloured pen, ink and watercolour of sunbathers and beach paraphenalia .... and an ugly red sunburn on my arms and back.
Sand is a pale yellow-ochre-with-a-touch-of-ultramarine and the shadows are less dilute with more of the blue. That's Breton sand of course!
Pic of myself courtesy of ADP.

Autour du Tour

2008-07-14T11:21:00.015+02:00

It's the day the Tour de France passes nearby here and a friend's invited us to watch from her doorstep with a jolly crowd of other English folk.
I take along my sketchbook 'in case' and I feel inspired to draw the waiting crowds.
I've depicted the tour before, because for many years now, with my accomplice Al, I've painted the riders on shop windows in towns along the route.
Most of these are 'yer actual' portraits of the cyclists. Al's had the frightening task of 'window painting' the famous French rider of the 1950s, Louison Bobet....knowing that Jean Bobet (his brother) was to pass by later- and that the family don't take kindly to incompetent pictures of Louison, who died in 1983.

We keep for reference a big pile of cycling magazines, and books on the history of the Tour. Hey- none of your fancy nylon outfits for the old guys- I notice that at least one of them is wearing some sort of hand-knitted full-length leggings.. "Merci, Maman!"

Now here's the technical bit, as painting on shop windows has its own set of difficulties:
They're painted on the inside, which means the first layer is the only one seen.
Flesh tones are a particular (here I'm being polite) pain in the neck as colours change from inside/outside and this involves frequent sorties to check. The paint can't be too transparent and, depending on the manufacturer, blues, greens and browns can be problematic. And as acrylics dry so quickly, speed is essential.
In order to catch the eye, a window painting needs to be as big as possible . This means at least life-size for the Tour de France riders.
Far be it from me to complain... but add to this if you will:
1 A constant stream of well-wishers, each with his own artistic observation to make.
2 Nine times out of ten, no offer of refreshment from the commercant or even innkeeper- this over a period of up to four hours.
3 'Santa's Little Helper' - aka a small spoiled child belonging to the client and who stands too close asking questions in Toddler French and poking about with the paints.
4 'Ice Cold in Alex'-a relentlessly sunny day on the 'wrong side of the street, blinded by sunlight with sweat dripping off the paintbrush.... no offer of refreshment.

5 The client has- lazily- only moved the window display a fraction to allow access for the artist, necessitating contortions at the dexterous level of a Victorian fairground sideshow.
6 Particularly in supermarkets- a relentless medley of appalling French music on a loop and repeating every twenty minutes. How I love that Claude Francois who, incidentally, died when taking a bath and standing up to fiddle with a faulty light- well, that's French wiring for you..
7 At the end of your four hours work, client says they won't pay you unless you add a picture of his shop in the background... takes another hour... ditto refreshments..
8 Client, eg. butcher, has appalling taste and the artist has to steer him away from- and I kid you not- his bright idea of a leg of lamb, with its own little arms and legs, riding a bike in the Tour de France... "Desolee, M'sieur, mais c'est du mauvais gout!"
What delights! and what relief, on this particular day, to simply wait for the Tour to arrive, quietly sketching for a half-hour. After which I give up, to act more sociably and join in with the fun.

Small- Yet Rich- Pickings

2008-07-05T14:56:00.015+02:00

Imagine my delight when I recently sold four small pictures at the Colin Jellicoe Gallery in the heart of Manchester.
These are meagre crumbs from the huge Art Cake... Monet, were he alive, would have a lion's share, what with the £40 million paid at Christies last month for one of his nympheas. Or probably not, as he'd still be painting and gardening, and worth a lot less.
That said, the currently-still-with-us painter Lucien Freud's 'Benefits Supervisor Sleeping' sold at Christies earlier this year for £17 million ...

However- as I heard on The Wireless -once we have enough to provide a roof over our heads, warmth and nourishment, then our contentment doesn't get proportionately greater with our spending power- holidays, houses, cars, frocks, fripperies- and do I really want the choice of the mint or the blackcurrant and fig washing up liquid?!!

Well, that's what I tell myself, and I'm happy that someone came by a gallery and bought my little 'Nude with the Red Stripe', and then came back for three views of Manchester.

Thank you, Unknown Patron! "May laughter tinkle in your tents and may all your concubines be fruitful"!!

images: Hacienda club, Pevril of the peak, Band on the Wall, nude with red stripe.

To The Chateau Borne..

2008-06-25T17:04:00.027+02:00

I’m to teach at a chateau in Poitou –Charente and we’re off in a car loaded with art materials and posh frocks. A two hour's drive from here to Nantes and we’re over the frightening (to some) suspension bridge over the Loire. The grey rooftops change to red on the other side as if by unwritten agreement and we spin along the Routes Nationales to avoid the tolls.

Mad French drivers, compelled to overtake, pass us on the most dangerous bits and we have to slow down to let the ambulance through to a particularly nasty head on collision near Niort.

We take a break in a small French town… here is a river loud with frogs, fringed by trees where a charming scene unfolds…old men, a game of boules and a deux chevaux parked nearby… photo-opportunity time!

At the chateau, it’s ‘meet and greet’ time, and I can find out what each student’s needs and aspirations might be, and show them what’s on offer.

During the next two weeks I run workshops in the mornings and tutor as needed in the afternoons. The weather’s unsettled and we have some spectacular thunderstorms.

One lunchtime we all run in from the courtyard with our plates- all exciting stuff.

But the weather’s good for our outings to the market – and to do a fair amount of work in the chateau grounds. There’s a bit of drawing done by sheltering in doorways and under arches, and I settle for sketching a few interesting interiors.

The students are hard-working… for many, this is the longest opportunity during their year that they get to work so intensely and without interruption.

My thanks to Barbara, Don, Enid, Lilla, Lin, Mary, Nigel and Sue for all their good work.

And to Alex, John, Julien and Rebecca for looking after us so well.

Laydees who sketch

2008-05-28T18:46:00.010+02:00

I'm having a pause from any bigger projects- I've a huge 'back catalogue!' - and I've been working as I please, regardless, footloose and fancy free, which is really what being an artist should be about.
Al's been practising English folk music spiced with a bit of punk- this with Gabrielle down on the Permaculture farm. I go along once a week when the weather's fine.
What delights! Pigs, chickens, sheep, veg plot, garden, meadows, big trees, barns........sitting in the sun sketching while sweet airs from fiddle and guitar float on the breeze.
Heaven!
And a few days ago 'twas our first Sketch Club Outing, a break-away faction of the Art Courses I run in Brittany. It's a way of ensuring we get some drawing and painting done between workshops- it's amazing how difficult it is to self-motivate and I'm hoping this will help us all. It's fun to be with others, too (no men yet!). Once a fortnight should work out well I think.
Many thanks to 'Hil and Phil ' for use of the courtyard... coffee, cake etc..
I'll be quiet for a couple of weeks now, I'm off to teach on a Painting Holiday in a chateau further to the South of France- see former blog for details. Will publish the resulting oeuvres d'art -soon!

Big Pictures for Small People

2008-05-16T13:47:00.011+02:00

We had another Art session for the kiddywinks this week. While I had them mix colours in the kitchen, my accomplice Al organised each one in turn to draw their self-portrait in the room we use as a teaching studio.
At the last session, we'd taken photos of the children, and these were projected onto large sheets of paper, to give life-size figures .
Al used an overhead projector he'd seen a bloke put into a skip in Rennes... old habits die hard... waste not etc!
When the drawings were done, the colour mixing exercise came in useful for flesh tones- no, not just pink, thank you, but a blend of red, ochre, green and white. Colours for clothes and hair were mixed, too, which is always more appealing. Unmixed paints are often very raw and unsubtle.
It was interesting to note that all the kids tended just to draw the outline , apart from the face - until we pointed out that the bits like the lower edge of a T-shirt, neckline, folds and creases, trouser turn-ups -actually continued inside the contour.
Another thing we noticed was that there was a tendency to draw 'symbolic' features of the face- "I draw noses like this" - not to follow exactly what was projected.
Also, when we're learning, we sometimes draw what we know is there, even if it isn't visible. A small child will depict a table as a rectangle with legs sticking out of each corner- because they know there are four legs, and we all had our dinner off it, so there has to be space for everybody.
This is something which also happens when adults are learning to draw. . and I'm no stranger myself to the disgraceful 'tilted table-top'!
Thank you for your pictures, Thibaud, Laurence, Matthieu and La P'tite Manon, who did a lovely collage.

Art School Revisited #1

2008-05-08T21:50:00.011+02:00

The twentieth of September 1965- my first day at the lovely old building, the Harris School of Art . I was to study here for two fun-packed and hard-working years.
“Our class has ten in, the boys are horrible. We had Miss Harrison first. She is quite nice but a bit of a bag”
We were made to draw, draw, draw !
“…and we had Mr. Bates who talked about drawing and we drew awful objects-all geometric.”
“We just drew a polygon/sphere thing and it had to be really accurate- he never encourages either, he made me scrub out a whole part just at the end of the lesson”
Sometimes we were sent out to draw, we drew the back streets, the flats that were being built, the bridges on the river.
When it was rainy we drew under the covered market or in junk shops- and sometimes we joined the old men keeping warm in the Museum’s reading room, the cafes and the pubs.
“Mr. Bailey took us outside to sketch- houses as planes like the boxes we’d done. It was interesting. People kept coming to look…. and some horrible yobs.”
“We went in a fantastic junk shop-there was an old man who lived rough like Steptoe in the back and says we can sketch if we want to, so we will”
“ It was snowing. Mr Bates dumped me and Anna in a junk shop to sketch and the woman brought us coffee and biscuits, and the dog to look at us!”
I was late to college one day, and peeping round the door of the drawing room, could just see one of the boys blushing madly…. opened the door a little further and realised we were having our first life class. Our model was Mrs.Goldie, an impressive mountain of a woman whose various folds of flesh re-arranged themselves when she took her breaks. We had to frantically rub out the previous configurations and redraw the whole lot each time.
For two years we drew everything- from big construction sites to the tiniest detail:

“I drew a milk bottle with a knife in it all day, but it’s amazing how many things there are to see there. Mr Bailey says it’s a little world- and it is!”

And that’s still true, when we take time to look…

Images :
Harris School of Art ; " the boys we're horrible" ; David Bates ; Reading Room ; Back Street, Preston ; Mrs Goldie. ( All drawings Caroline Johnson 1965/66. )

French Painting Holidays... For Some!

2008-04-28T15:51:00.024+02:00

In just over a month's time I'll be packing my bags, plus a trunk of art materials and a folderful of big paper- all in readiness for my fortnight's stint as painting tutor at Chateau l'Age Baston, ( and again in August . )It's my third year there and I hope the weather's better than the hailstones lashing on my studio window en ce moment.
It always is, and I manage to have a swim every day in the pool.
Workshops are in the morning (for those who wish) , and in the afternoon there's (in theory) time to do some of my own work. I have a break now and then to go and hassle/help the students who've concealed themselves to do their own projects in the woods, fields, or round the buildings somewhere . You can run, but you can't hide!
Some, however, choose to stay in the lovely studio and continue with the morning's theme, and the extra-keen among them have been known to work 'til dinner. That's around eight hours... I'm not used to that! Have pity on the poor tutor! We're all exhausted by then and ready to relax and be fed by our kindly hosts, John and Alex. As in the olden days, we have to 'make our own entertainment' - that means talk to other people. Remember that, before telly? The meals /feasts are jovial affairs....inside, candlelight flickers on old tapestries ... outside, when the evening's fine, birds sing their last in the orchard and the bats flit around the courtyard.
Another morning, another workshop. I tend to play these by ear, depending on both what people feel they'd like and how I feel they need to develop and improve artistically.
Beginners are taken through the basic how-to-draw-and-paint.... measured drawings, light and shade, colour mixing, collage, design awareness, abstraction, different materials, ways of looking.
There's also a 'No Fail Easy-Peasy Portrait Class' on offer- "Surprise yourself and impress family and friends !"
The more adept have also much to gain. Even the most accomplished artist needs to take 'side trips', or temporary periods of exploration. Not necessarily to change direction in their work, but to open themselves up to new possibilities within that framework, and to refresh their thinking.

There's a trip to the morning market at Piegut-Pluviers, purportedly meant for sketching purposes. Some determined souls manage this, but in reality it's usually an opportunity to browse the stalls, buy souvenirs and to people- watch on the busy cafe terasse. Being the tutor, I have to set an example and bravely sketch other customers- after I've helped Alex choose a hat for a wedding, taste different strawberries for lunch, and choose a cd by an old French chansonette to play in the studio.
Some mornings we'll sit and paint by the river at La Rochefoucauld. Behind us stands the castle- one of those French-with-knobs-on affairs. The inside's far less encrusted and surprisingly homely and intimate- and you can try on costumes! By the river is the café/chocolaterie- very tempting and some students have been known to spend the morning drawing the bridge from there- no names mentioned, you know who you are!
See you soon, folks, I'm away to gird my loins ready for the tutoring- and to slacken my belt for the food. Ambrosia!

All work by the students.

"What can I draw?".....Sketchbook Solutions

2008-04-19T13:45:00.024+02:00

Draw everything! Don't get bogged down looking for subject matter, the right view, weather conditions, can't find my pen which I always use, these are all excuses and there's no excuse. I'm speaking to you, but also to my own lazy self!
You only have to turn your head from this screen to find something worth putting down on paper.
And what is the worst thing that happens if your attempt fails? the sky doesn't fall in, your paltry picture isn't paraded round the streets to be mocked by townsfolk....... you just lost a scrap of paper and a bit of graphite! Glue a new bit of paper over your shameful shortcomings and carry on regardless.
A good artist finds something worth drawing or painting in everything they see.
Here's a list of sketchbook subjects...

Pets- good for intense quick studies- you don't need to complete each one.
Car journeys- again quickly done, but make sure you're the passenger.
Shoes- Van Gogh painted his boots.
Washing Line- or in a basket, on a clothes horse.
Anyone around- Durer and Hockney drew their Mums, Rembrandt his wife asleep. Couch potatoes keep quite still.
From the TV- you could even 'frame' each small study with a rectangle, a few to a page.
An unmade bed- Durer drew his pillows.
A corner of a room-remember Van Gogh's painting with the yellow bed?
View from the window -I've even used a mirror to see outside when I've been confined to bed.
Fruit and veg... or a single flower
Shells, stones, seaweed, pine cones etc. Make a collection of interesting subject matter. Keep in a box, dip in when needed.
Draw from photos in magazines.
All things household or mechanical- phone, wheel, cog, cutlery, camera, lightbulb, plug, the list goes on.
Self portrait- a reliable subject who always wants a break at the same time as you.
Your hand, your foot.
Outside stuff- trees, passers-by, street furniture, buildings, cars, boats, and in Brittany all things rural and coastal.
Cafe scenes (be brave!), and draw at rock gigs, concerts, markets.

Phew! Must go and lie down after all that, but I promise I'll do a page in my sketchbook when I wake.....
Drawings are: Steve's red back, coffee cups on the boat, shoes from a mag, hospital drawing with conversation, Pebble in Devon, M5 Moto Frankley , Sun Inn at Chipping.

Once Upon a Mural

2008-04-09T19:18:00.018+02:00

Once upon a time, and yet not so many years ago…..imagine the delight we felt when we landed a bijou mural job for the exterior wall of a newly- refurbished library or mediatheque in a small town nearby.

I based my design round the history of communication- starting with cave paintings, the first written gospels, Egyptian scrolls, an early printing press, the Bayeux tapestry. From there to famous French writers and artists, dance, song, cinema- from a French viewpoint, naturally, and finishing up in the computer age.

The design was accepted and we got ready to apply the first coat of white primer. We were slightly worried about the surface to be painted- it was very smooth and almost plastic in appearance, so we asked the services technique people at the Town Hall… “No problems!” they replied “The wall was always intended for a mural, and the surface was prepared specially with this in mind.”

When we’d finished, the mural looked great, we were proud, everyone was pleased, the press came and took notes and pictures. In a month or so there was to be an important ceremony for the twinning of the town with another in Poland. This was to include a grand tour of the library and its bright new artwork, with the Mayor and foreign dignitaries.

We handed in our bill at the Mairie, and, safe in the knowledge that there’d be a nice fat cheque waiting to fill our empty coffers when we returned, we took off to the UK for a couple of weeks.

When we got back home, there was no cheque, just desperate messages on our phone- “concerning the storms we’ve had…. and your fresque”- from the librarian and the Mairie.

With the heavy rain lashing on the surface of our precious creation, the paint was peeling off !

On site, a kindly old man came up and spoke to us. He’d been a painter for the council, he said, and he too had been worried about the surface before we started painting. Exactly as we’d done, he’d been to see the technicians and they likewise reassured him, yet even then he wasn’t entirely convinced.

When the mural had started to peel off, then- and only then- did the Services Techniques look into their file on the library renovations. The surface had been changed from the original specifications. It turns out that the builder who did the brickwork did it in the wrong conditions, which meant that there would be some movement and porosity in the ‘mural wall’. So, what did they do? They covered the whole surface in a plasticated and elastic layer which would accommodate any movement and reject all damp. Including our paint! This was in the architect’s report.

Now here comes the Totally Unfair bit….. as we hadn’t yet been paid, Mr le Maire informed us that we would only get our cheque when we’d done a replacement mural for free- oh, they’d pay for the paint, of course- how generous!

This would represent around two week’s unpaid work for the pair of us . “Don’t cry, Madame” said the Maire, encouragingly…

I went to see our friendly local solicitor who said yes, it was a despicable thing to do, but without our having had a contract, signed by the Town Hall to the effect that the finished mural would be their sole responsibility, we were powerless.

The remains of the mural were blasted off the wall before the big twinning ceremony and all press coverage about the affair was silenced.

A meeting was held to find a base coat for a new mural which would stick to the wall, and a representative from a paint company was listened to, and his super product was chosen- although he was vague about how long it would last .

Then for us the long hard thankless task of re-producing a work of art that we’d already done. And the financial difficulties- the non- payment for the first work actually mean that we had to borrow from a friend to feed ourselves! (Thank you, M.R.)

Despite our misery, our work was helped along by the support of the more reasonable members of the community-

particularly the library staff- a young and energetic group. Their computer expert, Arnaud, is still un cher ami.

And a concerned local newspaper reporter, who’d been appalled by our treatment by the Powers That Be, said she’d like to do an in-depth exposé of our story and took down the details.

I don’t think this ever went to press because, strangely enough, she died shortly after in a mysterious freak ‘Old Time Cider Making’ accident at the local fete.

Only joking- I made that last bit up!

'There Ain't No Trees, No Scented Breeze..'

2008-04-01T15:48:00.019+02:00

A trip to Liverpool for us usually means a visit to the Tate, but this time is different- ‘someone’s’ discovered that their passport runs out while we’re over, so our itinerary’s based around the nearest parking to the Passport Office.

We have fish and chips for lunch in a run-down pub and I sketch a dodgy bloke who’s telling his mate “..put two blokes in the ground all ready, took all their money” and “..they used to come in with sawn-offs up their sleeves” .

Round the corner from this fine hostelry here’s a great artwork by Richard Wilson (no, ‘I don’t believe it!’ either!) called Turning the Place Over- he’s cut a circular section out of a building façade, and it’s in perpetual motion.

Across the road from the Liver Building and its famous birds is a church which was destroyed in the Blitz, then reconstructed. There’s a touching and unusual sculpture here, to commemorate all those who perished in the bombings… a small boy plays with a toy plane at the top of some stairs; his mother calls him back down to safety.

I’m chucked out of the Passport office for being in possession of a lethal weapon- the penknife in my pencil case- “Either yer leave er we confiscate it an give it the police”. It’s freezing outside and I wait with a scantily dressed young Mum who’s having a fag before she goes in. Her toddler son isn’t dressed for the weather either and keeps telling her “I’m told!”

Thence to the Anglican cathedral, via a charming drunkard who keeps us talking for twenty minutes. We’re in luck in the cathedral, however, as there’s a rehearsal going on for the world premier of Karl Jenkins’ ‘Stabat Mater’, providing a moving soundtrack , while we do some quick sketches of the musicians- tiny figures before the vast arched backdrop. We spot the conductor a little while later, in the magnificent Philharmonic pub on Hope Street. It’s a late Victorian gin-palace, Grade 1-listed, and most famous for its ornate, marble urinals and toilets, into which women are allowed as part of a guided tour.

The Philharmonic has dark wood-panelled walls, copper reliefs that depict a musical scene and Art Deco lights that shine onto the mosaic covered floor and bar. The central, horseshoe-shaped bar is awash with ornate stained glass and is notable for its bunches of glass grapes and huge, golden eagle watching over the drinkers. John Lennon famously complained that the price of fame meant 'not being able to go to the Phil for a drink'!

We drive out of the city, finding the motorway via Everton and Knotty Ash. Here are grim streets of run-down shops with metal blinds, and blackened and boarded-up pubs stand lonely on corners, awaiting their fate.

City of culture, but also city of contrast.

"Bloomin' Marvellous!"

2008-03-25T14:24:00.011+01:00

The latest Monday Art Course saw the students bravely tackling paintings of flowers in acrylics. To avoid a cliched vase of flowers floating in a neutral background , they chose big juicy photos of the hearts of flowers a la Georgia O’ Keefe.
The negative shapes of ‘background’ in these pictures are just as important as the positive flower shapes, and make for a strong and refreshing design.( Negative shapes are the shapes which occur between objects – the space inside the handle of a cup, par example.)
A painting presents many different challenges; there are the basic physical skills of using a brush to put paint onto canvas, and eye-to-hand coordination, even “Do I stand or sit- and where do I put my materials??”
Add to this some accurate drawing ability, good composition, awareness of light and shade, and the science of colour mixing with its unpredictable magic….. not to mention the ‘higher sensibilities’ like self-expression and putting some feeling into the work….. HELP!!
The Art Courses can be likened to Circus Skills- I wouldn’t teach someone to juggle by first throwing them nine balls, but would start with one or two and slowly build up! In this way, the various skills required in Art are gradually introduced in a controlled, (usually studio) setting.
Monday’s paintings saw students trying to ‘juggle all nine balls’ - some were dropped , some picked up again ; some were put aside in panic! A lot of concentration, courage and perseverance was involved and for most of the day the silence was deafening!

A Brush With Hoghair

2008-03-16T14:02:00.014+01:00

Our friendly local permaculturists, Stuart and Gabrielle ask me if I'll do a special portrait in oils to remember their two pigs by and I’m pleased to say Yes.

On a sunny December day I go up to meet the pair at the farm and (NB we’re still talking pigs, here!!) scratch their proffered bellies, feed them apples, take a few snaps.

First I’ve got to complete- alongside other projects- four colour designs for a large outdoor mural with my accomplice Alastair . It’s March when I start what I’ve now come to call the Piggypic. It’s good, because I’ve had time to think and I feel inspired.

Stuart’s emailed lots of photos, which are better than mine and I’m able to use different bits from different views to make a sort of Frankenstein pair of pigs.

I really have to be aware that each pig has his own characteristics. For example, their noses are quite different, and they aren't your run-of-the-mill-pink-all-over variety.. they're New Zealand Kune Kunes and each has his own pretty patterning .

I do a first detailed study, redrawing and even adding bits of paper ‘til I get something I’m pleased with. Now for the canvas..

I decide to put down a ground in a mixture of red and green, and this will be my basic palette of colours for the painting. I redraw in paint on the canvas from the sketch and then it’s a case of working as a whole as far as possible, without getting bogged down for too long in one section. The grassy areas are built up in two or three layers and I try not keep any detail to the minimum. The pigs are a joy to paint, and I especially delight in rendering the slavering chops of the one on the left!

I leave the apples ‘til last- as a treat for having nearly finished….

I’ve put the apples in the grass, which will lead the eye through to a curved horizon- lots of rounded things to echo the shape of the pigs.

I’m pleased with the result. I feel I’ve achieved what I wanted from the outset – a good portrait likeness, to be sure, but also to capture the feeling of the happy, simple World of The Pig- a whirly bright winter’s day, sky, trees, apples, grass.
What more could a pig wish for?

Budding Bonnards

2008-03-07T15:49:00.017+01:00

No school for French kids on Wednesdays, including here in Brittany. A good time was had in the afternoon when we held the first of our regular art classes for children.
We've already run workshops in 'arts plastiques' for French schools, with children between two and twelve years of age. In my experience- and as some friends with children here tell me- the artwork in 'ecole' generally shows a joyless lack of individuality or creative expression. Work is small, neat and tidy- often a case of colouring in a ready-printed image. At one Ecole Primaire, where we produced big colourful artworks on North American Indians, they hadn't had the paints out of the cupboard for two years!
We're trying, then, to choose projects that mightn't be covered in schools, or that aren't possible at home.
Our first was Printmaking, which involved a little bit of "waiting to take my turn " for the inked-up plates and the rollers, but the results were well worth it!

Well done everybody- and special thanks to our admirable assistant, Evelin.
Prints by Lawrence, Matthieu, Beth, Henry, Thibault, and Christopher.

Happy Sketching- Part One.

2008-03-02T12:02:00.015+01:00

A good sketchbook's an important tool to the fledgling or experienced artist. It's a way to improve drawing abilities and to 'keep your hand in'. It can also act as a visual diary.
Don't be tempted to buy a cheap one-there's no sense of occasion in a glued or spiral-bound book, neither do they open to use the whole spread if needed. Glued books fall apart, holes distract visually, ink bleeds on cheap paper. Treat yourself- you deserve it!
Size matters, as it's best to carry your book round with you. A6 to A5 .
To go with this I take a waterproof pen, a water soluble pencil, tiny box of watercolour pans or children's gouache.
Buying a sketchbook's a pleasurable experience.....filling one is another matter!
I find the first page quite daunting- so I usually start on the second! And if even that strikes a note of dread (why are we so afraid of 'spoiling' something?) you can always work on a couple of loose sheets and then stick 'em in. If you really despise one of your pictures, remember you can paste something over it, and collaged bits of scrap paper can really add something to a page.
I find that a good idea is to impose a time limit - say, a month or two to complete the book- you can work out how many sketches on average a day. Being a lazy person myself this method has been tested to the full and shown to work. Er..usually!

My own sketchbooks span a long time, and I have a couple of diaries where the entries correspond to drawings eg. March 1966... 'Fantastic time at Folk Club- greeted by the climber I drew last time, he called me the Second Modigliani... he asked how I got my Levis that colour... the one with glasses kissed my hand." !!!
As mentioned previously- when I was having the images scanned- prints of my Manchester cityscapes -and other- paintings and drawings are now available online . Click here.
Images are.. birds in Manchester Museum, Preston folk club folk, sketchbooks from four decades.

Scary Hair and Specs from the Sixties...etc.

2008-02-24T12:21:00.010+01:00

By around the age of nine I realised that drawing was something I might be good at. And when the time came, I looked forward to classes in the special Art Room when I started at Balshaw's Grammar School ....
Imagine my disappointment when we were expected to spend the long years leading up to the GCE exams meticulously drawing Roman Lettering, designing wall papers (must get the 'drop' to match!) and, worse still, mastering the tedious intricacies of interlacing strapwork. Under-over-under-over-un...."whoops, I fell asleep!" Fortunately our art mistress, the magnificently but frighteningly moustached Miss Whewell retired after a couple of years.
We had a period of being taught by the obviously non-artistic - 'well, it's only Art, so we needn't rush getting someone trained in'. Eventually- happy days- Mr. May came into our lives. He was a rookie, he was naive, he was small and chubby-cheeked and we took the proverbial- but what an excellent teacher he was!
Life in the Art Room took on a new perspective- interesting, experimental, exciting yet instructional, and he even turned a blind eye to our pinching paper from the stockroom!
We drew and sculpted anything and everything- for once someone thought that Art was as important a subject as Science and the Classics, and our abilities were taken seriously .
What an important difference this made- it's a fact that we do better in those subjects where we're fond of the teacher.
Ralph May! What a sweetie! Where is he now??

Pictured here: Photo- Ann Davies, Mr. May, Susan Bennett, Caroline Johnson, Mary Hall, Susan Baxendale. Note boyfriends' initials on workshirts....
Veggie homework, May 1962
View of the artroom, 1964

To Market, To Market....

2008-02-16T17:05:00.009+01:00

Trying to market one's work takes up so much valuable painting time!
Aidan O'Rourke (Manchester photographer of some note-see link) is setting up an online print gallery and I've been preparing work for this.
This means I have to get really high quality copies. I can scan the A4 pictures but my digital camera isn't smart enough for larger work. Which means I had to go to the Big City to have them scanned through a Huge Machine which accommodates Vast Pictures. Forty minutes journey and then had to leave them overnight and pick up the next day... tedious.
Pictures were put onto CDRom... when I looked at them at home, some had stripes on them- they're scanned by trundling through rollers. Nowt to be done, couldn't face the nightmare journey to the concrete desert of the ' zone artisanal' again, so they've been left out!
Another way to publicise my work has been by having postcards made. I've done lots of cityscapes of Manchester and found a cheap company to produce the cards- not much profit to be made, but they look really cute and I'm chuffed to know they're now on sale in the bookshop at Manchester's Cornerhouse.
My little images, standing patiently in the postcard rack, waiting for that famous Art Dealer to see them....!!

'Apples From The Teacher'

2008-02-10T17:37:00.000+01:00

This weekend is my busy one of the month with two day-long workshops to tutor.
This time there was quite a lot of preparation involved as I had to trawl our home library, photocopy suitable images- AND research suitably tasty apples in the supermarket!
We had a day of contrasts- the morning was spent on an accurate observational study, and in the afternoon the freedom of the imagination was let loose on pen-and-ink (see pics)
One would think that the morning would be the more taxing of the options, but 'it ain't necessarily so!' Good drawing doesn't necessarily go hand in hand with inventiveness or inspiration, and the opposite is also true.
The greatest artists have both-I can't remember who, but a famous French artist said "Sans metier, il n'y a pas d'inspiration"........."without craftsmanship there is no inspiration".
Back to my constant cry of "Should always have a good grounding in basic skills..!"

Fear of the Face

2008-02-04T15:40:00.000+01:00

A portrait, and, indeed any figure study, is the most difficult subject to portray. It's easy enough to get away with drawing a tree with a branch too short- but we'd all know if I drew the life-model with legs of different lengths!
In portrait, the elements and proportions that amount to a recognisable individual have to be rendered most precisely- and I'm talking millimeters here. In my painting of Ruth and her baby, a very minute adjustment gave her mouth that "careful does it!" expression.
From our birth, the human face is an important aspect of our understanding, social skills and survival . The brain is well tuned to know if a person's recognisable from their 'likeness'.
I include an ' Easy-peasey Portrait- Astonish your Friends and Family!' class in my courses in the studio and at the chateau. We take the fear and panic out of " I can't draw noses!!" and learn to see the face in a calm, objective way as an arrangement of angles, shapes and simple tones. See photo.
Following on from my previous blog, photos can play an invaluable part in any portrait study. Of course, the best thing would be a subject who had time to sit whenever called upon, but this is an impossible scenario. Even the Queen's portrait painters resort to photos in between sittings. Thought- this must be one of the few times that Her Majesty is a subject!
Now and then, a client will ask for a 'surprise portrait' as a gift . For this, several good photos taken from different angles are best. Flash photography flattens features and a natural light source, perhaps to one side, is ideal.
Alastair Price used several fairly poor photos for the portrait of our friend's brother. Knowing him already was a good help, and anyone reading this who lives in our vicinity will recognise the kindly Dr Haouisee- the man with all the vowels to his name!

Snap Happy!

2008-01-31T14:05:00.001+01:00

A question that's often asked- should artist's use photographs? Yes! And No! it isn't cheating!
For my 'gallery pictures', if I have to work from them, I almost always use my own photos.
For more imaginative stuff, or murals and window paintings, I really need refer to other people's. It would be impossible to take photos of all the famous riders in the Tour de France, or a harvest scene from the 1800s.
And for Art Classes photographs from magazines and the internet provide a quick and easy way to have the best images available for the project in hand.
As soon as photography came in, artists used photos, and not always their own, as we can plainly see- naughty boy, Gauguin!
Two thousand years ago the Camera Obscura was first recorded- a primitive pinhole device which projected images onto a surface. Leonardo Da Vinci also mentions it, saying "We did not discover this" and artists were using it as a drawing aid as early as C15th.
Those of you who saw the film from the book 'Girl With A Pearl Earring ' may have noticed that Vermeer had his own Camera Obscura. Another Bad Lad!
Photos are best used intelligently, not copied blindly, and always with a good knowledge of basic skills.
I really don't think there are any rules!

In the public eye

2008-01-30T15:46:00.000+01:00

It's much too cold to set up to paint outside... I've been looking to see if there's any difference in the work I do from the 'real' and from photographs.... the outdoor work might be livelier ( changing light, the call of a cup of tea or nature could lend a sense of urgency!), but the standard's no better 0r worse.
Very often a photo gives a viewpoint that the artist couldn't maintain - looking up at a building or over a wall, for example, or, dangerously! a good view from the middle of a road.
And it's still important to draw regularly from life.
Spectators can be a distraction when working in public - when I was a student I hated onlookers ("Aye, I've a second cousin twice removed who does grand watercolours, beautiful!") but working on murals and window paintings cured me of that- you just have to get on with it, too bad!
For the Tour de France in Plumelec I was painting a life-size portrait of a rider, inside on the window of a bar. As a final embellishment I started painting a ribbon in the colours of the French flag along the length of the window.
By now it was 'l'heure de l'apero' and the bar was packed. A silence fell behind me as the clients watched the painstaking progress of my loaded brush. When I'd done the final flourish, I turned round and gave a bow and a great cheer went up!

A first Hello

2008-01-28T11:17:00.001+01:00

And Hello! I'm Caroline and I'm an English fine artist in Brittany. Here's my website which I share with Alastair, my accomplice www.artistsmock.com
A quick glance will reveal that we ( like most artists who live by their trade) turn our trained hands to various tasks- to mural painting, portraits (people, pets,houses), window paintings, personal work for galleries.
I run regular workshops in Drawing and Painting, here in the large room that was the old village cafe. Classes are day-long. and on a monthly basis as I've found that evening courses are less well attended- folk don't want to trail out on a wet dark night, and neither do I!
It also means that , for students who live further away, it's worth the journey if they're doing the longer hours, and they can drive back in the light.
I try to balance the classes between, say, learning to work accurately-(which is difficult and often unrewarding, but the basis of any success in future work) and workshops where everyone is delighted with what they can achieve.
For two fortnights of the year I'm tutor at a chateau near Angouleme . There's a lovely studio in a converted barn, woods and fields, donkeys, solar-heated pool, great food and wine.
Heavenly- though I sometimes feel like an Artistic Redcoat!