Another new gallery: Intimations of love was the title of the first “proper” exhibition of my work. It left many a head sore from scratching and many unanswerable questions sloshing around the floor with the dregs of wine and vodka. When the dust settled, to my horror I discovered I had paraded my creativity in the manner of a game-show host throwing out soundbites in the vain hope that someone, somewhere might hit on at least a gramme of credibility. I tried too hard to make tentative connections between paint, canvas and colour to whatever nonsense was roaming around my brain at the time. Somehow, unbelievably, I had become “one of them” and suffered a steep learning curve into the bargain. Both the subjects and their execution were, and remain timid affairs. Too safe, too accomplished, too cerebral, passionless. I’ve decided to revisit and recreate all three/four images.
The poems, however, which nuanced the paintings, well, they are a different matter entirely. I think. I believe.
Never mind, here’s a track from The Moscow Drug Club called Dance Me To The End Of Love to help you, and me, get over it.