Bow Aim - Girls Head - Anthem

Picked up a drawing that hadn’t sold/wasn’t necessary. A tender, obscured portrait. Gave it to R. An afterthought in the right sense – of a serendipity that fits. The way R. gripped the painting as if she wasn’t going to let it go.

101230 Bow Aim - Girls Head - Anthem

Mum said something stunning on the phone. I was telling her about the experience of painting Carn Brea, how the studio pictures looked identical to the ones I painted up there and what a dissapointment that was! That I had blattently missed the spirit and vitality of it when out there since it could be replicated so easily in the studio.

We were discussing it’s greyness. then she said and the flaming red, the burn bracken. “Its looks like its going to burst in to flame but it can’t quite get lit”.

She then talked about its geography, how dad has read that it was a plug in a larva flow, she called it a ‘dyke’, the geological term. and talked about its repressed spirit under there, how it contained something vital and the rest. .

Crepuscular Carn. I’d lain in bed all day – through the church bells, the crows scraping on the slates, the farmers sons motorbike. And walked for the last clocks foward hour. It was all souls day. Tempted to put cans of beer and cigarettes on the miners graves opposite – Romanian gypsy style! But walked for the last hour of light. The violet hour when things promise a vivid oscillation.

The terre grey green and a violet coat. The form. Drapery over belly. Senses ultra-sounding something – the weight of a back straining virgin. Embryo nuzzling its own nebulous oblivion. Enough to point the camera. Enough for an afternoon. enough for a lifetime.