The key...

   to simplicity is that simplicity is key. A scrumptious colour pallet and geometric shapes from graphic designer and dab hand painter Gary Andrew Clarke. I'm a fan of the biscuit liking man. Canvases and prints both available for exchange with the mohonies.

Graphic Nothing

Tate avec PaPa bear...

   I'd been wanting to see Gerhard Richter at the Tate Modern for weeks and have been meaning to write about it for days. Truly living up to the last minute expectations I went zipping up to Landan in all mother natures gusty glory a day before the exhibition finished. The bridge was wobbly, the queues long and whilst in Rome I popped a glance at Tacita Deans most recent contribution to the Turbine Hall.  
   With pursed lips and raised eyebrows I must say, it was kinda good. I am not a fan of video/film/moving image, whatever the label, but Tacita, I like what you did with the place. An almost floor to ceiling screen stood clean and glowing into the darkness of the Turbine, casting dreamy reflections that spilled across the concrete floor. Snappy bold shapes popped across spliced slides jammed in seemingly random collages. The imagery appeared as an obscure slide show which morphed and trickled into the next arrangement of natury, poparty Mondrianesque lined frame.

 

On with the show! Richter my darling you were like a night with a prostitute. Hot, bustly and expensive but ultimately pleasurable. Initially curated well but seemingly losing momentum towards the end where a splodge of Cave paintings dwelled and the whole place far too busy. I don't like to crane my neck to look at a description or stand on tiptoes to view a work from a meter away. I am not a giraffe. Despite my 6ft height.
   Enough! Richter I love your work. You paint exceptionally and the length and breadth of productivity is broad and brave. Your gusto to make beautiful portraiture alongside cold framed sculpture and colourblocking is truly commendable and I applaud the commitment to each new venture.
   This exhibition also gave me the chance to spiele of some arty bollocks talk to my dad hoping he would think at least uni taught me something. It was great to see and great to say I've seen. A one standing ovation for Mr Richter.

 

Schiele my sweet....

   Egon Schiele, my sweet, my darling. I know you where an all encompassing narscisist, who grew up with a poor railway family. Endured a crazed syphillis enduced Papa and a sister you grew far to close for comfort too. Not forgetting the hordes of pre pubecent children whom you ussed to take a sneaky peek at their private frills and frocks, whilst they soundlessly
slumbered beneath your rickety studio roof....

but oh my I still love your drawings.

                                  

Firsts...

   So here we go, my first post accompanied by my first finished works from my first year of uni at Kingston. Straight into conventional painting and sculpture as of yet not fully understanding the wideness and broadness the label "fine art" falls across. Focusing on the female nude (yes more cliche!) and the extremities of the form (fat and skinny).