An occasional dose of culture. Rob Ryan's paper cutting.

Now there are two types of art lovers, those who have overly refined, snobby exclusive taste where art is elitist, inaccessible and hard work. I am proud to say that I don't by any means fall into this group, quite the opposite! I like art that touches something deep in me, that amazes me by it's prowess, that catches me by surprise. I don't care if it's 'craft' or 'illustration,' or 'crochet.' If it's the original expression of a creative mind then I will either respond to it or not. Some of my culture submissions have been criticized as being not cultured enough, so what the hell does that mean? And why should I care? I shall continue to post work that elicits a reaction in me and that compels me to share it with others, those who disapprove can by all means leave a comment, register their distaste or just go elsewhere.

Rob Ryan's studio

Now, to my featured artist, Rob Ryan. Ryan is a printmaking graduate from my alma mater the Royal College Of Art. His Paper cuttings vary from tiny to huge, they are intricate, wordy and fantastic. Each one starts as a pencil drawing that is cut out (usually by hand) then sprayed with colour. Some of them rather than cut become silkscreen prints. But however they are made, I think they are beautiful, and I think a lot of you would enjoy them. There is a book of his work available called 'This is for you' which displays his talent more fully than I can on this short post. I'd love to hear some opinions from you out there, you at the back...wake up and pay attention!

A daily dose of culture, Adelaide V. hall

Today's work, is one that moves me more than any other artwork ancient or modern. The creator isn't even an 'artist' in the regular sense of the word. All that is known about her is that her name was Adelaide V. Hall and that she was an inmate at The Saint Elizabeth Psychiatric hospital, Washington. in 1918.

Various figures can be identified within this work, the minor figures are flatly woven into the piece in various sizes.

 This is the only piece of work that is on record, maybe through it Adelaide said all she had to say. This tiny piece of croche'd wool had all her miserable life woven into it, and having externalised her troubles she was content not to say anymore.
 If art means, as I believe it does, the honest expression of the artist's essence, then this tiny piece is art of the highest order.
Adelaide and her eight siblings were raised by their violent alcoholic father after the death of their mother. Poor Adelaide shared a bed with several of her brothers and with her father. Adelaide's claims of wretched and continuous sexual abuse was dismissed by her doctors as incest fantasies. Psychiatry was in it's infancy at the time and modern doctors have no hesitation in accepting Adelaide's accounts of the abuse. It would explain why Adelaide was hospitalised at least twice due to depression, 'melancholia, and so called delusions'.  When Adelaide was 13 years old, she went to live with her sister. She fell in love with her older brother and further complicated her life. The love affair was not allowed to continue and they were swiftly separated. She went on to lead a promiscuous adult life and had several affairs with married men where she eventually contracted syphilis. Although she never made anymore pieces like the one I'm showing today, she did make a lot of baby clothes for the children she never had.
 The croched piece is less than 10 inches square, it contains all the major players in her life and she depicts them according to their importance. Her father is the largest with prominent genitalia, with washers and beads woven in. Various siblings and her mother are featured, identified by a complex system of numbers and letters. This tiny work tells a story of her 'miserable, sordid life' as it was summed up by her so called carers. Adelaide was a victim of her circumstance and of her time. Her 'stories' were never believed, and she was never able to receive the help she so badly needed. Without this little scrap of wool, Adelaide would have remained an anonymous patient existing only in the dusty records of St Elizabeth's hospital. I dare anyone to not be moved by this beautiful eloquent work and by Adelaide's story.