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.

A daily dose of culture, Brighton Pierrots, Walter Sickert 1915

 In one of my posts I listed five artists whom I revere, respect and enjoy. As of result of having to narrow my list and prune it down to just five names, I was forced to leave out hundreds of artists and many individual works that make my spirit sing, (that cheesy sentence, although intrinsically honest, was put in to make Lucy snigger, so if you are not Lucy just ignore it.) So to rectify this terrible injustice I have decided to begin a regular post. Hopefully a daily one, where I shall introduce either an artist or piece of work that moves me. I might even include one that makes me sick every once in a while!
 Today's item is a beautiful painting by Walter Sickert, A German born English painter and a member of The Camden Town Group. You can find out more about him very easily so I shan't bore you with too much information here.

Brighton Pierrots by Walter Sickert, 1915

 Brighton Pierrots ia a sublime painting that depicts a joyful subject in a melancholy light. A troupe of performers stand onstage in the setting sun. Sickert painted it in 1915, and the empty rows of deckchairs maybe a nod to the absent men fighting across the sea. The light is what makes this picture,both the natural and artificial. There is the natural twilight that throws everything into sharp focus and sends a shiver of  strange sadness at such transitory, fleeting beauty down your spine,  the reddish horizon that suggests the colours of war (It was said that the sound of guns from the western front could be heard all along the south coast)..Then we have the artificial stage light that gives us the garish colours of the Pierrots outfits, acid pink and icy blue that appear so incongruous and unseemly in the face of  impending peril and looming disaster. The performers know that 'the show must go on', so it goes on more ridiculous and pathetic than artistic. I love this painting, and for anyone who say art doesn't move them, I say where the hell is your heart?

Illuminated Manuscripts.

Images from The macclesfield Psalter

 By any normal standards, I can't deny that I am quite prolific!  My mind is full of  snippets of conversation, images that have stuck with me, and all manner of assorted crap . For that I feel blessed. But I am  keenly aware that quantity has nothing to do with quality, I do however maintain that the more work an artist produces the more his ideas become focused and his execution is honed and refined. So far so good. But like every creative human being that ever existed there are days where I draw a blank. My thoughts get stuck in the bottleneck of my mind. I just can't seem to pull the right image out. I have a few techniques I save for these awkward times just to get functioning again. A mental syrup of figs if you will. These include going over my sketchbooks. looking on the Internet at what other artists are doing. Reading my favourite poets like Anne Sexton and Robert Lowell. Lines of beautiful text are a very effective way to trigger images , and bring forth memories and dreams that lead me to new pastures.

Carnal Sinners, 15th century manuscript by Yates Thompson

 For the days when I feel particularly low and unmotivated I save the most potent medicine; Illuminated Manuscripts! Sadly I don't own any but that isn't a problem, I own the next best thing, a couple of big fat, beautiful anthologies of collected manuscripts. Yum!

The Lamb, By William Blake

 Strictly speaking, Illuminated Manuscripts are texts decorated with silver or gold but has evolved to include any decorated text. The earliest of these survives from 400 to 600 AD, but more usually come from the middle ages. Every rich member of society aspired to flash their wealth around by commissioning a small volume of decorated liturgical texts. There are many examples of these collected from all over Europe. The colours and subject matter are breathtakingly rich. The bored scribe entertaining himself by taking flights of fancy so original and weird, they appear as fresh and delicious as the day they were painted.

Petrarch's Vigil, c.1336 Bibliotica Ambrosiana, Milan

 This is a very large subject and I shan't bore you all by giving a lecture on the origins, collection and maintenance of these treasures. I just wanted to offer you a taste of what dazzles and inspires me. If you want to see further examples, there is the Macclesfield Psalter which is beautifully reproduced on it's own website. The 'Splendor solis', which is a stunning collection of medieval art. and many others just waiting to beguile you.

Saint Nicholas Rescues a ship, C 1410. Belles Heures Of Jean De france

 The Illuminated Manuscripts come from every continent, religion and culture. Islamic manuscripts come mainly from Persia where the Shia' sect, unlike the Sunnis who are not permitted to create images of anything living as it is seen to usurp Allah's powers, had no issue with the artistic reproduction of a living entity. You will even find images of Mohammed lovingly depicted. Japanese woodcuts and prints are in the same vein, with the flat 2 dimensional look that doesn't deal with perspective.
 I hope you enjoy these images as much as I do. Contemporary art isn't where it all starts and ends.

Splendor Solis, 1532-1535. The Prussian State Museum, Berlin

Splendor Solis

Splendor Solis

Splendor Solis

Splendor Solis

Splendor Solis

Splendor Solis

St Margaret Of Antioch. C. 1440

Fresh Moleskine pages

As part of my artistic discipline, I try at least to fill a double page spread in my current Moleskine sketchbook. I don't seem able to use any other brand as I have become used to the paper texture, the way it copes with water colour washes, and the general robustness of the books as I do put them through some rough treatment.

 

The beauty of the Moleskine books, (I am not paid to say any of this, but I wouldn't say no to sponsorship and free books as they are costing me a fortune.) Is their quality. I have heard some say the size on the paper makes it difficult to use washes, but I've never found that. I quite like the way the paper initially repels the water but eventually absorbs it leaving subtle changes that really add something to the work.

In my ' Five artist material must haves,' I neglected to deal with paper and sketchbooks. This post will go someway towards remedying that. I have in the past used just about every brand of paper and sketchbooks, and I still look out for anything new on the market. When I was using coloured pencils as a main medium I needed very smooth paper, Bristol board was my favourite. I found I could only get that in sheet form or in spiral bound sketchbooks. I would never use a spiral bound book for daily work as it would fall to bits in five minutes. Daler Rowney make some very good hardbound sketchbooks in different sizes, but the texture of the paper was very inconsistent. I was driven to distraction by it's unreliability. When I finally succumbed to the Moleskine after much resistance, ( I thought they were rather pretentious and needlessly expensive) I realised why they were so popular.

 These days I keep a couple of A4 books for working at home, One large 21cm x 13cm moleskine book for my daily prayers, and a small satellite pocket book for carrying around. I am covered for all occasions.

My current book that I started on January 16th is slowly filling up. I am posting some up to date images of the latest work. I am shocked by the change in my work from my first Moleskine begun in 2002 when I was at The Royal College Of Art. I'm sure to a lot of people it all blurs into one . One day I'll exhibit all the books in chronological order, or have them published in one volume in a way that will make the changes easier to see. Until I do, I shall publish the images here. I may do a post on my early books if there is enough interest

My 3D Art Dolls

Now and again, I get an overwhelming urge to make something. I do consider 2d art 'something' obviously, but the urge is to produce something tactile, 3D and separate from my daily work. I don't own a sewing machine ( I am eyeing up a nice Bernina machine with ungodly lust) and I intend to buy one when finances allow. So all my sewing has to be by hand. Unlike my artwork and my Moleskines, I approach fabric work with a little more organization and preparation. I decide on the item I wish to make, collect odds and ends of fabric, then look around for a pattern to adapt. I was useless at sewing at school, couldn't see the point frankly! And I hated the fact that I had to make a prissy nightdress case when my brother was out playing with his friends. I associated sewing, embroidery and cooking with every stereotype of the happily downtrodden housewife I saw around me. (this is the Middle-East I'm talking about.) I never saw any artistic value in needlework, I just found it faintly distasteful, something you took up when you got periods and boobs... ugh!

Now, of course I know better, and really wish I'd paid more attention. My English grandmother was a brilliant dressmaker/needleworker. In fact one of my most memorable Christmas presents I received from her was a complete wardrobe of beautifully made clothes for my doll Claire. She made day wear, nightwear, underwear... clothes for every occasion. My Arabic grandmother was a more prosaic needleworker, she'd could use a sewing machine but preferred the services of a dressmaker like most Middle-Eastern women.

 I've had to start from scratch. learning by trial and error, my only secret to durable, well-made items is to use tiny stitches very close together. One bonus of not having a grounding in sewing is that I am not put off by the impossible. I just keep trying unorthodox ways until I am satisfied.

The Changeling
 The Changeling was based on fairy tales about Goblins who swap newborn human babies for one of their ... ahem... less attractive variety. I adapted a baby doll pattern. I used antique porcelain teeth given to me by a very generous friend, and his eyes were enamelled copper to give them a human limpid look. The best part of making him was creating his accessories; his bed, bedding and lumps of poop, these were lovingly fashioned out of balls of Fimo clumped together, then painted and varnished.

Underage sex
 This one is a model of a schoolgirl who delivers all her babies while waiting for the school bus. I made-up the pattern for this one as I went along. it was quite difficult to create an expanding stomach that can house her babies but deflate when they were pulled out. In the end I used an expanding tubular bandage. My favourite part is the model of the road and pavement where she waits for the bus. If anyone is interested in details, let me know and I'll give you more exact instructions.

Al
Al is the name of my third doll. He stands for everyman who loves himself above all else and there are a few of those around. Again I made the pattern up as I went along. His face is a combination of paint and embroidery. He appears to be holding his baby wrapped by a blanket. Once the blanket is removed it becomes obvious that his baby is actually his penis ( I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH PENISES!)
 I have a few more pieces that are in the planning stage, and a couple waiting to be photographed and added to this blog. If you are interested I will post them shortly.

Taboos in Art: The Erect Penis.

A moleskine sketchbook page with penis.

This post is a little light relief from the relentless negativity of criticising artists whose work I don't love. I will resume that post later on but for now, something a little different.
What is the rudest image you can think of? What kind of image would drive you to avert your eyes and back out of the room? Stumped yet? Well according to censorship boards in even the most liberal societies it is the erect penis! Fainted yet? apparently the sight of an erect penis is so potent it can corrupt your maiden aunt and send a community directly to hell.
 I have always had a thing about penises (or is that peni?) I just checked that out and it seems both are correct the first being the English form, the second is Latin. I like the shape, the texture and the fact that they have a life of their own. The vagina is more secretive, it doesn't give much away, very much like a woman in fact. The vagina is hard to read, mysterious and complicated. None of that makes it any less valuable or attractive. Don't get me wrong, I am a woman, a ferocious feminist and a standard bearer for vagina power, but this post will focus on the male tackle, I shall deal with the vagina in a later post. I still maintain a penis is more endearing, a little ridiculous and a comic solution to a natural design puzzle. The combination of penis and scrotum (just the words induce juvenile giggles!) are a funny little package, they have their own separate existence from the man they come attached to. And I defy any man to assert any control over his errant 'manhood'.

Another of my own creations from my trusty moleskine.

My so called penis obsession continues.

A less obvious penis portrait.

The penis comes in an infinite variety of shapes and sizes, no two are the same. That in itself makes it a fascinating subject for the artist. A phallus can actually look depressed, sleepy or perky and ready to greet the world, if only it could speak. I have been accused of being obsessed with willies, and they do feature fairly often in my work. I refute the obsession part but freely admit making full use of the image when I think it is called for. Since time began, men have tried to brainwash us into seeing the male genitalia as a symbol of might and superiority, they have tried oh so hard to instil in us a hushed reverence for the power of the penis. But at the back of their minds they must have been aware of the comedy aspect of the 'todger', 'dick' and 'sausage'. Were they overcompensating? Did they really believe that they could condition us to forget how silly it looked by enforcing blanket respect?

Part of a series on 'manhood'.

God really did play a dirty trick on men! He gave them physical strength, ruthless focus and dominion over everything but made them pay for it by choosing the least sober and serious option his design comitee could come up with. So hurray for the penis, that comical little body part that has over the centuries turned the world upside down and back again.Where

would we be without it!

Map of New York as a Penis.

Penis Costume culled from the bowels of the internet.

Uncle Melon's Instructions.

Gold Penis Pendant

Jake and Dinos Chapman etching.

Artists I don't love and why. Part II Gary Hume.

Gary Hume
 this artist comes from the same place as Gavin Turk. Another artist whose banality seems to go undetected no matter how obvious it gets. Gary was lucky enough to be painting life size portraits of doors (nothing wrong with that!), at the same time as Damien Hirst and the rest of the YBAs at Goldsmiths. He was lucky enough to have taken part in Frieze, and to have caught Saatchi's eye. But then what? Once he ran out of doors to paint he had to find something else to create without revealing his lack of artistic talent and complete absence of technical ability. So he was clever enough ( I said he was talentless not stupid!) to find stepping stones that kept him an art world darling. He resorted to painting very stylized images of b list celebrities, making simple sculptures and fighting artist block. Don't get me wrong, I would never suggest any of the artists I don't love are anything less than sincere. Their desperation to be taken seriously as artists is probably stronger than most. Deep inside they know they are rubbish and  their work is meaningless . It must be awful living with a terrible secret that could be found out at any minute.
 I place some of the blame on art schools. They no longer 'teach' art theory, perspective, composition or anything that could be taken as technique. It's all smoke and mirrors. The most successful are the ones who can mimic true art most convincingly. I am starting to sound like Brian Sewell but I won't apologise for that. You'd expect a writer to know the ABC wouldn't you? You'd expect him to have basic literacy skills? A writer wouldn't get very far with an 'impression' of a story. The same with musicians. A certain level of music theory is taken for granted. So why not art? I understand that an artist must be free to express him/herself without constraints. But surely you can only express yourself freely when you have a language! When you have the tools to give your ideas life. Instead we get the artists we deserve. Tongue-tied inarticulate painters producing meaningless banality.
 Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm asking too much and being a backward-looking reactionary. maybe I shouldn't look for work that challenges me on more than a surface level. Maybe I'm wrong to want to look at art and think "wow! I wish I could do that!" To want to be in awe of the artist's eloquence and ability to realise his ideas.
The writer Julie Burchill once said fine art is the least moving of the arts, that music, theatre and film can move her to tears but a painting can't. Maybe she is looking at the wrong art, and the wrong artists. Art can and has moved me to tears, but most of those who do have been dead for a few centuries.