peter hollard

New Work In Progress (The Difficult Pleasure)

2012-01-28T15:30:00.000+10:00

I've just commenced my next drawing.

The initial concept came from a drawing in one of my journals that refers to my personal struggle with creating work and generating new ideas. But it is also a direct link to the Australian artist Brett Whitely, one of my artistic heroes, who referred to his "affliction", that is being born with a gift that had to be honoured. He had no choice in the matter. Whitely called Art "the difficult pleasure". One can speculate whether it ultimately cost him his life.

There are times when I feel I am a slave to the image. There is always an enormous internal struggle to honour, to create and to entertain the muse within. A week without making a mark on paper, is to feel the itch within the fingertips take hold. Something has to be made, and what that is isn't always obvious.

This new work honours those times.

The brown Kraft paper (205gsm) is 2 meters wide and 1200cm high,

and is taped to a large sheet of plaster board left over from building the house.

The drawing is drafted out in Mars Lumograph 7B pencil.

It's a rich matt black that doesn't shine, therefore complimenting the flat charcoal to come.

I work from a photo I take of myself, but I'm not a slave to it.

I draw quickly so as to encourage the subtle distortions that are a key to my work.

After the initial drawing, I add the black tonal components with Pitt compressed extra soft charcoal.

The titanium white soft pastel is then worked into this. Some areas are left raw, while others are blended.

Not all of the design is fully conceived yet. There are a lot of serendipitous moments, and long periods sitting in chair with a coffee and staring at the work. Ideas suggest themselves as I go, and final designs are adjusted according to the needs of the work.

(Is it too black. Too white. No flow or rhythm. Components that can't be "read". The need for detail and patterns. Awkward shapes that don't fit. The story looses track, irrelevant components etc etc.)

At these moments, everything is right in the universe.

"When you are working,

everybody is in your studio -

The past,

your friends,

the art world,

and above all,

your own ideas are all there.

But as you continue painting,

they start to leave one by one,

and you are left completely alone.

Then if you are lucky,

even you leave."

Extract from a conversation between John Cage and Phillip Guston.

Art In All Things (The perfect day)

2012-01-28T14:08:00.001+10:00

The yard below my house is home to the occasional Red Bellied Black Snake, who love the close proximity to the dam beyond. I'm not a snake fan, but love seeing these beauties and feel fortunate to have them around. I'm not sure I've ever seen such an intense, brilliant black, and this is married with the vibrant fire red of their bellies. They are spectacular.
So to admire them and monitor their presence, I hand mow the grass with my little 14 inch Victa.

Mowing is therapeutic for me, and a form of exercise. The patterns have started to emerge over time, and make the whole process seem speedier. It's another opportunity to draw.
I change the patterns every 12 months.

Favourite denims drying in the afternoon.

The shed nestled behind the palms is my studio.

Early morning sunshine catches the last of the valley mist, and casts long shadows that highlight the mowed patterns.

The view from the deck at the front of my studio.
Scene Of My Perfect Day
Both roller doors wide open.
Sun shining through, flooding the studio.
Music loud.
Aromatic incense filling the studio air.
Torn denims and paint splattered 'T'
A large sheet of brown paper.
Stacks of charcoal, pastel and graphite.

‘I Love the Lab’ (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2012-01-28T13:06:00.000+10:00

A few years back, I was given a post card from a friend who had been to Chartres Cathedral, and had found the large tiled labyrinth buried beneath orderly rows of wicker chairs. Chairs reminiscent of the one Vincent painted in his chambre.

There’s something about labyrinths that I love. For a number of years a large labyrinth has been mowed into the grass at the bottom of my paddock. A soothing place of gentle reflection and meditation. To walk its corridor is a mini journey within itself.

Akin to life.

My Labyrinth in sunshine...

...and hail

The Magic Woodford Folk Festival, 2011

2012-01-02T21:07:00.001+10:00

Every year for twenty something years, in a valley behind the town of Woodford in the Sunshine Coast hinterland, a mini canvas city is created, and the lost souls of a bygone era trample the humid, muddy, dusty and delightful village in search of the sights and sounds of yesterday.

They discard the trappings of this contemporary life, pull out those older garments that smack of a more casual and eloquent hippy era, and stroll the streets searching for unusual foods, beaded and braided home crafts, and the warm sounds of folk and blues floating from any one of the many venues.

It's a week of pure escapism.

I was invited to run an art workshop at the excellent

ARTISANIA

Visual Arts and Crafts

area of the Woodford Folk Festival this year.

The 4 workshops were titled

"Put Yourself In The Picture"

They were a chance for Woodfordians to create a self portrait in charcoal and pastel. Most participants had limited art experience, but I loved the way they saw the workshop as a non threatening environment in which to have a go at something, that beyond the walls of Woodford might terrify them.

Lots of discovery, laughter and enjoyment, and a perfect way to meet a vast array of people.

And then every now and then you are fortunate to witness a revelation.

Thursday 29th December, 2.00pm.

We walk into the Blues Tent and watch a 30 year old Canadian named Matt Andersen.

In 1984 I went to a Santana Concert in Adelaide,

and stood with the audience and cried as I listened to Santana touch me in such a profound and dramatic way.

Straight to the heart stuff.

I suddenly felt that music was the purist art form I knew, because it had an immediacy that directly opened communication between the artist and the audience.

The musician is feeling it, I too am feeling it, NOW.

Andersen's voice is powerfully rich, yet sweet, and lulls you through gentle ballads.
But then he throws his head back while singing the blues, and sends his voice soaring somewhere above without the need of a microphone.

His voice sinks so low as he purrs out "I'm a steamroller baby",

that the bass reverberates deep into your chest.

His guitar is strummed and plucked and savaged, stumpy fingers thrashing strings. Unbelievable dexterity.

We ended up attending four of Matt's concerts during the following days.

Each concert received a standing ovation.

For the second time in my life I was moved to tears.

A happy man,

I leave Woodford for another year,
with new acquaintances to make me smile and a new CD in my clutch.

After The Purge...

2012-01-02T15:38:00.000+10:00

As I slugged through the previous piece, this new idea emerged.

I drafted it out in my journal in black pen...

...added a little indian ink wash,

a little water to some cheap coloured TYPO pens I bought at the Plaza,

and a bit of coloured pencil. There's a gut feeling when it works, an intrinsic sense of balance and completion, not always able to be taught.

From the small journal drawing emerges this work.

1150mm X 900mm.

PITT Extra Soft Charcoal,

ART SPECTRUM Titanium White,

STAEDTLER Mars Lumograph 7B Graphite Pencil,

and a hint of Blue and Red pastel.

Drawn on 210gsm brown Kraft Paper.

Now For First Marks

2012-01-02T14:19:00.001+10:00

I remember listening to a radio interview a few years back with the lead singer of Nine Inch Nails, Trent Reznor.

He was asked how he handled writers block. He said it would happen often. Times when the creative juices didn't flow, but it wasn't a problem. He had learnt during those times, to write anything that came to him down on paper, sketchy ideas, random notes or obscure lyrics. Didn't judge it, just got it all down. It could take days, weeks, months, but slowly something worthwhile and concrete would emerge from the ramblings. A song.

Art is like that for me.

After being overseas, there are too many ideas banging around inside, and nothing concrete has gelled. So it's a matter of just putting a piece of paper on the easel and start making marks. I'm not trying to be correct or even begin to judge the outcomes. I'm not trying to make a picture, just make marks!

The eventual outcome isn't satisfying, but the monkey on the back has been removed.

As my head is released to these meditative drawing spaces, invariably it wanders off to new ideas. I can't leave the largely unsatisfying work "unfinished", but the newly emerging concepts are recorded in my journal. To be tackled after I've purged the above piece.

‘Unwitting Peccadillos’ (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2012-01-02T13:22:00.001+10:00

Sauntering around the headland of Granville late in the afternoon, I peered down from an elevated area in front of the cathedral, into a room in one of the beautiful old naval buildings opposite, that had been converted into residencies.

The windows were wide open, Black high heeled shoes perched on the sill. Inside the fresh cream coloured room, was a large made bed with plump pillows. Laid out on the bed were underwear, a sparkling dark dress, and a gift (or was it a cube?) tied with ribbon

I drifted through the space into unwitting invitations and peccadillos.

What To Do Now?

2011-11-06T18:46:00.002+10:00

I've just finished this inspirational trip and accumulated so much information

about places that I love and feel some strange familiarity and connection too.

So what do I do now?

What to do with all this stuff?

How do I maintain momentum?

As I travelled I not only maintained a blog about the journey,

and took nearly 2000 photos,

but I kept a journal, a written account of each day of the trip.

I've always kept visual journals.

These journals, of which I now have 14 spanning 21 years,

are a constant source of inspiration.

They are not filled with finished art works,

but words, doodles, cut-outs and pastings, ideas, thoughts and

musings that have entered my being over time.

It's like hoarding mental stuff that I can't afford to throw out,

just in case I need it one day.

First book, Adelaide, 1990

Most recent book, number 14,

started about a month ago,

in Paris.

Euro trip 2011, first entry

Paris-Lausanne train ticket

Prawns and Dali

So it's a little bit of overload at present and I'm not sure where to start.

And what's more,

the work I had hanging on my easel before I left is still there,

and annoying the hell out of me.

I can't reconcile it. It grates, it frustrates and played on my mind constantly as I travelled,

because I knew I would have to come home and face it one day.

It's strange when you invest so much time in a piece of work,

and it fails to "sing".

I've spoken to a number of people about this work,

to get some feedback and they tend to agree.

It's safe, too easy to read, and doesn't intrigue.

There is a lot more unpredictability and energy with my other pieces.

So that at least is my starting point.

I love the story telling/comic book/words aspect but need to find a new dynamism.

‘Valleydreams’ (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-11-06T18:11:00.003+10:00

Lonely in Paris, I needed some clear air.

I sped through Normandie on a silent, smooth Gallic train, heading for fresh Atlantic breezes.

As I approached Flers, I caught a glimpse of a handful of old farm buildings, boarded up and lying in a green valley that nestled beneath the shadows of large rolling hills.

In that moment I was there. The artist, snuggled away in one of those ramshackle stone buildings for the evening. Beeswax candles, a small stove to make coffee on, a thick sleeping bag, some pens and my art book. A sanctuary I had quietly inhabited. Nobody would care. A place of solitude, peace and gentle thoughts to keep me company.

I marveled as the possibilities whizzed past the window of that train and were at once processed and entertained in a matter of seconds.

Those moments haunted me in the days to follow.

Last Days

2011-10-24T23:42:00.001+10:00

From Chinon we drive back to Paris and return the car.

The little Citroen C3 has been great and served us well.

But what we really enjoyed was that roof!

The roof rolled back to the 'B' pillar,

and the huge windscreen
allowed the driver and front passenger to have a panoramic vision

of everything around them.

A lot of fun!

A final stroll around Paris.

Pont Neuf, the famous bridge across the Seine,

that every artist has stood on throughout history

and painted from.

Just on the other side of the bridge, a final fling with Sennelier.

A matter of timing.

Even the Louvre has a sense of humour.

We got our old room back for the final evening in Paris.

Tea on my Van Gogh chair in the loft.

Midnight light on the ceiling.

Lost and in love.

Along The Loire To Chinon

2011-10-22T06:39:00.000+10:00

Tonight Wendy pre-books a hotel on line.

The lane leading to the hotel.

The Manoir de la Giraudiere.

Built in the 17C.

Chinon sits on the banks of Le Vienne, a tributary of the Loire River.

Tea that night at the local Pizzeria in Chinon.

Loire Valley

2011-10-22T06:08:00.001+10:00

From the Bretagne peninsula, we decide to make our way back across France,

and head in the general direction of Paris, to eventually return our car.

We drive through the Loire Valley.

Looking for a hotel late in the day,

we drive into the rather large city of Angers,

and again, another revelation.

Chateau D'Angers, High on a hill overlooking the city and river.

I love what they do with trams in French cities.

Stylish, colourful and quiet, the trams run down the major roads

on tracks laid in thick, lush, grass.

And in the nearby town of Saumur, dealing with dog droppings.

The Lady In The Tourism Office...

2011-10-22T05:29:00.000+10:00

... at Huelgoat, told us about a little coastal village to the south named Pont Aven.

She said it was full of Artists.

We headed off.

There were no Artists, they're all off painting as winter approaches, and then they return to their galleries in Pont Aven in spring to sell their works.

No artists, but certainly evidence of their presence here.

Must have walked past 50 galleries around the little town.

There are whole roads of galleries.

Again, this place is beautiful and real. Everywhere is evidence of people's lives as they go about their daily business. The town sits on the upper reaches of a tidal river, and is lined with small fishing boats. Many of the stone houses ford the small river that feeds the estuary, and the locals have channelled sections off to drive small wheels and water their gardens.

The use of rock and stone throughout Bretagne is delightful.

There is a wonderful harmony between the way the people work with it, and how it appears in nature.

Huelgoat

2011-10-22T02:56:00.002+10:00

From the northern coast we head inland and to the west of the Bretagne peninsula,

up into the hilly region known as the Monts d'Aree,

which is part of a large regional natural park.

In this area is a little town named Huelgoat,

which sits amidst magnificent forests on a serene woodland lake.

We arrive during the the annual food and wine festival, and the town is buzzing.

But later in the day, it becomes eerily quiet.

The town is old and lovely, but it seems like no-one lives here any more.

A beautiful 3 storey building right in the heart of the village,

has a large shop (gallery) and storage area on the ground floor;

2 bedrooms, bathroom, toilet, kitchen and living on the first floor;

3 bedrooms, bathroom, toilet, kitchen and living on the second floor;

and a large loft that could be turned into accommodation

a group of artists studios!

$390,000!

There was a lot of evidence of the Arts,

empty galleries and art schools in grand old buildings,

and an open air ampitheatre in the woods,

but I was told they all move out when it starts to get cold.

Rich pickings for a bunch of artists from Australia to move into and revive the little towns

art and soul.

At the end of the lake are the woodlands.

Enchanted and fairytale like, everything Robin Hood would have dreamed off,

and a Hobbit would die for!

You walk down to the woods through a river gorge filled with huge tumbling granite boulders covered in thick lichens and mosses.

The path leads under rock bridges and down into waterfall caverns.

Light filters through the canopy of elm, birch and maple, and because the season is slowly turning, there is the constant flutter of auburn-brown leaves creating a soft carpet under your feet.

The woods were also the hiding place for the French Resistance during the war,

and there are a number of grave sites dotted along the walk.

In another area there are remnants of a large rampart, dating back to the times of Julius Caesar.

Like the forest, Huelgoat intrigued and enchanted.
But where is the fire?

The Tour Of Bretagne

2011-10-21T04:58:00.000+10:00

From Mont St-Michel

we wander along the northern coastline of the Bretagne Peninsula (Brittany).

The coast looks out onto the English Channel,

and is dotted with rugged islands, and small bays and inlets.

We make it up as we go,

and there are always delightful discoveries.

We come across

St Cast-le-Guildo.

As we drive around the little streets, we find Hotel Jacquet.

Very friendly, large room, delightful breakfast.

Above, the hotel and the views from the rooms.

Another gem.

The boardwalk from beach to marina. Beach house with cat and art gates.

Early morning fitness group.

Mont St-Michel

2011-10-18T06:58:00.000+10:00

Barely a French tourist promotion passes without a picture of the

quite amazing island monastery that is

Mont St-Michel.

Travelling south from Granville,

early morning,

we roll over a crest of a hill and there in the distant bay

is the unmistakeable silhouette of Mont St-Michel.

Situated in the borderlands of Normandy and Brittany

it's a wonder from the Middle Ages.

The island's first building began in 708 AD.

It lies in the outlet where three small rivers all empty into the English Channel.

It is slowly giving away to erosion and the deposits of silt from extreme tides and the rivers.

Apart from being an eyesore to this magnificent spot, the causeway is a part of the problem due to the changes of water flow it has caused around the island.

There are plans to construct an elevated footbridge as the only access, in the near future.

I must admit I thought it was going to be just another monastery and church.

I was delighted to find that it is a fully functioning village, with shops, cafes, hotels, gardens,

vege plots, smaller church and a cemetery with quite recent additions.

A maze of narrow stairways and tiny footpaths, lead through, over and under, and open windows reveal the lives of the locals, who seem happy to share their town.

High tide covers all but the central part of this road,

and motorists are warned to move their cars before the posted high tide times.

The spring tide in this bay is 15 metres (the highest in France)

and the sea can recede 17 kms out into the bay.

It returns at an average speed of 62 metres/minute.

We Move On To Granville

2011-10-18T05:17:00.002+10:00

After a while the city comes in on you,

and there is the need for a breeze and open space.

We hire a car and head west to the Atlantic,

and the village that I spent some time in last trip, Granville.

I have the fondest memories of this place.

It's the scene of my artistic renaissance, where I sat in my small room

and worked on a new body of art,

which I am still working on.

Granville is a small fishing port,

protected by a strong headland that cradles strong, brutish granite buildings

and naval fortifications from a bygone era.

They stand as proud sentinels to the time of the sailing ship.

It's massive sea wall indicates the ferocity of winter storms that lash the Atlantic coast.

Each morning the fishing fleet returns with cold rooms

full of the largest collection of shell fish anywhere in France.

And it's great to hear seagulls again.

Sometimes you head into a town and sort out your accommodation when you get there.

And sometimes you strike it lucky!

Above is the view from our hotel room.

Wendy walking across the seawall at Granville.

Today we had a 9 metre tidal drop, but the spring tide can be 15 metres.

A low wall becomes evident at low tide,

and holds back a body of water in the marina and bay,

that allows sailing and swimming to continue.

The evening before we leave.

But There's Still The Old Paris.

2011-10-18T02:55:00.000+10:00

St Germaine

How modern can you get?

Even the graffiti works.
And that green and white plastic pod?

In Montmartre, this innocent entrance to a building...

... but enlarge this image and read the print.
You are always so close to your heroes.

And this cafe in Montmartre.
Note the square sign under the name,
and read on...

You don't have to read French
to understand the significance of this place

Old and new co-exist beautifully.

The domes of Sacre Coeur, Montmartre.

The streets of Montmartre.

Street performers of Montmartre.

The square behind Sacre Coeur,
where painters, portrait artists and guys with black paper and scissors
are always at the ready. A great place to sit and people watch.

Montmartre.

Paris is elegant at every level.

Paris...A Study Of The New

2011-10-16T05:46:00.001+10:00

Whenever we think of Paris we imagine the usual charming 'old' icons.

But this magnificent city has a modern edgy side to it, and it is little publicised.

If you draw a straight line through The Louvre, up the Champs Elysee, through the Arc de Triomphe and continue up, you will run into a skyscraper city known as Le Defense.

It is spectacular and a wonderful monument to cutting edge architecture.

The thing I love about European cities is their lack of fear in placing the new beside the old.

They embrace modernity, and I love it.

Reflections of Miro and Calder

Under Piano's glass pyramid, Louvre

Inside the 3 sided CNIT building

EDF building meets Miro

Quai Bramley's green exterior

Wonderful rhythms

Exo-skeletal elevators,
Pompidou Centre

Quai Bramley's glass walls
with prints

Pompidou Centre

Inside The Grande Arch

Glass towers Le Defense

Le Defense
from atop the Grande Arch.

Optical illusions with space

Calder, glass and steel

Mirror upon mirror,
reflection on reflection

The Grande Arch, 40 storeys tall.
Notre Dame fits inside the Arch.
As wide as the Champs Elysee.
Built exactly100 years after Eiffel's Tower.
The vertical metal structure inside the arch
are two glass elevators.
The two side walls are office blocks.
The top horizontal panel is an exhibition space
and outdoor viewing platform.

Water feature sculpture

Striking holes

Vast water sculptures in the plaza

EDF building, towering elegance

Beautiful mosaic exhaust stack

CNIT building,
supported at 3 points only

Underground Salon des Halles,
shopping Centre

Pompidou, wearing its inside out

Back To Paris

2011-10-13T02:30:00.001+10:00

This is our neighbourhood around Hotel Jeff, which is situated on the corner of Rue Richer and Rue Montmartre-Faubourg in the 9th arrondissement of Paris.

The view from our loft window.

Where we sit and eat tea some nights. Passage Verdeau, a short cut.

Surrounding rooftops.

Our local Cafe Le Faubourg. Below us, Le Faubourg's red awning.

Our room.

See the Flak Pharmacy sign in the middle of the photo.

Now count five sets of windows up from that.

That's our loft window with balcony!

The room behind is quite large.

And what artist worth his weight has never wanted to live in a loft in Paris?

A Train And Plane From Spain

2011-10-12T01:15:00.000+10:00

Figueres, 9.17am.

Fast train to Barcelona.

Sunny Barcelona Airport, 1.35pm.

Sunny Beaches of Barcelona.

Sunny Pyrenees.

Entering France.

Storms over Charles DeGaulle Airport.

And Another Dose Of Dali - The Cadaques Bit.

2011-10-12T00:27:00.001+10:00

We hire a car for the day and head to the coast from Figueres, about a half hour away.

The small coastal village of Cadaques is nestled in a tiny harbour on the Mediterranean, and is where Dali would holiday as a youth, but in later life bought a house on the waters edge in Port Lligat, a stone throw away. This home is also a work of art and now a museum.

Cadaques is white and perfect. If you know a little about Dali's art, then as you walk around, every view and turn is a slice from one of his works. The rugged rock upheaval of the nearby coastline, is where he forged ideas for his dreamlike coastal images.

In the cafe on the beach, we ate deep fried tiger prawns in crispy potato. Almost wept!

Further around the coast is Cap De Creus, the most eastern part of the Spanish mainland.

Vertical rock striations rise from the sea in a ruggedly beautiful coastline, and sheltering in deep inlets are little harbours and sandy bays.

In the distance France.

The spaghetti western cafe at the end of the world.

Now For A Dose Of Dali - The Figueres Bit.

2011-10-11T01:22:00.000+10:00

Waiting for the 9.17am to Figueres.

All Spanish and French trains leave and arrive to the minute.

In fact the Barcelona underground tells you to the second what time it will arrive.

Figueres is a one and half hour train trip north of Barcelona.

The only reason anybody would go to Figueres is to visit the Dali Museum.

Dali bought the old theatre and remodelled it himself so as to create a living monument to his work. However it is not a staid old museum, but interactive and a lot of fun.

This Mae West portrait is an actual room set up in the museum.

Dali explored many optical effects, including this effect and stereo-optical illusions. Among other things, he considered himself to be a scientist, and explored the atomic world through his paintings.

I love Dali.

The consummate showman, whose exquisite craftsmanship allow him to explore and play with many different realms of painting, drawing and sculpture.

His output was prodigious.

His imagination knew no boundaries.

And The Beach That Is Barceloneta

2011-10-11T00:30:00.000+10:00

The beach sits just on the other side of the harbour of Port Vell, and is 5-6 kms of tree lined, paved promenades and sandy beaches. The modern seawalls that protect the marinas, are designed to house even more cafes and shops. Restaurants abound and small booths sell ice creams, crepes and cold drinks. Bodies are brown and invariably topless. People stroll in outfits from board shorts to Sunday best, and can pass you on bikes, scooters, skateboards, rollerblades, trikes and segways. On this day there was even a spectacular air-show on over the beach. It's a perambulators delight!

It's a non stop celebration.

It's a sensory delight.

An older area known as Barri La Barceloneta, inhabits a number of city blocks right on the beach front and is prime for development. It's where the locals live, and each street is filled with community parties, celebrations and parades on any given weekend. It is the vibrant heart of this area, but it is under threat.

Cruising around Barcelona

2011-10-10T23:48:00.000+10:00

Port Vell, the beautiful harbour at the foot of La Rambla, is a hub for the people of Barcelona and tourists alike. The 1992 Olympics ensured the old warehouses and wharves were rejuvenated into lively boulevards of entertainment, artworks and cafes; a place where the vibrant local communities congregate and always seem to celebrate life. They are a joyous people and it's infectious.

I love the way there is no fear or hesitation amongst European
cities to mix the outrageously modern with the old and revered.

Barcelona is Antonio Gaudi

2011-10-09T06:07:00.001+10:00

A juggling busker works hard during red lights

at a busy morning intersection.

Today we went to Sagrada Familia.

Antonio Gaudi's incomplete dream, still being constructed after a hundred years.

The cathedral is breathtaking.

There is an audible gasp as you round the corner and view her.

It rivals the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum, and I dare say any other building of significance in the world.

Construction began in 1882, and is expected to be completed in in 2026, 144 years.

In the basement below the church are amazing plaster models of his ideas, all based around the use of hyperboloids, which at the time revolutionised building design and added elegance and strength to his constructions.

Consider the exterior of the Sagrada again, and remember that five more spires are yet to be built, with the final main central one, half as high again as the existing spires.

Its shape dominates the Barcelona skyline.

~~~

And then there's Casa Batllo, another of Gaudi's stunning creations. It stands in the main street of Barcelona, and you know when you're there, because standing on the footpath are hundreds of people, craning their necks and cameras skyward, in awe of this mosaic fantasy.

Wendy and I pay our money and enter. We are instantly filled with what I remember of Stendhal Syndrome.

The house was built as a private residence and pays homage to Gaudi's

belief in the majesty of nature.

I am amazed at his ability to construct something as monolithic and inherently reverent and serene as the Sagrada Familia, but then temper his design aspirations to be aware of the intimacy required for a family home.

~~~

And to round it off, we head up to the foothills behind Barcelona, to another of Gaudi's dreams, that of a walled housing estate called Parc Guell, where the inhabitants could roam through gardens and parks, entertain in a columned forum, stroll around market squares a build beautiful houses for their privileged lives.

Gaudi designed gate houses and elevated walkways and had incorporated reticulated water systems.

You get the feeling Gaudi was a genius, but born a hundred years too soon.

A man who devoted his life to science, architecture, design and his God.

Barcelona is all about Antonio Gaudi.

BARCELONA!!!!

2011-10-07T08:10:00.000+10:00

At first, Barcelona overwhelms.

So many people packed together in an absolute hum of noise and energy. To negotiate La Rambla, the boulevard the runs in a straight line from the beautiful harbour to the Placa Catalunya, in the centre of the city, is to be inundated with sound, sights and smells.

The most amazing buskers imaginable, acrobats, tapas and paella infused cafes that serve the strongest coffee and fresh baguettes for breakfast under large colourful umbrellas, scam merchants and knock-em-down and set-em-up illegal pea and shell 'games', beggars, tourists with a thousand different languages, and locals sitting in small cafes and drinking expressos and taking large shopping bags home full of fresh produce from the incredible markets, beautiful young things, tans, tans, tans, flower sellers, young men with sunglasses and fans on quick getaway cloths to make it easier to out run the ever vigilante police, and other young men shooting rubber band powered neon flying toys into the night sky hoping to make a few euros, and old Barcelonians sitting in deck chairs under the huge planes trees that line the entire length of the road and wondering where it all went wrong.

I love this place. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced and I just love it!

And What About Barcelona?

2011-10-07T07:00:00.000+10:00

But first... easyJet

We walk into Geneva airport and straight up to one of the fully automated easyJet vending machines. I type in my ticket reference number that I got online about 8 weeks prior in Maleny. Out spits two tickets with Wendy and my names on them, and two luggage stickers, which we duly attach to the handles of our bags. We take our luggage and freshly printed tickets up to the stewardess who duly approves them and wishes us a happy flight. That's it, all over in nearly 3 minutes. Brilliant!!!

Then we get to our hotel in Barcelona, also booked online, Acta Mimic.

A five minute stroll from La Rambla, the heart and soul of this electric place.

The hotel is something else. 5 storeys screened front and back with full length Joan Miro designs.

The halls are totally black, with tiny red spotlights running waist height down either side, illuminating the room numbers opposite.

Inside the room, one entire wall is frosted glass with a clear glass shower recess and vanity basin incorporated, and open to the rest of the room. There is a remote control to change the colours of the interior lights, to catch your mood.

Its all very flash, and at first we were concerned that there were no actual windows to the outside world, but at the end of a day in this most crowded of cities, it was great to have such respite from the incessant buzz.

From Lausanne to Annecy

2011-10-07T05:58:00.000+10:00

Like a lot of the towns we pass through, there is often a very old heart. And so it is in Annecy, a beautiful spot perched on the edge of a large freshwater lake in the French Alps.

Shallow crystal clear streams flow below and around the old arched, grey stone buildings. Along the waters edge are snaking boardwalks and aromatic cafes. Throughout the narrow cobbled streets, market stall vendors sell local fruits, vegetables, cheeses and meats. And on each street corner is the ubiquitous ice cream parlour and postcard shop.

After two wonderful days of wandering and exploring we catch the bus up to Geneva for a flight to Barcelona.

And Finally...

2011-10-04T03:32:00.013+10:00

...there's Rob'n'Jodie, who provided us with food, shelter, transport, and looked after us with immense hospitality. It was wonderful to spend time with them. Their spark and enthusiasm is infectious.

THANKS GUYS!

And finally on the last morning, the sunrise Rob had been promising the whole time.

Last Days In Lausanne

2011-10-04T03:26:00.002+10:00

Saturday morning. It's been a great week, but Saturday morning is the same feeling half a world away. In fact as I sit here writing this late in the afternoon, I know there's an recorded West Coast Eagles and Geelong game to watch on the TV, and I can hear a lawnmower outside. I can almost feel the fresh cut grass.

Today after breakfast we drive around Lake Geneva and have coffee in the little village of Rolle. There's a strange haze over the lake that blurs the distinction between water and sky.

The boats sit becalmed in some nether region between. It's beautiful and timeless.

Lausanne is the world HQ for the Olympic Committee. We wander up through the immaculately groomed grounds, past sculptures loaded with the Olympic ideal, and are amazed at the wonderful examples of various world records displayed throughout the gardens.

We sit at the waters edge at Ouchy and pinch ourselves.

Lausanne After Dark

2011-10-04T02:34:00.000+10:00

Rob, Wendy and I catch the bus into Lausanne to try and capture the old town at night. We've been in Rome, Paris and Barcelona after dark and never had a problem, but we felt uncomfortable in Lausanne this evening.

One Of The Reasons For My Trip...

2011-10-02T03:49:00.001+10:00

...was to conduct a week long Artist In Residence program at the International School of Lausanne, in Switzerland. I was working with the Year 11, 12, and 13 students.

I have worked with Judy and Roger, the Art teachers in their beautifully appointed school, and wonderfully spacious Art rooms.

I used the school's Reception area to set up a display of my work, and during free periods created one of my drawings as a demonstration of my techniques.

The school staffroom had two Nescafe machines
pouring out free all you can drink coffee 24/7.

Imagine the outside views in winter when everything is covered in snow.

From my journal;

"I've got to say I've had a great week at the school. The facilities are excellent, staff very friendly and the students I've worked with are wonderful, mature, friendly, worldly and take their art very seriously. I've loved every minute of it. I've been working in the foyer on a work of art and I've displayed my work as well. The feedback has exceeded my expectations. Lots of kids from the primary school continue to engage me during their breaks and enquire about what I'm doing. A number of teachers have brought their students out to talk to me about my practice."

"It's my last day and I've thoroughly enjoyed working with the Year 11, 12 and 13 students. They have a maturity and openness that I've loved. They say hello, they engage you in conversation, they are open and polite. They thank you at the end of each lesson. They say goodbye."

"It's my last day. I head up to the hall to say goodbye to Lyn Cheetham, the School Director, who is conducting the orchestra. She gives me a 'Swiss kiss' (3 times) and all the audience of mainly senior school students, give me a round of applause and a loud "Au revoir Peter". I'm very chuffed. I've loved this place and the students."

A Day Trip To Fribourg.

2011-10-02T02:08:00.000+10:00

Slow start but we finally head off up the freeway towards Bern. It's very overcast with drizzling rain. The trip is along a beautiful rolling valley filled with ripe green fields, quaint chocolate box chalets and tree lined mountains, their tips dipped in heavy, fat grey clouds. 70 kms along the road is Fribourg, another regular town as you enter, but with an old heart sunken in the cleft between two limestone cliffs.

Nothing is allowed to be ugly here, and for what reason would people need to get sick?

A great coffee with milk served in a chocolate cup.

Now For Something Truly Beautiful.

2011-09-29T06:05:00.000+10:00

On the shores of Lake Geneva in Lausanne

stands the newly constructed Rolex Learning Centre.

It is the library for the local university. It is a place of contemplative study.

But above all, it is stunning to move around and under. It flows up and down and has no corridors, but general areas of movement.

You stroll around and have an overwhelming urge to be part of it and study.

It's Our First Morning in Lausanne...

2011-09-29T05:28:00.002+10:00

...and this is the view that greets us from Rob and Jodie's apartment. The Swiss Alps in the distance, and the French Alps on the opposite bank of Lake Geneva. There was a light dusting of snow on their peaks.

We jump in the Alfa 147 and head up the distant pass into Italy and France.

The old Vespa shop in Martigny. Reconditioned and returned to their rightful place in the shopfront window.

The Italian town of Aoste. The difference between Italy and Switzerland is palpable and we arrive on a drizzly, slow Sunday afternoon, when most things are winding down.

The old and grimy meets the new and sleek in the town centre.

We have lunch in a lovely little Italian cafe in the town centre, and I try my first

Cafe Creme Fredda. A rich cold cream coffee.

A joy!

Later That Same Day.

2011-09-26T04:05:00.000+10:00

It's late afternoon. We unpack and head down to Lake Geneva. Old stone buildings, lichen encrusted walls and rows of perfectly aligned vineyards, line the narrow walkways.

Then there's that lake.

It's Thursday Morning...

2011-09-26T02:56:00.003+10:00

...and the TGV rolls out of Gare de Lyon right to the minute. In fact it doesn't roll, it slides out.

It slips through the French countryside at 200 km/h plus, heading for Dijon, and onto Lausanne in Switzerland. It does 200 km/h because the French tell you it does. It does 200 km/h because cars on the adjacent freeways are doing 130 km/h, and appear to be going backwards.

High speed train travel is smooth and silky, pure joy.

After three and a half hours, we roll into Gare Lausanne and there's Swalesy, standing on the platform in board shorts and thongs. A big cheery Oz greeting in a sea of unintelligible babble.

His little red Alfa negotiates the maze of roads and signage to deliver us safely to the nearby village of Pully (Poo-ee). In the loft of a steep alpine roofline, is Rob and Jodie's spacious apartment. And from the balcony, a view to die for.

Last Days In Paris

2011-09-21T06:03:00.000+10:00

'We head back to the hotel for a baguette, croissant and quite good brewed coffee.The old gentleman behind the counter is energetic and fun. Ponytailed silver hair and large white moustache. Dressed in crisp white shirt and smart fitted jeans, he smokes cigars, coughs his heart out each morning and loves my moustache.

I ask him if he is an artist and did he paint the mural in the stairwell leading up to our room? No, he had been a French airforce pilot who now loves to dabble in paint and words, "but I'm not professional"

Breakfast over, we strike out for Boulevard St. Germein, on the famous Left Bank.

Tree lined and ritzy, tall elegant French architecture, with rows of cutting edge design shopfront windows.

On a busy corner in Montparnasse,

we indulge in two caffe cremes and watch the world go by.

Parisians have laced the fencing of the bridge leading to Notre Dame with thousands of padlocks, each one inscribed with the names of the two lovers, locked together for eternity.

Each day from our cafe on Rue Richer, we sit and watch.

It's about 8.30am when we head out into Paris....

2011-09-19T01:57:00.006+10:00

...and strike a route to the Champs Elysee, which is slow and still unwinding at this hour. We enter the boulevard from the Place de Concord, in the very heart of Paris, where vast acres of cobblestoned roads, that seem to have no rhyme or reason, are negotiated by motorists with ease and speed, who amazingly appear to arrive at the other side with little stress.

The pavements are wet from overnight cleaning and the shops along the boulevard slow to react to a new day. The who's who of haute couture purveyors line what surely must be one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the world. And the show rooms of car makers project you into the 22nd century with their sparkling high tech displays and futuristic concept vehicles.

When reworking an old building, the French surround it with scaffolding and an image of what will be.

(Double click on this image and marvel at the torn corrugated cardboard)

Beautiful window at the Luis Vuitton shop, Champs Elysee.

Citroen concept car at a most remarkable showroom,

where a five story vertical spindle rotates displaying their cars on platforms along it's length.

Movement past ancient ruins in the Louvre.

Late afternoon sun in the Jardin des Tuileries,

the spacious gardens at the entrance to the Louvre.

People recline on green garden chairs...

...around grassy tree lined parks with bronze sculptures...

...and stroll amidst magnificent buildings.

Paris is magnificent from every angle.

Early Days In Paris.

2011-09-17T07:54:00.000+10:00

We wander out into Paris....

We stumble upon the Cimetiere de Montmartre, full of grand tombs holding the remains of eminent Parisians. The rich, the famous, artists, poets, writers and eminent public figures dating back hundreds of years. Leafy cobbled stoned walkways protecting the dead.

Every other street corner is bestowed with a cafe straight out of some bygone era. The imagination races with thoughts of the past, when vibrant conversations over coffee and absinthe were held, and manifestoes were the beginning of new ways of seeing.

Above the surface, gold encrusted statues on the Pont Alexandre....

....and below,

the draughtsman's equally beautiful considerations.

Such is Paris.

Some live the dream, a studio in Montmartre.

The view from our little apartment in the

Hotel Peletier Haussmann Opera.

The central void, not spectacular, but a window into the lives of those who live here.

"This morning is a slower start. The bedroom window left open to collect cool night air. The first noise of the morning from the void is an echoey 'click click'. From below a phlegmy cough and the old man lights up in the half dark. The smell of cigarette smoke smartly finds our window and I get out of bed to close it.

The light in the void is still dark at 7.00 am. The small breakfast area in the hotel has been readying itself below our room for maybe half an hour. The sliding of tables on tiles, the occasional voice and the smell of baguettes being warmed, wafts into our room, and prepares us for another day."

The hotel stands minutes from the heart of Paris, and although small, it is clean, welcoming and charming. It is the perfect location from which to set out each day.

Late One Night In Paris...

2011-09-15T05:50:00.007+10:00

Time exposure photos I took from the Pont Alexandre that night.

It's a balmy evening in Paris and the sun begins to dim in the sky. Twilight suggests we should wander from our small hotel just off Boulevard Haussmann down to the Seine, and watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle into life.

No matter how many times you've seen her in magazines, at the movies or on TV, no matter how much you think you know her, you will always remember that first moment you saw the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

No one tells you about the fine filigreed curved metal that weaves patterns of lightness between the towers brutish main frame. I'm enthralled how something so large could touch the earth so lightly. She is massive but gentle, she thrills and delights.

So we sit on the steps leading down from Pont Alexandre to the waters edge and embrace the night. The river comes alive after dark. It's black surface reflecting golden light, which plays off the wash caused by long coal laden barges and glass topped dinner boats.

At nine o'clock it happens. Around the river's edge, up at Montmartre, wherever people can see her, the magic is revealed and there is an audible sigh. The tower's genteel warm glow bursts into life as thousands of lights pulse and sparkle over her metallic frame creating mayhem and magic, and clutching at the romantic in the very heart of us all.

Illustration - SALT Magazine Winter - 2011

2011-08-05T08:37:00.001+10:00

Article - "Challenges Grow With Paradise" by Bernard Salt

Illustration - Peter Hollard (pen and ink)

I have been working on illustrations for the Sunshine Coast's SALT Magazine for a number of years and will start to include them in my blog entries. About a month before the magazine goes to press, I receive the article from Bernard Salt, and am given open slather by the editor Kate Johns to interpret the article in any way that I see fit.

Sometimes ideas are obvious and flow like sun dried salt, but often a meaningful interpretation is as hard to grind out as wet sand.

Always challenging fun.

Read the article.

The Processes Employed To Make A Work Of Art - Robert Motherwell

2011-08-04T16:56:00.009+10:00

"In Black and White" - Robert Motherwell

About the Artist - Robert Motherwell

"A few years ago I was standing next to one of my huge black and white pictures (In Black an White Nos. 2 - 183cm X 408cm. 1975) in a museum gallery, and a middle aged man approached me and asked what the picture was about, what it "meant".

Because we happened to be standing in front of the actual painting, I was able to look at it directly, instead of an after image inside my head. I realised that the picture had been painted over several times and radically changed, in shape balances and weights. At one time it was too black, at one time the rhythm of it was too regular, at one time there was not enough variation in the geometry of the shapes. I realised there were about 10,000 brush strokes in it and that each brush stroke is a decision. It is not a decision of aesthetics - will it look more beautiful? - but a decision that concerns one's inner I: is it getting too heavy or too light? It has to do with one's sense of sensuality: the surface is getting too coarse, or is it not fluid enough? It has to do with one's sense of life: is it airy enough or is it leaden? It has to do with one's own sense of weights. I happen to be a heavy, awkward, clumsy man, and if something gets too airy, even though I admire it very much, it doesn't feel like myself, my I.

In the end I realised that whatever "meaning" that the picture has is just the accumulated "meaning" of ten thousand brush strokes, each one being decided as it was painted. In that sense to ask "what does this painting mean?" is essentially unanswerable, except as the accumulation of hundreds of decisions with the brush. On a single day, or during a few hours, I might be in a very particular state, and make something much lighter, much heavier, much smaller, much bigger than I normally would. But when you steadily work at something over a period of time. your whole being must emerge.

In a sense, all of my pictures are slices cut out of a continuum whose duration is my whole life, and hopefully will continue to the day I die."

Twisted Realism Reaches Europe

2011-08-04T15:59:00.004+10:00

In a few weeks time we leave for Europe. Ever since my “A Stranger in Familiar Place” Exhibition back in 2007, I have wrestled with the notion that I am a misplaced person.

All of the artwork that I bring to my paper and canvas, has no Australian influences, never has. Yet when I strolled around France on my first visit, there was an overwhelming sense of being “home”.

This will be third visit in six years, and each trip feels more and more like a reconnaissance for something more permanent. This time the journey is interspersed with a wonderful week long residency, teaching my art processes and practices to senior Art students at the International School Lausanne, in Switzerland.

As I’ve prepared for this workshop, exploring my processes and practice has been very challenging, and rewarding. How much we take for granted what we do. It just happens spontaneously with little obvious thought. I just do it! I have always just done it! As you reflect on what it is you do, you soon realise the enormous accumulated knowledge and skill that has been gained over a life time of hard graft, questioning and a deep love for the thing that is ultimately your passion.

Works from
"A Stranger In A Familiar Place"
(Oil on canvas. 76cm x101cm)

I love art, but I love teaching it as much, and spreading the word about the joy of exploring your passions, no matter what it is.Little do the students know that the pleasure is always all mine.

‘Tables and Dreams’ (114.5 x 76.5cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-08-04T14:55:00.002+10:00

I had a dream. I climbed one of my ladders, erected under the ceiling of a cathedral, and looked down into the dark cavernous space below. There was a table, my art books and pencils, and blank sheets of paper waiting to be indulged.

Like the paintings in the Louvre, similarly the cathedrals of Europe start to look the same. But there was one hauntingly elegant church in the heart of Avignon, called Notre-Dame des Doms that possessed me.

"Inside, a cold darkness filled the empty cavernous space. Dim light revealed balconies and arches, straight out of the mysteries of Phantom of the Opera. The interior was fat and brutish. There was power and reference within its windowless walls. As I silently walked around, the massive pipe organ to the front left struck a long sonorous chord, that reverberated through my chest and filled the sanctuary with an ethereal, far-off sound. Loud, it wrestled with the reluctant spirit within me. I moved to one side and peered up through squat stone balustrades. In the moving shadows a solitary crouching figure, lit by flickering candle light, filled the vastness with sound."

I think this is that place.

I often wonder what I bring to the table of life?

"I'll Meet You Under The Railway Bridge..." (180cmx90cm) Charcoal, Pastel and Graphite on Paper

2011-06-28T17:36:00.011+10:00

Inspired by my time in Vernazza, I created this drawing.

It's a snapshot of the people and beautiful port that makes up this little village, that oozes from the cliffs over-looking the Mediterranean.

The title comes from a telephone call I made when we arrived in the town. I had to ring the mysterious Ms. Bianchi. At the other end of the phone was an Italian voice that spoke in perfectly fractured English. Enthusiastically, she implored me to meet her under the railway bridge, in order to guide us to our accommodation.

The making of this work was filmed. You can follow it's construction on the following page entry.

Creation of a Twisted Realism

2011-06-28T16:58:00.001+10:00

My first steps into youtube.

A photo was taken every 10 minutes during the 35 hours it took to complete the drawing, and then condensed into a 3.30min movie.

This work is an experimental piece based around my experience of Vernazza, Italy. I wanted to tell the story of my time in this small coastal village, one of the picture book Cinque Terra towns, and thought that a cartoon strip concept might be a novel way of doing it.
It's the first of a number of cartoon strips that will tell stories.

Journal Pages from Europe - Montmartre (Paris)

2011-06-20T14:09:00.008+10:00

Sepia photos by Peter Hollard

"It's 5.00pm before I head up the hill to Montmartre. It's getting to the end of the tourist season, but the crowds are still steady. My goal is to find the lady in the Peintre's market who I spoke to the other night. She was bright, friendly and spoke English. I find her. Her name is Evelyn and she gives me some clues to places I might visit outside Paris, to spend some time and do some art. Obligingly, she scrawls some names on a paper bag."

Page from European Journal

"At Sacre Coeur there is a makeshift concert on the steps leading up to the cathedral. Three guys are playing simple funky music. I sit with the crowd and am moved by the warm evening air, the sounds, the oneness of a large group of people, and the gently sprawling city in front of me that is Paris. Metal rooftops catch the last rays of the sun. It's magical. It's perfect."

‘Paris Pulse” (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-06-20T12:57:00.002+10:00

At dusk, I would wander the streets of Paris up to Montmartre.

Amongst the artists and gargoyles, the tinkering cutlery and emptying plates, the beautiful and the curious, cigarette smoke and sausages, espressos and laughter, a steady pulsating rhythm of music flowed from the wide steps running down from Sacre Coeur.

I joined the crowd and listened, and savored, as evening descended. From this spot, the whole of Paris sparkled into life before me, as if a gift. Just as I was about to burst, in the far distance, the Eiffel Tower danced into life in a pulsating blue frenzy.

I think this is my favourite spot in Paris. If you don’t shed a tear at these sublime moments, you are without heart.

How can you not love Paris? Beautiful, beautiful Paris.

The Generation of an Idea

2011-06-07T16:54:00.006+10:00

"Granville Musings" (115cm x 200cm) Charcoal, Pastel and graphite on Brown Paper, 2011

When I am working on one of my drawings, I am always open to spontaneity, serendipity, and other chance occurrences that wander through my head. In the past I needed to have the image pretty well worked out in my journal before I commenced, but then I started reading about Dadaism, and how chance played an enormous part in their creativity. In particular the written word, but music and visual art were all heavily influenced by this movement. Immersing myself in Dadaism gave me permission to let go and be open to all ideas. If in the middle of a piece of work now I am hit with an idea, I automatically honour it and incorporate it in my art without questioning it's relevance. I will make the new idea fit.

But this need I have to honour the idea, is partly to do with where I believe ideas may originate from. The Ancient Greeks believed we were privileged enough to be merely channelling ideas from elsewhere in the universe. If it was a great idea you weren't feigned as a genius, you were merely the one chosen to bring it to light. Conversely, if the idea stank, it wasn't your fault either, the gods got it wrong! Either way the artist's reputation remained in tact.

The American poet Ruth Stone could see "a thunderous train of air coming down over the landscape" where she lived in the mid-west. The wind was ladened with a new idea. She would run furiously to her house to get a piece of paper, for if the ideas passed over and she wasn't ready, someone further along, would collect and use them.

I need to grab that idea when it comes to me, record it, and use it without questioning!

“The Torment” (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-06-07T13:32:00.002+10:00

Tormented to the point of distraction,

each day is a defeat

as I reside in these hours

of mediocrity.

I know what’s out there,

but can’t quite get to it.

Journal Pages from Europe - Vincent's Legacy

2011-05-24T10:14:00.006+10:00

Journal entry from European trip

"It's rained all morning. I'm sitting in this small cafe in Auvers-Sur-Oise and I'm struggling on all sorts of different levels. I'm struggling because of what I've seen this morning. The grave and wheat fields. When you see such an icon, shooting star, giant, reduced to a simple headstone and ivy slab, against some back wall in a remote countryside cemetery, you have to wonder what it's all about.

Even if you make your mark in this lifetime, what does it matter when we all return as dust?

Legacies. Is life really about legacies? What we leave behind.

Songs have been written about this man. Books espouse his tortured brilliance. Pilgrims pay homage to this spot and place small rocks on top of his headstone. We all love Vincent. Maybe at some very deep level we wish we were like him in some way. His unquenchable need to create and vibrant passion, his selfless compassion for others, his wonderfully enquiring intellect and eloquent way with words, and his ability to live life to the fullest.

These thoughts inspired "Mediocrity or Passion?"

Mediocrity Or Passion?’ (114.5 x 76.5cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-05-24T09:29:00.005+10:00

A train ride, an hour north of Paris, is a small village called Auvers-Sur-Oise. Vincent spent his final years there. I walked the quiet streets, and found his paintings frozen in the buildings and countryside.

On a hill behind the town was the cemetery. The street sign that pointed to it read, “Les tombes de Theo et Vincent”. Someone had scrawled “Carpe Diem” across it. Eloquent graffiti.

Rimmed by a high stone wall, the cemetery bore the remnants of those who had given this town its character over many hundreds of years. Against the back wall of the cemetery, stood two small head stones, side by side, barely waste high and sharing one plot. One read,

ICI Repose

Vincent Van Gogh

1853-1890.

That’s all that was written. Beside him his brother Theo. It was an unkempt raised square of thick green ivy. I sat on a tree stump at the foot of his grave in the soft rain. This simple site understated his suffering and beauty. Belied his magnificence in the world.

Outside the cemetery walls, were wheat fields. I saw a small monument on one of the tracks criss-crossing the field. At this point Vincent had painted, “Crows over a Wheat field”. The last painting he completed just before he took his life. I looked at the ground below my feet and realised his blood was spilt in this very earth. At my feet was a rock, curiously stained crimson in the morning rain.

I was deeply moved by this day and that night wrote in my journal,
“My Vincent dilemma; to live a prolonged life of mediocrity, or a short life of passion?”

Journal Pages from Europe

2011-05-02T13:53:00.005+10:00

A page from the journal I kept on my journey around Europe.

From this second storey window above Rue Richer, I observed Paris. There was an old man who sat opposite in the entrance to the Passage Verdeau. Each day he arrived at 8.00am and left at 7.00pm, and in a quiet and deeply respectful manner, accepted the loose coins of passerbys. He was to engage me in a way that I hadn't expected.

‘Meeting Gerard’ (114.5 x 76.5 cm) Charcoal, Pastel, Graphite on Paper

2011-05-02T12:34:00.001+10:00

Struggling, I went to the subterranean bookshop at the Louvre, looking for some artistic nourishment.

Hidden away on the shelves in the back corner, was one particular book. A hard covered catalogue of recent works by a French painter, Gerard Garouste. A million books and I stumbled across this one, or it found me.

His paintings resonated and shared a sensibility akin to my work. Stories about his life, constructed with pathos and humour, and a keen eye for subtle and intriguing distortions. Work that endeavoured to make sense of all that had gone before.

It was to be profound.