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

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

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)

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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.