Painting in search of peace
right in the middle of the teering, whirling, crying, dancing
Hello friends
Autumn is rapidly closing in, trailing its veils of darkness and cloud. Instead of opening out to the landscape around us, by early evening our windows have already become black mirrors that reflect the room’s interior.
Lately I’ve been painting much more than I’ve been writing. To be honest, I don’t feel equal to the task of writing in response to these times. But I am paying attention. I still read and listen to words, lots of them. I try to avoid the sensationalism of the 24-hour news cycle and learn instead from historians, economists, political journalists, seeking out long form writing and in-depth interviews, looking for analysis and context, trying to understand the nature of our current, multiple predicaments and their deep roots. It’s a lot of words to take in.
The studio feels like a refuge from this, a place to sink into the wordlessness and rhythm of painting. The breathtaking privilege I have is not lost on me.
But the space of mark-making seems to offer a more sidelong way to come at things than words can. The quiet focus of the slow, repetitive process seems to let me hold it all, or at least more of it at once, without rushing to fix things.
Painting doesn’t try to explain, persuade or advocate. It doesn’t seek solutions or propose answers.
It is a way of being present to the unfolding moment. In the studio, there is only the surface, the paint, the tip of the brush or nib, and the gradual emergence of form.
The rhythmic marks I use are instinctive and improvisational rather than planned or controlled. A painting can change dramatically in the course of its evolution.
A different sense of time emerges when I am doing this work, one that has depth as well as duration. A quiet momentum gathers that draws me forward into a future I can’t predict or control.
In this process, what slowly reveals itself is, I think, something to do with the trembling, shimmering, teetering feeling of being alive in this whirling world, where we are at the same time joyfully exuberant and haunted by the fear of loss, on the brink of terror, or maybe dancing, laughing, or crying, maybe all of these at once. Painting feels like a search for a kind of peace right in the midst of it all, the shitshow and the beauty, right there among the terror and joy and love and grief. If I can find it, maybe I can share it.
These paintings are in direct conversation with the land, water and seas all around me here in Orkney, and the boisterous wind that is our frequent companion. But they are not just about this place. The rectangle of the painting becomes a window that, like a darkening window, opens outwards into this landscape and a mirror that reflects an interior world.
Here’s a new short film I made about a the making of my recent painting ‘Wave.’ I hope you enjoy a wee glimpse into my studio.
Alongside these recent paintings I have been working on for upcoming exhibitions in Fife and Edinburgh, I’ve also been making a new series of small works that I’ll be releasing directly to subscribers of The Life Boat. They’ll be ready for release around the Autumn Equinox, so do keep an eye on your inbox.
The Life Raft Co-Creating Community
You are warmly welcomed to join our weekly creative co-working session on Zoom. Our meetings are a little Life Raft of shared creativity in these stormy times. It’s very simple. We just say hello at the start and say what we plan to work on and then leave our cameras on and work together in companionable silence. We start at 3pm UK time and finish around 4.30pm. Just click the link below to join us. If you can’t make it live I share a recording to the paid subscriber chat each week (although, oops, I must have forgotten to hit record last week!)
That’s all for this week!
Sam
I don't have words to respond to your words but I feel what you're saying. I think you give me a kind of hope for my relationship with painting.
What a welcome entry into my inbox this morning this was. Thank you for creating such beauty on these dark days.