Wednesday, March 30, 2011


My waking life is underpinned by rich, nectarous fantasies and highly detailed imaginings. I can create colours in my mind, sexual jolts, emotional turns, plum-faced humiliations, existential uncertainties and nostalgic gleams. The intensity of these reflective fantasies mirrors that of my physical life. In my final paintings I want to combine these two worlds: my own realms of real and unreal. 

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


The freedom of Georg Baselitz
Modern Painter (Remix), 2007

B. für Larry, 2006

Trümmerfrau, 1978

Humphrey Ocean's fearless portraiture - made 100 portraits, all gouache on paper, started in 2006

Paul Housely's thing portraits

Yellow Hair, oil on canvas, 2009

Plastic face can't lie, oil on canvas, 2006

Stella Vine's roses

Sylvia, acrylic on canvas, 40 x 46cm, 2008
Phoebe Unwin's strange blends
Girl, oil on canvas, 147.5 x 122 cm, 2005

Beach Portrait, oil on linen, 61 x 51 cm, 2008

Blushing in the Dark, oil on canvas, 50 x 40cm, 2006

Alice Neel 
Two Girls in Spanish Harlem, 1941

On the Rocking Horse, 1943

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Notes on Chantal Joffe at Victoria Miro

Demanding faces on dripping legs

Dark syrupy colours supporting illuminated faces and limbs


Strokes of green on dark background, some kind of plant, at once quietly and violently directing the viewer away from the girl with the wisp brush blonde hair who looks at you intently

Timidity in the slight blueing of the girl’s hand attached to bold arm

Small things like a glass on a table that is formed from a smearing of its surrounding colour.

Description in negative space, hair shaped by background

Simplified part line, leg between line, lip line, one line brow

Not afraid of the blue of the eyes

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Brut, Raw, Crude, Real

That's why I'm here, I look up to the savage, I want to live up to the savage, I love the savage, the colours are so bright they scare me, they all have such barbarically red lips, even the children, they could all be against me, but they are rolling on the soft feather grass with me and isn't it all just some Swift fiction?

Georg Baselitz, Blauer Mann, 1983

Billy Childish

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


Me and my Hero are children on a beach. Me and my Hero find everything hilarious: how pink and juicy our skin is, the eerie water like a humungous lime cocktail in a seedy bar with strippers, the fact my Hero is a mustachio’d man with girl legs and a dress on. We are laughing so much that our bodies contort. We are jumping on the sick-coloured sand so much that our muscles ache. I squeeze the hand of my Hero so much that our hands begin to drip. I scream and my Hero yells. His gob is a big red peach with a bruise right in the heart where his mouth blackens into his throat going down inside. Big words come up from my Hero’s throat and tear out of his mouth, scrambling on his tongue, knocking his teeth out, rushing rushing rushing like drunk sick into the big cocktail ocean that turns from baby green to red. Me and my Hero find all of this hilarious and we are laughing so hard that our cheeks get all raw and juicy. My Hero yells so hard his eyes wobble in their sockets. Then they spin like blue marbles and pop out and my Hero’s peach explodes and he is a big rosy mess on the sick-coloured sand and I am stood there dripping with laughter.