Kilts and crowns
A crown is a dodgy object. It only needs to slip slightly sideways to downgrade you from noble to contemptible in a nanosecond. Try running away wearing one while those disenchanted commoners are coming for Your Majesty with staves. In these little paintings I imagine the futile objects floating or falling earthwards to either crash or bounce. My father was a Highlander but didn’t own a kilt. After a few drams he would borrow mine (bought for me age 5) and do a party piece. Haste ye back, Dad.
I love a doodle. More comes out of the end of a ballpoint as we’re hanging on the phone than we know, or maybe that we would wish others to know. But it can be tamed. Sort of. Not too much.
Inspired by old walls, tattered flags, Liubov Popova, I’m playing around with layers of acrylic. Sludgy and juicy.
Lots of little drawings, but so far only two of them have made it into paintings. Hows yer father, 1 and 2.