Like Larkin

I’m often prone to outbursts of poetry. I really should learn how to write it.  

  Lost in translation. 

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Scatalogue

Here are some leftovers from my Instagram account. Regretably everything is of my own creation. Don’t steal, it’s not nice. Stuff ranges from new books I’m working on to the plight of the lonely idiot, a homage to Ronald Searle, a picture of a cat and the album of my alter ego “Roy Morbidson” where I play 96 hours of my own melancholic solo Jazz tambourine compositions.

© D. Archer. July 2017

I’m not dead (physically)

Tree of Hope, Locke Park, Barnsley.

It’s been a while but due to the useless shenaningans on Instagram I’ve decided to post loads of my recent crap doodles back up on here. Apologies in advance if i’ve posted stuff before but think yourself lucky I can be bothered at all.
Enjoy, or don’t, I’m not fussed. Everything listed is mine, mine, mine I tell you!! Steal it and I will find you and bore you to death with stories of coal mining in Yorkshire.

© D. Archer. July 2017

The Ballad of Henry Hughes

There once was a girl
from north of the border
who sent me money by postal order
and though I couldn’t wash her pans or pots,
touch her blankets or door knobs,
she touched my life from miles away
and I miss her
like it was yesterday.

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© D. Archer. January 2016

Figurative Abstracts

Reflections

Reflections

I don’t dream. I put this down to the prolonged period of insomnia that I suffered after my divorce, however, I have recently been waking up with fragments of an image that has coincided with my rekindled interest in painting.

I’m colour blind; good old fashioned Red / Green combo and this has always been a crutch to stop myself from painting. Who wants a violet sky and magenta grass? Well it turns out that plenty of people do provided the piece is well executed and within an abstract framework, and there lies the dilemma.

Painting abstracts, to me, is not about “Not being able to paint properly” or “Not having studied for X years at Art School”, it is primarily concerned with expression and partly about technique; the proportions of these two factors is what divides the opinion. I suppose the “Expression ‘v’ Technique” debate is the art world equivalent of the chicken and the egg scenario.

We live in an existential world, trees grow upwards, grass is green, sky is on top etc. To challenge these representations (visually) means to think and to think is a powerful life skill.

It is said as humans we use only 10% of our brain’s capacity and the average time spent looking at artwork in a gallery is less than 30 seconds and in that 30 seconds we make broad sweeping generalisations not only about the piece “Doesn’t look like a tree” but also about the artist “My kid could do that” so may I suggest that if your child can emote like Jackson Pollock then nurture and treasure that child beyond your earthly years for they have that rare and precious gift of independent thought.

My artwork is my own, through my eyes, echoes of my past and shaped by my hand. If this piece progresses my painterly technique that’s a bonus; If it strikes a chord with another human well that’s much better but if it hangs on my wall and engages my thoughts every time I look at it then it has achieved it’s purpose.

Abstracts are about painting the emotion not the object. If you want a picture, take a photograph.

Words and Pictures © D. Archer. December 2015

Winter Wanderings

Whooooaaa! Hold your horses, you haven’t missed the apocalypse, these pictures are from my morning walk around my home town.

I’m lucky that the walk between my home and that of my mother takes me through a wooded area that is more interesting on deserted days like today than when it is swarming with humans.

I particularly like the ones where nature has started to reclaim the man made objects, the Lichen on the the litter bin and the way the tree has grown around the barbed wire.

I must admit to being a bit of a loner and the sense of emptiness and the forlorn has always held a particular fascination for me. Today with the poor light and sense of overcast weather is my type of day.

Mmmmmmmm……bland.

Words and Pictures © D. Archer. December 2015

Music plays in the other room

The past gets heavier every day
for the man at the back of my imagination
who put the last of his heart
in a newspaper boat
and set it adrift on an unknown sea,
waiting to be rescued,
wanting to be held
like the love letter you’ve kept all these years,
the one you read when no one is watching,
the one with your tears
trapped in the discoloured crease.

© D. Archer. October 2015.
Photograph © D. Archer 2015

Hope

At the bottom of Pandora’s box
I found an I.O.U.

© D. Archer . June 2015

In hindsight it may not have been such a good idea to read a selection of Sylvia Path before going to bed. It is very very unusual for me to dream or in fact to wake up with any thoughts in my head. This morning I woke up to the sound of rain.

I like rain.