The Loneliness of the Long Distance Lover

You’re never alone if you have a cat. I don’t have a cat.

Advertisements

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.

fullsizerenderbrown

© D. Archer. January 2016

January Abstracts

Abstract_January_2016

Abstract_January_2016

Apologies for the wonky photograph and for the wonky artwork come to think of it. More Abstracts, this time with under painting and reveal technique. Acrylic on canvas, 7″ x 5″, available to buy at £17,000,000.48

However, I am prepared to enter into a medieval bartering type arrangement. So, if you think this painting is worth a loaf of bread then send one slice per envelope per week to my home address and I will send the painting by return post when I receive the final crust.

Please include cost of return postage, I’m not made of chuffin’ money.

Words and Pictures © 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

Sketchbook

Has it always been like this?
inside this low, living headache
where everyone is closed or taken;
where the pressure is blinding
and the quiet assumptions are the worst.

The mirror lies,
I’m not the only one in this room
as the argument begins
“What lies beneath my ink stained skin?”

Mrs Robinson

Much like conversations with shopkeepers and old people
I skilfully avoid the coil of dog shit on the cinder path
as the arse crack showing cyclist
swept passed me like my youth,
all his cares de-frosting in a bag for life
low slung from the handlebars;
dangerously close to one wheel;
translucent to the light.

His reckless rolling scattered the complaining birds
from the car driven to ashes
and the weeds and wildflowers
the names of which I never learned in school
but whose smell dragged me back
to where I found your candid Polaroid
that I kept and hid in my room.

© D. Archer. June 2015.

(The names have been invented to make me sound vaguely interesting).