A long sleep, from 10:30 to 08:00, filled with many dreams. In one, Sigourney Weaver cowered at the top of a large tower, thousands of feet above the landscape. The tower may have been the 'death' tower in the painting I painted yesterday. A small child was there too, perhaps Newt from Aliens, but she (or he) was barely visible, just a felt presence. The tower's summit was reached via a slide with many tiers, to make a wave-like slide. Death, the devil, or some evil figure appeared from the slide entrance, grabbed Sigourney by an arm and threw her down the slide quickly, she helplessly slid to her doom.
In another dream, myself and my brother were heading towards a huge shopping centre made in the shape of The Statue of Liberty, but with glass skin so that you could see the shoppers and shops which spiralled around its centre.
In the last dream of the night, BBC Radio presenter Steve Wright came to live at our house as gardener. The flowers in the back garden had recently been dug over by my mother. He enlarged this area and had decided to plant many plants there, in pots and wicker baskets, burying them to keep to nutrients there, notably recalcitrant to the way my mother would plant things. I helped him as we worked in the garage. After some work, we went inside for food, and some cream cakes were on offer which he enjoyed choosing from.
The day began slowly. I seem to feel tired and slow for some reason, though I've hardly exerted myself physically recently.
At 11:00, I started to paint the Transubstantiation painting, and it (the underpainting, at least) was complete by 14:30:
I rather enjoyed the process, made much easier by the colour studies. Looking at my work, at the themes, some are more common than others. First, the clash between emotions and rational thought, and secondly a critique of Christianity and Catholicism, although here the painting is more literal, even reverent. I'm reminded that my exposure to art and music as a child was in church, and that those images remain part of my visual landscape.
I learned that I've failed to get into the RWA exhibition this year, though one of my two works made it to the second round. This does not bother me; there is a lot of competition and judgements are prone to luck. Anything radical or interesting is more likely to fail than succeed; this is the way with all art critique, though it makes me sad that my work must remain unseen.
As I painted, I listened to a repeat of the first night of The Proms, and Clara Schumann's Piano Concerto. Clara remarked, upon visiting London: "It is the artists' own fault; they allow themselves to be treated as inferiors in English society, since nothing is too humiliating to be borne if only they make money." - how astute! Art in England is unique in its relationship to money. Artists have more respect in Europe and America, and can be rich or poor in either place (though, better to be rich in America). In England artists should only be poor, and never considered important. A rich artist is considered an unjust waste of money. This is an utterly backwards situation created by cultural memories of aristocratic hierarchy, where 'rich' and 'poor', that integer attached to our bank-accounts, are considered social classes. In England wealth is shameful, the pursuit of wealth is shameful, and hard work is shameful. Work is something worthy of servants and foreigners. This culture is why Britain is an unproductive country.
I remain tired and slow today. Perhaps this is a good week to work on John's music track, a pause and perhaps refresh from painting.
