Wednesday, 27 March 2013
Saturday, 2 February 2013
Its funny how as an artist you keep bumping into yourself from the past. Today the studio is bright and shining in the low, much loved, winter sun. If the sun was here all the time I am not sure wether we would notice the things it picks up when it arrives. My focus goes where it lands and today I am supposed to be doing waxes but the sun makes the reddy orange rust on my new Angle sculpture illuminate. It's Saturday, I can do what I want....sort of.
I have had my new cutouts for some time now and I cant seem to make them out, its like a new person in the room and I am a bit shy of them. When I created them and I was ecstatically inspired, like a flurry of oxygen they whooshed through my veins and I felt more alive than ever. Time passed and they arrived back from the cut out place. Apart from arousing my, possible best kept to myself, deep bedded love of metal, I felt a bit coy. Moody even, with them.
Today the sun came in and picked them out for me to see. The steel, the colour of the rust, like a painting. The depth of the colours against the hardness and crispness and flatness of the steel. Powerful, not in a soft wobbly silky clay made solid in bronze way, but in a tentative soft pencil sketch easily altered with a rubber, made solid and bold and suddenly very much here kind of way.
Through my engineer the small furry pencil lines, the tentative exploration of form found has become strong angles and perfect circles and through water jets these angles have been cut, cut deep into flat steel. Revealing shapes that enter like strangers into my space.
But today the sun has been kind, it has shown me my past in my future. In the Angel I see all those rust drawings I did at Spike Island, twelve years ago, and they have bumped up from my past to show me that the strangers are linked to my ideas and therefore may be welcome.
Monday, 26 November 2012
Mon Nov 26
I had a lie in this morning; the thinking was that there must be some perks to running my own company. In half sleep, after a fantastic weekend of entertaining and 'Bristol time', my life seemed clear in front of me. I could see it, who I was and what I was doing. My life was like a river and I could picture myself in the middle.
A trickle of water gathering momentum, a little babble of youth collects into the fast bumping over stones leaving moorland flow. Fresh, clear, fast and freezing cold. Fierce, purposeful in it's downwards force. Crashing into rocks that would not move, tumbling, foaming, falling, and crashing again and again.
We fall into villages as becks and rolled up trousered children pick out our rock cleaners under tiny arches of stone. The land eases up and alone we slide away through woods, we make small cliffs and run over moss green rocks slithery smoothed by others, into towns. Past the concrete channels we breath out and widen, spread out collecting, reaching out as if for information as our peripheries tinkle bright lightly over pebbles and fish swim deep in our belly.
The momentum towards the sea is strong but we meander, the sky opens up, bees buz in our banks and fattening cows squidge down openings to suck still water with hot mouths.
Like retirement we join with others to form a wide, deep, powerful journey and quietly shift through cities. We can sense the salt and soon we are to feel the sand bottomed estuary. Eventually and inevitably we are lost in the deep blue forever sea.
Others have been partly gene whisked off by the wind to land on the moor, almost recognizable. But my river flows deep and rests with the echoing songs and hovering seathrough fish.
Monday, 6 August 2012
I drove down early Friday morning, College Green was full of balloons. Strong but not quite bright light filled the space between the council house, the buildings on park street and the grand cathedral with its complicated stone, intricate behind the bulbous balloons, the heaving masses of colour.
Down park street again this morning, about the same time and through the window of the comparably dark buildings, a precession floats past. I stop and draw them as the sculpture in the studio this weekend wasn't quite right. The parade drifts past and I carry on driving, the sky opens up through the center and you can see all of them head towards the nearly now white sun, they are pale against it, more distant. I am navigating the city below, glimpses of them appear through buildings, but as I turn into the studio, they are away, just one straggler can be seen, bleached against the early eastern sky.
Theirs is the sea, the duvets of fields, the tiny sprawling towns, the fresh wind of their altitude. The land heats up for the day but they are cold faced, wide eyed. The first timers scared probably, just a bit of wicker under their feet, trying not to think of the landing which they don't tell you is apparently more of a crash.
Now the burners raw above their heads, they can see Bath, they can see the hills of Wales and now the raw stops, they hang in the comparative silence of freedom.
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Outside, in nature, the surroundings make the decisions, the changing light, the ability to capture or respond to something, the fact that you bum has gone numb from sitting awkwardly for too long.
Ultimately though nature takes hold of you, wraps you up in the comfort of it's magnitude. Everything seems right. Its an intuitive response, its as if your brain is allowed to switch off and you are resting in a duvet of duck down. Yes you curse yourself for your lack of talent and wonder what you are doing but the overwhelming experience is one of love and respect for nature and for light.
|Tamar 1, from upper bank|
In the studio the work is ideas based, it comes more from the head, often from the gut, always brutally honest, but it's always coming from you, inside. There is no comfort, no support it's just you on your own, all the time. When I am tired I complain about my business, that it's always up to me, the accounts, pr, deliveries etc but it is my business, my work so who else is going to do it for me! But I think this may be the route of my complaint. The work draws it all from me, if nature stepped in it wouldn't all be up to me, I would have the support, the company.
|Detail of Tamar 2|
I hardly remember anything from being young but I do remember my Grandfather explaining the ecosystem to me beside a lake in Norfolk, starting from the bugs in the mud. He was a farmer and nature came first. I always think that I want to be a farmer but it may be more about a respect for nature.
|Tamar 3 - drawn first|
I recently tried not to cry in front of a Rembrandt painting, I felt the same sitting in front of the changing light on the river. The light was just getting better and better, the birds song more clear, more echoey as the evening stillness crept over. The lime green in the distance that had been dotted with white spots of sheep whose voices had earlier carried up the valley was turning pinky orange. Now the sound in the distance was a pigeons lulling call. At 8.45 a green bottomed boat with a red sail that could see the last of the evening sun sailed silently up the opposite bank of the estuary, about turned and went back towards the sea, the beauty of it made me feel insane.
|Tamar 4 Central Detail|
I know this is how people work, they sketch and take photos in situe and then work them up in the studio but for me the pleasure is being there, to hear the water moving and then the birds flopping about in low tide and bumble bee floating past or the distant engine pooteling out to its mooring.
|Tamar 4 Detail Right panel|
Looking out of the window in the morning the river had gone, just white, the dense oak tree was the only suggestion of there being something out there. I went down in the silence for a last look, the river was full. I couldn't sense whether the tide, like the mist was moving silently or the expanse of water was like me, resting, hanging, waiting until the next rush out.
for more sculptures about nature see also
Thursday, 22 September 2011
text for my latest show starting 1st October
Click for Online Catalogue
An exhibition of Drawings in Colour and Sculpture by Carol Peace
This new body of work has not only been created through clay but also through oil paint, always with an undercurrent of drawing. The oil paint is like the clay, it is slippery, moveable, the image is there and then it’s gone. It’s easy to pile on, scrape off, smudge, and draw in to. I seem to be sculpting like a painter and making drawings in colour.
For my degree thesis I looked at Rodin’s work and the theory of representing movement. I realise now, some 20 years later, that I had asked the wrong question, it’s not about representing or ‘capturing’ movement, it’s about trying to respond to it in an intuitive way. A new piece called Attempting Sirsasana is like a drawing of movement, rough lines and plains form quickly, areas are left blurred, only the essence is there.
The new pieces Him, Her and Them are raw because life is raw. Broken, cracked in places, deep scars run over the work but the deep ruts and scars reveal the form; reveal the life, the frailties and the power. I try to make the marks strong like using charcoal; there are areas of focus and areas that fade.
In the drawings in colour, the subject matter changes from the life room to the still life but in changing the objects I see more clearly my interests. When I draw cherries they are in love, in a painting of tomatoes their shadows nearly touch. Peaches rest their soft flesh on one another for support, which gives over time. Bright happy lemons jostle with blue shadows. A lone tomato is still attached to its family tree, they are not present and yet always there. In something ordinary there is often sadness and a beauty.
Relationships and our interaction with other people dominate us and in turn form the basis for much of my recent work. The extra ordinariness and magnitude of the simplicity of the touch of a partner, the closeness of love, it’s basic.
The work is about everyday life, in its minutia, the sheer fantasticness of it all. It’s about the flash of a look, a small gesture, the pressure of a hand in yours, of skin resting on skin. It’s about the rawness and confusion of being alive, the beauty and the complications of it, the freedom, exhilaration and the insecurities. It’s about death and about life, the fear and the joy.
This is not to say that all this is apparent in a piece of bronze or a painting of two peaches but it is what I am aiming for and it makes me go to the studio.
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Getting paintings ready for my show with Fairfax at the end of the month and each image that comes up for framing I don’t want to let go of. Its either the photo does not capture the colour or the pallet I want to save to use for another time. I need the real thing not an on screen replica. Its like they are part of something not yet done and selling them would break it up before it’s come to anything. I have had them for ages now and never let anyone buy them, I need to give myself some time to use these sketches in colour for bigger paintings and then may let them go. But for now this pallet, this reaction to life, in front of life is not the painting, it only informs the future one and for now will not go in the show.
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Thank you for letting my hair
flick in your face and
my thoughts trample in the space
of your head.
Thank you for letting me lean on you
when you were finding it difficult to stand.
Thank you for being there with me
and thank you for being my friend.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Finally finished this piece before I went away to France, the head used to look up
I think within a lot of my work I keep returning to an overall feeling. The championing of the ordinary. The extra ordinariness and magnitude of simplicity. The touch of a partner, the closeness of love. Basic.
I remember many years ago being really irritated when one of the royals or some celebratory had a baby and it was made into such a big deal. My friends had just had a premature child and had terrible difficulties but she was alive.....that was a huge deal.