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Driving around in a rusty transit, a length of bare canvas duck-taped to the side, surfboards on the roof, dogs barking inside for me to put on the wood burning stove, this was my springboard for interactions with the public, to question, or contest, the preconceptions of plein-air painting, to take it lower. The images were an attempt to distort the landscope to fit my experience of the places that I put myself, cubist in the contortion of elements and perspective, expressive in the mark-making, incorporating textures and imagery from midway dog poo walks, surfs and tea breaks, put together quickly between showers and conversations.

St Ives 2.jpg
St Ives 1.jpg

St. Ives 1 & 2. The evening and the morning after, different tides, same swell, a big one, smashing the main W facing spots, forcing us to look for shelter, leading me away from the foxes to one of my favourite peaks, lines twisting to throw us past the protruding, rotten supports. The light shifts around here almost alien, enlivened by the sea, intensified by the size of the swell, the night in the van between a shudderbox.


Crantock used to be cheaper, the Bowji parking has swankified in recent time, pays for the toilet, or stops the van dwellers from using the shiny inside ones, still it feels like a holy place, a hidden mecca for a goofball logger, a breath of fresh aire from the pre-pentire stags and hens, it shuffles in the lines, stretching the toward the Gannel, pulling out all the creases


The white rock mocks me still, undercoat a necessity, anything above not so much, this hill is my beacon, I know it as my home


Studies, we study the sky, read its runes, or ruins, and rains, and with them the wind then the waves, we see these things all at once, destroyers and revivers of hope and stoke, I read the weather in the clouds to know the surf, to know my destination

Rame Head 2.jpg

Sunrise like spring is hope, the end of the lacking, the start of warmth, vision, and weightlessness, my salutation is of hue

Rame Head 1.jpg

A breath of frozen cloud, no feeling in phalanges top nor bottom as straps are released, the icy dawn call, the initial punishment, the light a reward unbelievable 


Home on the cliffs, New Polzeath, now stolen by the wealthy to buy into a lifestyle and clear the view, mirrored from the sea-view in irony, best to look out

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