A Transformation

 

Lethal Force by Barbara Grafton

'You use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul.' - George Bernard Shaw

 It’s always the blank sheet of expensive paper that delays me. Laid out on newspaper alongside my brushes, paints and ink sprays, its scale and emptiness saps my confidence, inhibits me, simultaneously attracts and repels. As it has done to countless artists before me. It’s atelodemiourgiopapyrophobia, the fear of imperfect creative activity on paper, named by an Australian artist called Kat Johnson and her friend Lins in 2008 (shorturl.at/fiyI0).

I have a commission for a painting from a Newmarket-based firm, as a retirement gift for one of the partners. I have done the ground work, obtained permission to use a photograph of the 2013 July Cup, won by Lethal Force, and made preliminary sketches from it. It’s a superb photo, full of dynamism and power, eight horses and their jockeys thundering towards the finishing line. Now I just have to convey that in watercolours and ink. 

It is punishingly hot, sapping my energy, but the framer needs the painting. I desperately need inspiration, that mysterious collaboration between both left and right hemispheres of the brain, the analytical, methodical, and disciplined working alongside the free-wheeling, instinctive, and daring. 

Still the paper lies there, virginal and mocking. What if my first marks are entirely wrong, the paints turn muddy, or the inks obscure some vital detail? The paralysis of wanting perfection, of negative thinking. I drink a glass of water, wander around, and shuffle my sketches. I am wasting time and energy. Salvador Dali declared perfection to be unreachable. Picasso said to know what you’re going to draw, you have to begin drawing. I have built up a slight head of steam, fuelled by my frustration and irritation. I order myself to make a leap of faith and just start the ***** thing.

My initial marks are intentionally faint, in a hard pencil, just sketching in the outlines of the horses, the railings and distant buildings. They are fine, no corrections required, and I am happy with the composition. I mask areas. The process so far has been controlled and precise, but at least it has begun. Tension and adrenaline are building as I spray the paper with water and lay down my first colours. I cannot convey drama and movement by being tentative, so I load my brush generously and make wide sweeping movements with it. The paint dries fast in the heat, so I spray more water, apply more paint. The analytical side of my brain is dominant, making conscious decisions that my eyes and hand translate onto the paper.

The more I paint, the more creative freedom I feel until, at last, inspiration, my subconscious, intuition, imagination, authentic self, inner voice - call it what you will - takes over. Finally, I can paint instinctively, dynamically, unfettered by limiting inner voices and the desire for perfection. I have ceased to be the driver and become the vehicle.

There is no lack of energy as I lay down colours, wipe out others, balance tones, highlight details. Time has no meaning. My vision for the painting is coming alive, and I now have certainty that it will not be a failure. The blank paper, covered in marks and colours, is no longer intimidating. There is a childlike joy and playfulness in completing the finishing touches: dark ink splashes for the divots and soil flung up by the hooves at full racing gallop; the silks and colours of the jockeys.

Exhausted, I prop up the picture and step back to view it. With a sigh of relief, I recognise that I have overcome atelodemiourgiopapyrophobia. The blank sheet of paper has become a painting that has never existed before, a painting that I gave life and which is “good enough” even for my vocal inner critic.

Barbara Grafton

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

For World Earth Day...

Image
  For World Earth Day Thursday 22 nd April 2021   The Earth Rights Act in Perpetuity Inspired by the Human Rights Act 1998   As a woman I have fundamental rights and freedoms which not only impact on my   life and death, they affect my everyday life: what I say and do, and my beliefs.   I believe that the earth belongs to me; that we belong to the earth.     We are the people of the earth.   We are the earth.   It is my duty to protect, preserve and to save from harm the living earth upon which I thrive. Here find an Act of Earth Rights given in Perpetuity.     The earth has the right to: the right to a nature-cycle freedom from torture and degrading treatment freedom from husbandry through slavery and forced labour the right to live free in the known universe the right to an eco-voice the right not to be punished for something for which it was not responsible the right to respect freedom of reflection, et
Read more

Getting Into a Scrape

Image
  Photo credit: Yuri Fadeev I’m six or seven, climbing trees in my garden with my best friend. We’re spoilt for choice, with apple trees, plum, cooking apple, and pear. The tied cottage that comes with my father’s farming job is nothing short of idyllic and belies the material poverty we live in. We are not nature poor, but I’m often reminded that money doesn’t grow on trees. It’s a hot day; we both wear shorts and t-shirts. The difficulty of rating each tree is varied and each of us has differing climbing capabilities. I am the youngest of three, and when I’m with my elder siblings I can only lay claim to climb the cooking apple tree. Why? According to them, they are more adept than me. Plus, with its low, wide branches, in some places it’s even easier to climb than a ladder . I’m not allowed to attempt their trees. The pear trees require much more skill, with the first branches at head height. This requires grasping a branch with both hands, followed by some fancy leg swinging
Read more

The Comfortable Silence

Image
Klemen Vrankar 'Tell me about your childhood.' they say. They will be disappointed, they always are, as there isn't much to tell. My childhood is a jumble of brief snippets of memory, tricks of the light, illusions of the mind. I try to remember more to please them, but all that remains is a patchwork of pain.    My father towers over me his arm raised 'Well what have you got to say for yourself?' Nothing, I can say nothing, words evade me as I am terrified into silence. One day I will tell him exactly what I think, but not yet, I am still too young to vocalise my thoughts effectively.   In the bath, I submerge myself beneath the water and feel the peace of the tepid silence that surrounds me, a different feeling to the silence commanded by my father. 'Children should be seen and not heard', one of his many doctrines that enforce my need to scream and shout in protest at the unfairness of the world. 'She could be so pretty if she stopped scowli
Read more