Oil on canvas board
12x8 inches
£25
Another warm and sunny day to get outside and paint. Without the threat of showers!. I picked a quiet spot, next to an oak tree but when I sat down, I couldn't see the water. If I attempted to get closer, I would slide down the balsam, towards the river. I pulled loads up to make my platform so I could see better too. It was really peaceful, quiet, with the gentle rhythm of the river beneath my feet. I had to unpack and make a start. From the other bank, long grasses swept up before dropping down into a shallow depression towards the trees. From here, I could get a nice contrast between the yellow grasses and the distant trees. Those trees swept away to my right, receding gently as they disappeared. With the sun behind my right shoulder, I began the task of capturing this tranquil moment.
, completed today. I was struggling for a good spot. The grass was very long to start with, or, there was a tree in the way. The weather wasn't to kind either. Hot sun on my back one minute, torrential rain in my face the next. Brolly up. Packed away. Sun came out. So my second attempt looks rather hit and miss. Better luck tomorrow, with a more relaxed forecast.
, I remember my mother, always having a 
in her hand. What its contents were, would not be revealed to my virgin mind until I was old enough to understand. What I do understand is that it lead to some bizarre rituals. Like chanting to herself, shouting out obscenities, in fact terrifying us all into quiet, unemotional wrecked children. You didn't dare make eye contact with her because if you did, you would become the focus of her mad, incoherent rage. She would force you to sit on her knee and make you kiss her, quite 
in manner. If you got it wrong, she would practice on you until you got it right. You would have to tell her how much you loved her, what you wanted to do with her body, kiss her. You had all the other children's eyes on you, making you shrink inside. Drop to the bottom of the deepest ocean to escape. But she soon brought you back to reality with a slap. She might even bite your lip, face or ear. She would ask why you were pulling away. Scream vulgar words of hatred. Hit you hard. Then toss you to one side like you were unworthy of her sexualized deprivation. You were scum. Until next time, or she picked on one of the others...and that brought new fears...
. I have chosen to paint them as negative images like those from an old camera. I have added colour from memory to give them a bit of reality and clarity from the gloom surrounding us. I have carried this around with me for so long, I feel I will never unshackle the pain. I have talked about my 
with great difficulty. It often ended with me getting really angry, very uptight with everyone around me and also very 
. In the picture, we see lots of children. I'm 1 0f 9. We are all 12 to 13 months apart. To say it was chaotic is an understatement. To say it was highly charged is like saying a candle is the same as a spotlight. Represented by the children, you may notice they are all scrawny, is the deprivation, squalor and hunger that surrounds them. In stark contrast, you will notice my mother, glass of 
in hand, with a cigarette in the other, and lots of wine in the background to show her disregard for our upbringing. Fit and healthy, meat on her bones, compared to our skeletal frames. Even the dog was fed better; incidentally by me. We often shared a bowl of dried cereal, that's if there was any left. My eldest sister was on hand to look after herself. Please discuss...
train wreck knocks at the door. Inside, a tiny entity holds on to his inner beauty. Rattling and bellowing the train keeps on coming. The door holds for now so the dream keeps soothing. Inside the station the boy looks at peace, secure from the wreckage, falling at his feet. Tears suppress hatred, fear overrides pleasure, as one last surge envelopes his destiny forever. Emotions are lost in a swirl of lust, as harrowing cries plead she just needs love. Crawling from her bottle, a mother drowns his dreams for her lust turns to anger as it satisfied her needs. Now his 
is trapped within this shrine, he knows not how to break from the station walls. He sees the passengers but there all free. He sees plenty of trains but none are going his way. He sits and waits but everyone goes by. Growing lonely each day and night. Something stirs, its a creative scheme, paint my memories for all to see!. Smiles and happiness allow him to stand, the colours of his palette lie in his hands. Holding on tight, he knows what to do, but anger suppresses, the feeling turns blue. The barriers come down as emotions run high. Locked in his prison or self made shrine. On and on the train wreck comes. Love knows no barrier when your young. On and on his dreams take hold as an angry adult slowly unfolds...