Saturday 27 February 2016

Microhenge - Or How To Build Your Own Mesolithic Monument

There's been an incremental shift in my subject matter lately. A small evolutionary step that shifts the focus of my work, but changes the nature of the beast dramatically. This is the inclusion of standing stones into the landscapes.

Off the back of the mural at Southsea Coffee Co. (see earlier posts), for the first time, I am allowing clear signs of human presence into the landscape. As far as my landscape work is concerned, this represents a huge leap. Of course that presence is still highly codified, but it is undeniable.

Over the last couple of months, I've been studying for my Armchair Professor of Archaeology badge by watching all 20 series of Time Team on C4. This clearly makes me an expert, and got me thinking. One thing that really comes across with such an intense study programme is how archaeologists never really take into account the day to day mundanity of the stuff they uncover. Everything is always "High Status" or "Ritual". Nothing was ever done by a bloke called Geoff, just trying to keep his family together, his kids fed and out of trouble and the rent paid.

The SsCCo mural led to some interesting conversations about how these things might, more realistically and pragmatically have come about. And this little 'Microhenge' experiment was a small scale attempt at trying to get into that head space.

We tend to forget that Stonehenge was contemporary with the pyramids, both being developed at the same sort of time. We should also remember that people were not at all limited to their own home ranges, their own countries or even their own continents. There is plenty of good archaeological evidence to show that people were getting about well enough to be invading other countries, building empires, stealing, pillaging and taking slaves (and with them, their technologies), and generally mixing up the gene pool WAY back in the day. Sure they had to get about largely on foot or by camel or relatively rickety boat, but their navigation, surveying, engineering and manufacturing skills were evidently well developed enough to construct monuments that would present massive challenges to today's civil engineers. Arguably they'd have the Crossrail done by now.





I digress. So, here's my theory on Mesolithic structures, based on creating the 'Microhenge' in the photo above. Firstly, these are not static landscapes, they are dynamic, potentially highly emotionally charged spaces; BUT - not necessarily 'sacred' or 'ritual' or 'spiritual'. Let's not get all tree-huggy or mythological about it.

I would tend to go with 'Ceremonial' rather than 'Ritual'. Ritual implies repetition and a 'Spirirtual' dimension - all a bit farty - everyone involved discussing the job in hushed reverent tones. 'Ceremonial' seems more down-to-Earth. Something that need only happen the one time, but is significant in a more connective, communal way; such as marking an allegiance to the family/clan/tribe/community for example, or a wedding. A way of saying "We were here", or "The elk come through here in the Autumn. We need to remember this spot", or
 "This is where that bear got Dave's leg. We need to remember this spot", or "We should definitely do something to mark Geoff becoming leader. Geoff's a good bloke to have in charge. We should make this to show how much we appreciate his leadership skills. Big up Geoff!"

On a purely practical level, these would have been built by communities - definitely a team effort. I started off by collecting suitable stones. It's debatable whether they got the stones together first then planned it according to how many they could get their hands on, or planned it out first and then brought the required number of stones. Maybe each family was asked to contribute towards a stone or something, but certainly needed to give a hand with the building. 

   "I don't see why I should be paying my hard earned taxes for them to go and spend it all on some poncy 'tourist attraction'! It'll be a bloody white elephant within a year, and then who'll have to live with it in their back yard eh?"

And gradually the conversations started to pile up in my head.

Communication was of course, utterly essential. One person could have come up with the idea, but he/she would have to get the rest on board. "We could do one of those stone circles. They're all the rage at the moment." 

   "My missus' sister Dolly said they've got a new one up at her aunts place in Scotland. Says it's only small, but it's very pretty and it gets the job done. Very popular by all accounts."
   "That's all we need, more bloody tourists!"

There would have to be an agreement that they would all do this. "Here he goes again with his bloody stone circles. Have you any idea what it takes to put one of those things up?" 

   "They're just a bloody eyesore if you ask me. I don't want one of them things blotting out the sunrise everyday."
   "We could just do a small one. It doesn't have to be massive." 
   "Didn't Dave's cousin Rick do one over at the island last year? We could ask him."




There would be discussions about the best spot. On top of the hill? Down the hill slightly, on the more sheltered slope? "Bugger going all the way up there in the sodding winter!" 
   "How about down by the estuary? It's lovely down there in the summer. Me and the missus went there last year..." 
   "And we could bring some stones up by boat. That'd save a bit of effort."

There would be discussion about selecting the stones - local or something from elsewhere? "Geoff's mate Steve has got some nice blue ones over in the next valley." 
   "Mate, that's forty miles away!" 
   "Don't worry about that. Dom's got this idea of using, like, trees as rollers or something. He was telling me about it last week. Don't actually get it myself. I was never very good with engineering. I'm more sort of arty."

Quarrying and moving multiple big stones - getting them delivered. 
   "How many do you want? Well, I've got 14 in stock now that you can have, but you'll have to come and pick them up."
   "Nah mate, can't help yeh. We've got a big job on down in Glastonbury, we can't get to you till at least next Tuesday."
   "Who's in charge round here? We've got some stones for you." 
   "Big Dave? That's him over there. The fellah with the big stick and the hat on." 
   "That's not what I ordered! I said Blue!"
   "Well I'm not dragging them all the way back. You'll have to get in touch with the office."




"What the bloody hell's that? This thing's supposed to be 18 feet high." 
   "Nigel gave me a drawing that said 18 inches. Now, whether or not he knows the difference between feet and inches is not my problem. I do what I'm told." 
   "But you're not as confused as him, are you? I mean, it's not your job to be as confused as Nigel." 
   "I do not, for one, think that the problem was that the team was down. I think that the problem *may* have been, that there was a Stonehenge monument that was in danger of being *crushed* by a *dwarf*. Alright? That tended to understate the hugeness of the object." 
   "I really think you're just making much too big a thing out of it."
   "Making a big thing out of it would have been a good idea."


Laying out the plan need not have been so complicated. A simple stick in the centre and a string of the appropriate length would have marked out a good circle. Use the same number of people as stones, standing equally spaced around the marked out circumference, when they are in the right places, they push in a stick or otherwise mark the ground. Then the digging can begin. 
   "Tony mate, more to your left. No, I said left! Colin, can you show him which is his left? - Oh, for crying out loud..."

The hard part would be actually lifting the stones into position. 
   "F#<*in' 'ell John! That nearly landed on my f#<*in' 'ead you <#*^!!"   
   "I said right at the start we should have made it smaller." 
   "Well, yeah, and we were going to put a roof on it, but we got the lintels up and they ran out of money..." 
   "It's all the trades that got laid off I feel sorry for."
   "Well there's always been plenty of work in the henge trade if you're prepared to travel for it."
   "It's not the same these days. They're just not building them anymore. It's all barrows and ditches these days."
   "Our Kevin's just got a job on that new one they're putting up near Salisbury. Sends half his wages home to his mum every week without fail. He's a good boy is Kevin."

The people who put these monuments up are us. Their DNA is our DNA. Their conversations would have been none-the-less inane, their arguments, problems and solutions no less ordinary. 

   "What are you up to today then love?"
   "I got to go up to the new henge they're building on the old cemetery and fix a bunch of shovels. I swear, those morons don't know one end of a spade from the other. A bunch of trained monkeys could do a better job."
   "Ooh, could you take my sandals and drop them off at the cobblers on your way? The heels have worn right through. Bloody cheap imports! That's the last time I buy anything Scandinavian."
   "How do you confuse a Gaelic fellah? Show him a pile of shovels and tell him to take his pick..."
   "Yes dear. Will you be home for lunch?"
   "Should be."
   "Bring the washing in if it's raining would you? Thanks love."

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Saturday 13 February 2016

Liminal Zones - Towards A Poetic Horizon

“The edge of a painting is its frontier, where the artist negotiates his boundaries with the real world.” - Andrew Graham-Dixon



In art the aphorism ‘It’s not just the path you choose to take, but how you choose to walk it’, often defines the perceived identity of the artist. Some artists are so strongly identified by and with their work that their identity and their work become elevated in a cloud of mythology. Especially those with a strong style - Warhol, Picasso, Basquiat, Banksy. Context is everything. The art is the artist and vice versa.
In my own work, the landscape is the context for every living experience here on Earth. Even the oceans exist on a bed of rock. As we look across the land, the horizon is the last visible surface; the very edge, the very limit of the solid/liquid Earth, above which everything is vapour, gas and space. The boundaries between subsequent layers become increasingly obscure as the atmosphere peters out.

The landscape paintings I make are often dark, monochromatic, superficially empty; apparently unoccupied. Ethereal tonal and textural shifts underpin and overlay spontaneous, improvised ‘calligraphic’ mark making, organic details and forms. Always there is the horizon delineating the edge of the visible world. But this edge shifts. Every step we take towards it, so it moves on a step. The edge/horizon is as easily a perpetual, incremental shift as a sudden cut to something else. And because the world is a ball, we can chase the horizon, the edge forever. There is only change and continuity.  

Conversations about my landscapes often revolve around the impression of aged conflicts and aftermaths. Arbitrarily select a period of time between the formation of the Earth and its current state and draw a line; a horizon. At first empty, devoid of any animate presence, but there is always geology, weathering, erosion, movement and change. Once, there were no fences, no borders, no roads; only horizons. There was a time when the Earth was simultaneously burnt and frozen; a time when life on Earth was microbial, small, but on an epic, epic scale; enough to change the composition of the atmosphere and the evolution of life on the planet. These are dynamic spaces. Change and continuity.


Such boundaries are imaginary and crossing them or transgressing becomes an impossibility. So in art, how can we tell a simple line is a horizon and above it sky, below it Earth? Anthony Gormley refers to “The space occupied by the human consciousness when our eyes and ears are closed”. The senses are the horizon between our selves and the world. Our images, our lives are lived on internal landscapes. Our consciousness is an ethereal presence. When we look, we occupy. But ultimately we cannot efface the permanence of loneliness. There is nobody in here but me. All the rest are ghosts, memories, dreams, fantasies; implications of a population/presence. The weather and geological processes are effects of external experience; erosion of memory, the corrosiveness of living. All of this is drawn through an awareness of tonality and texture that extends into atmosphere, mood and space; grey, liminal. The senses are the boundary, the interface, the horizon between what is solid and what is esoteric, our selves and the world.

You can see much more of my landscape painting on Flickr --> Here


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Sunday 7 February 2016

An Sean, Scéal D'aois - The old, old story.

An Sean, Scéal D'aois




An inlet to a shallow bay on a small island just off the mainland. It's been a heavy crossing and the landing promises to be no less difficult, dangerous or exciting. On either side of the inlet stand two stones. Fairtheoirí - Sentinels, markers indicating the entrance, but at the same time a way of saying, "We have been here, we knew you would also come. Take care".
______________ _ ______________
Two men regard each other across a treacherous passage. There is a clear tension in the air. The way they watch each other is a clear indication that they know each other well. They watch like wolves, their gaze unwavering, constantly judging every twitch and shift in stance. They cannot leave. They dare not turn away or back down. They stand there for so long that they become stone.
______________ _ ______________
Two Sirens - jealous rivals for the affections of the hero Odysseus, sit on opposite headlands calling and singing with the most beautiful voices. Their story is legendary among the local people. Whichever can lure the greatest number of ships and sailors to their graves, will finally win the heart of the ancient warrior. But unaware of Odysseus' death on Ithaca centuries before, the Sirens remain locked in constant battle and ships and men still fall to the charm of the Sirens song.
______________ _ ______________

Barddubh and Luigsech the son and daughter of neighbouring rival clan chiefs begin a deeply passionate illicit relationship. These two chieftains themselves have a history buried deep in the peat of the earth. They are the brothers Áedán and Caomh. Their father Carraig, tired of their jealous bickering over who will inherit his land banished his sons to these islands long ago.

Their last remaining link to each other is this causeway, built by Carraig as a test of the brothers familial honour and commitment. Whichever pulls down or allows the causeway to be destroyed will be disinherited and lose everything. A deep, bitter resentment over their plight lies in the hearts of these two men, but such is the power of their stubbornness and greed, the bridge becomes a monumental testament to their rivalry.


When the love between Luigsech and Barddubh comes to light Áedán and Caomh are mortified. Beyond Luigsech and Barddubh's dishonour to their respective fathers and families, is the hidden disgrace of incest. There is no choice. The causeway has to go.


Watched by their offspring the brothers, in a burning fit of despair set to with mighty axes, each from his end of the causeway, smashing and hacking at the timbers until they are reduced to splinters. Eventually the brothers meet in the middle, still hacking at the timbers around their feet, until they both fall into the surging tide and are swept away to their deaths. The mourning lovers stand in silent vigil over their (literally) monumental loss
.


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Monday 1 February 2016

GUTHANNA ÁR SINSEAR


Guthanna Ár Sinsear

(Voices Of Our Ancestors)
This 60cm x 30cm canvas is currently available for sale over on my Big Cartel site at losdave.bigcartel.com


Inspired by painting the big wall at Southsea Coffee Co. I spent a couple of hours in the studio at the weekend - the first productive studio time I've spent since Christmas. The whole concept and mythology surrounding these ancient megalithic landscapes has really got the ol' juices flowing.

Anyone familiar with my landscape work will recognise the themes of emptiness and wilderness. I choose my words carefully in describing these places because while they are unpopulated, they are far from barren or desolate. Often, there is a great deal of life in them, it's just not immediately obvious. This is partly because I was diverted from the clichéd path of the tiny figure in the large abstract landscape at college, with dire omens and the foretelling of a doomed career in Graphic Design - the 'Dark Side' of illustration!

I have a natural aversion to populating my landscapes with tiny figures. My enduring interest is in the idea of the landscape while it was still pristine and undivided. When the only borders and boundaries that existed were formed naturally by geological and meteorological processes; where coasts meet the oceans, valleys, rivers, mountains, forests and plains.

I've said elsewhere that for a long time, I've been itching to do something with the subject of ancient archaeology; standing stones, stone circles, Mesolithic and neolithic structures. This period lies on the path to the imperative to decorate ourselves and our surroundings; to communicate and tell stories, to record events, to remember and respect the past, 
to make 'art', something deeply, deeply primal.

These archaeologies mean I can add traces of habitation without obvious direct references to actual people. Stone monuments refer to 'us' rather than 'me'. They are both in and of the landscape and they have a strong sense of 'other-worldliness'. It's a huge psychological leap to understand that these structures were built by the same people as us - our ancestors, and that their culture is as embedded in our DNA as these massive stones are embedded in our landscapes.

I imagine that somewhere in the long distant past there was a man who stood in the tall grass eddying under a windswept leaden sky, with the shadows of the forest at his back, atop a hill looking out over an untamed landscape, who looked at his companions and said* "You know what would look fricking amazing just here, right... You remember that sort of bluey grey granite we saw up that mountain in Wales?"

*But in Gaelic

This painting has now sold, but you can still Follow me on ArtFinder