Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Purgatorium LTD Editions

Hard to believe that Purgatorium will be five years old next year. I guess it makes some sort of sense given all that’s passed in between. The La Bodega years and preparation for Paradiso’s Fall- the second act of the series-respectively.

It was largely ignored by all the usual suspects at the time, garnering two single reviews by Cartwheel and Art Business-good one’s as it happens, for which I was hugely grateful for.

Still, I remain really proud of what I accomplished, and have been chipping away at compiling a sort of volume, which will comprise annotations, alongside the plates, sketches, notes and personal anecdotes, should it ever see the light someday.

In the interim, I’ve finally released the entire series as a signed limited edition of 30, on lovely velvet rag paper.
You can purchase all twelve pieces from the following link.


Sunday, June 24, 2018

Tales from the dead zone

It’s been several months since I last wrote, I know, but if posts have been thin on the ground of late, it’s because I’ve been pouring myself into the work at hand.

That, plus its all too easy to feel like you are just adding to the noise right now, magnifying the human footprint marked ‘the landfill of opinion’. Better to stay in the dead zone.

Still, it’s alarmingly distressing out there-kiddies in cages. Concentration camps. An entire demographic of the populous falling over themselves with lick spittle piety to justify it. One wonders where the balance will tip, and how far over the edge.

The work by contrast has flourished, but is no less inspired by current events. It would be hard not to. What began contextually as possibly my farewell letter to the American empire, has become a surreal catalogue of the ill omens that have informed it.

This piece-as yet untitled-swirls with apocalyptic nods and winks. The American Killing fields of Vietnam. The little napalm girl-Kim Phuc in that eerie messianic pose. Hiroshima and Nagasaki respectively.

Quite a lot of unsavory raw meat to swallow, and not the kind of sandwich one feels compelled to share.

"Bosch Brain Freeze" - Oil on canvas-11" x 14"
It’s not all been dark introspection, took a breather and knocked out a fun little Bosch homage for La Bodega’s recent Spirit Animal show.

Because the old Flemish master is always a good party trick to conjure at the end times.

Anyway, more announcements to follow soon, all being well.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

SD Voyager Interview

“I guess my journey as an artist began with this overarching spiritual quest and being raised as I was, I’d found that the pulpit wasn’t doing it for me.”

In which I talk about my Liverpool origins, dark art and death and the San Diego art scene.


Having recently celebrated my thirteenth year since expatriating to the US, I’m delighted and heartened to have been chosen to be interviewed, given that this is only the third artists profile piece from my adopted hometown, in which I've exhibited at least a hundred times.

Hopefully, this is just the beginning of an alternative forum that is contrary to the dodgy editorial whims of a certain sinister press in the city-one that highlights artists and not just the closing of another gallery.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

Mother Deer.

You can’t really tell yet, but that’s Elen I’m painting, the lost pagan horned goddess of British folklore.
She’s Mama deer, spiritual consort, Shamanic pathfinder of ley lines and a divine fertility being.
That’s quite a bad ass resume, except to say that like most Pagan figures, it wasn’t enough for her Christian brethren, who gave her a historical make over and renamed her St Helena.
Still, her new turn as a latter day Lara Croft, seeker of relics such as the Holy Sepulcher and Christs Cross is fascinating on its own merit. Even if it meant desecrating the Temple of Venus in 333AD (Jesus in Hebrew for anyone who wondered) and relinquishing her female empowerment card, by re-erecting what John Allegro in his book ‘The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross’ called a ‘Phallic Symbol of ecstatic fertility and Resurrection’.
Its as close to Eve as I’ll get in my series about fallen Eden I suppose.
Having seen both ‘Annihilation’ and ‘Mother’ recently, it struck me that perhaps I’m plundering similar furrow as far as the cultural zeitgeist is concerned. Mankind being the great corrupter and pathogen in the garden and all that. Mother nature made barren by eschatology.  Although I didn’t really like either movie to be honest, and I suspect ‘Mother’ to be more of that directors bitter sentiments on being an ‘artiste’ in Hollywood.
Go tell it to Kubrick, Darren.
If my series, Purgatorium, ended with a piece featuring John Locke pointing the way  like a wise old owl, then Paradiso’s Fall is imbued with the myth of America as his Tabula Rasa.
One of the phrases from Miltons Paradise lost that jumped out at me as a foundation for the series was ‘The mind in it’s own place..can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”
So much of our personal Eden’s will always be tainted by expectation.
It’s something to bare in mind as I’m bearing fruit.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Death Rattle

“We are all bound thither; we are hastening to the same common goal. Black death calls all things under the sway of its laws.”
“The gormless and the baying crowd right there.
They can’t get enough of that doomsday song,
They can’t get enough of it all”
David Bowie-The Next Day
Another skull.
One more deaths head dug up from the boneyard- commissioned on this occasion-but no less symbolically apropos for the dark times we live in.
When has that not been the case I ask myself?
Its not just my default anymore.
Death is prevalent. Everywhere it seems-because I believe the 242 year old experiment called America is dying.
Or has a suicidal streak running through it at the very least.
It could be these Divided States of Angst. You’ve felt it-that permanent unease we find ourselves in now.
Where acidic cauldrons froth over daily, and drown everything with toxic rancor and insanity.
Where another deadly school massacre, draws pious platitudes from crowing gun fetishists in tinfoil hats.
Where a swamp is substituted for a malfeasant cesspool of corruption, calamity and chaos.
Where every right eye is turned blind to the trashing of democratic norms in favor of trash talk.
Where Nazi’s and Russian despots are ‘fine people’ and the FBI is ‘treasonous’.
Where celebrities and sports figures ought to remain silent, when there is a game show host in power.
Where Evangelicals lament the downfall of Christian family values over a coffee cup, but endorse candidates who are adulterers with an appetite for porn stars and children.
Where an Intel dossier detailing a Presidents penchant for pissing prostitutes is ‘fake news’ but a pizza parlor harbors a Satanic, ritualized, child- sex /murder, cult…
To Mars.
And it’s not just the rank hypocrisy–it’s that there is a faction that seems fervently intent on hurtling us towards some cataclysm. Certainly, The Evangelical Taliban positively creamed its chaste gusset when the bloviator in chief, sought to recognize Jerusalem as Israels capitol. No doubt fulfilling the apocalyptic wank fantasy of every Christian jihadist, hungry for judgement day.
Because making America great means no greater cause than eliciting ‘Liberal tears’, even if the outcome is we are all annihilated in a tweeted, nuclear, maelstrom.
Sitting at the celebrating Bowie concert last week, singing along to songs performed by competent stand ins and his still sizzling former band, it hit me that part of the challenge now feels like the very best of us-the generational voices that would propel us forward, the thinkers of the enlightenment and champions of cultural change, have been replaced by the very worst of us.  Hitch, staring down the barrel of a cancer that would consume him said that he not only feared that he would have to leave the party, but that the party would go on without him.
Except the party ended when the life and soul was gone. Death took him along with all the other vanguard, free thinkers of his generation, and left us with the odious. The avaricious. The volatile. The dogmatists. The bullshitters, brainless barbarians and fools.
With almost uncanny timing, I write this as it’s announced Stephen Hawking has passed.
Intelligence, along with bastions of education and science are now vilified as ‘elitist’, substituted with a brain numbing diet of  TMZ, X-Factor, Fox News and Jerry Springer to occupy the vacuous mind of the plebeian. Little wonder then, there sits a President, perfectly suited for the National Enquirer generation.
Perhaps when they switched on the Hadron Collider it caused a fissure in the space time continuum, and we hit an alternative timeline,  a timeline where every virtue was turned on its head.  Indeed, the year that elected America’s greatest aberration and folly, brought with it a mass exodus of figure heads from every station.
Some might even say 2016 was akin to a rapture.
I really hope that notion leaves some Evangelicals as alarmed as the rest of us are feeling right now.
Except, I remind myself that in that same week as I watched Bowie’s guitarist, Gerry Leonard, lean over his guitar like a little blue rinsed granny, while a crowd of aging fans stormed the stage,  Guillermo Del Toro took an Oscar for his monster movie- ‘The Shape of Water’. As did the horror movie ‘Get Out’ highlighting racism, and finally Bowie’s great friend-Gary Oldman,  for his turn as Churchill in a movie fittingly titled for these times ‘The Darkest Hour’.
it’s a welcome rejoinder that as artists of darker themes, the torch falls to us.
Because as barren as it feels right now, we are on fertile ground.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018


Oil on canvas
9″ x 12″
Between prepping the canvas and sketching for the next piece, I knocked out another Alla Prima portrait in a couple of hours today.
Dali -in my opinion the greatest artist of the 20th century-has become so ubiquitous that the impact his surreal art had on me when I first encountered ‘The Death of Narcissus’ in a copy of Man, Myth and Magic in the 1970’s, seems almost neutered by its legacy into mono culture.
That mustache like an upturned curly bracket so synonymous, that the portrait didn’t resemble him, until the follicular finishing touch.
Still, the work remains utterly phenomenal and back then I was utterly obsessed, so I shan’t understate the influence he had on my own artistic quest.
In fact, I still read his wonderfully salacious ‘Unspeakable Confessions’ yearly, because the enigma of his work was made all the more profound by the fact that he was as mad as cheese.
Anyway, I’ll post it up in my store, should nobody bite on Social Media.

Sunday, February 18, 2018


Oil on canvas,
9″x 12″
With Russia in the news again, I thought it’d be quite nice to trot out one of the Slavs other infamous sons- the Mad Monk, Grigori Rasputin-Alla Prima.
He’s another of those fascinating esoteric cult figures, from the time of the Romnovs, ministering all manner of occult practices from Theosophy to being faith healer to Tsar Nicholas’s son, Alexei.
A nice gig if you can get it, particularly if  the laying on of hands extends to the local nunnery.
Ongoing rumors of an affair and his influence over the Tsarina Alexandra, that such were the times then, it wasn’t too long before he was knocked off, although given that it took an afternoon buffet of arsenic laced cakes and wine, three bullets-one in the forehead- and dropping in the frigid Nevka waters to do the trick, may lend to the reputation of his mystical prowess, and the rumor that he did a zombie Jesus.
Regardless, the fall of the Romanovs wasn’t too far behind.
One hopes a similar fate awaits the current US dynasty.
Rasputin is available to purchase, message for details.