It feels oddly fitting that this should be the final piece of 2009. A fiery grinning skull, emerging through brimstone and steam from a black hole tunnel, on track-as it where. My wife came up with the title-'The Passenger', which also holds more than a hint of sardonic irony since its something I am no longer prepared to be. If the noughties began with the heady promise of a new, spectacular life, which they delivered by degrees, then they have collapsed beneath the weight of my own expectations. I am so done with being undone by my own disappointment.
2010 then-and perhaps its setting oneself up for further disappointment from the offset, but I am going to anchor the years turn to the churlishness of resolution.
Which seems as good place as any, to wish everybody a safe, happy and prosperous Twenty Ten.
Generally I avoid year end reviews,so hungry am I by this point to look forward rather than back, but in the limbo that is Christmas and New Year, I feel the need to purge the last twelve months with what amounts to a final enema. 2009-In which my 42nd year never really got off the ground. It didn’t really have a chance if I'm honest, stillborn from the first, working in the most toxic environment of my career as a graphic designer, for what barely constituted a wage.
By the median of the year I was emotionally exhausted and hoped to fare better as a gun for hire, little anticipating a diminishing economy and a string of con artists and time wasters who would ravage my accounts and my patience further. By mid November, it was clear I no longer held an appetite for the vocation that has been 27 years of my life.
Still, if there was a sterling silver lining, it was in the fifteen or so shows I exhibited at this year-notably at the Hive in LA and my debut at Comiccon.
There were other personal highlights, from the twenty days respectively that I spent with my children Thom and then Emma, to the trips to Sequoia and Big Bear with my wife.
In my friendships too, there was a turning point, distinguishing those who are merely fair-weather acquaintances from those who honestly care. I have no time to give to those who only take anymore.
I saw my dear friend Nedda marry our new friend Aaron in a beautiful ceremony, and we acquired a new cat called Ronin, who is a demon with an angels face-albeit a furry one.
As with the whole of my life, my art has been a haven from the travails, a journey with all of its own highs and lows that never dissipates, whatever is happening. Of the dozen or so pieces I produced this year, I think three of them are my best work ever-defining a voice for myself and a direction which has felt elusive throughout my life. If there is a shortfall, it’s the same one that vexes me every year- the never ending search for a break, recognition, a living.
For the moment, I am content that this wretchedly disappointing year is coming to an end.
Here is the ever alluring Kate Bush from 1980 singing December will be magic again to celebrate:
Title:'The Death of Winter' (2009) Size: 15" x 30" Medium:Oil on canvas
Inspired in parts by a recent sabbatical to Big Bear,the cold dystopia of Cormac McCarthys 'The Road', and the result of listening to Brett Andersons 'Slow Attack' album continuously, it is a counterpoint to all those Kinkaid style depictions of cosy Christmas card scenes, and relates symbolically with the end of the solstice, the death cults relationship with seasonal transition, and the intangible feeling one gets of ones own mortality, looking across a frozen lake in the clutches of winter.
Despite the finality of my signatures flourish, I shalln't be able to tell if the piece is complete until it's dry. Diffusing the black point's to grey, really gives it a nice depth of middle ground. I'm pleased-its a rather delicious counterpoint to the candy-cane, force feeding of the seasons sentiments.
That said, I am not completely, curmudgeonly about the graces of Xmas, so to set the mood, here's something cooler than chilled eggnog- Bowie and Bing singing 'Peace on Earth, Little Drummer boy' back in the good old days of 77:
Brushes are growing threadbare again, and a journey to the art store to replenish my fine sables is one of the few things that hinge on me completing the piece in time for the solstice. I find myself in that plateau place where my hunger to progress to the next piece is making the completion of this one feel like an epic struggle.
Unrelatedly related, I read something artist Terry Rodgers said in this months Juxtapoz, about the difference between American and European audiences being that the latter are a little more comfortable with difficult subject matter. Speaking of Americans he says that they 'live in an isolated fairyland and are subjected to amazing religious-based fantasies.' I can concur, although his penchant for painting large photo realistic scenes of debauchery set his mettle a little more in the camp of extreme than my own, it's something I've contemplated a lot of late. For all the peer back slappery I enjoy, I am still not commercially in favor here. It seems all about becoming a name and a gimmick, and perhaps it being the season, I am feeling the draw of Europe because of chronic homesickness, but I do imagine that my art would sit more comfortably in a gallery in say-Vladivostok-than Malibu. The grasp of the human condition is simply surfeit here, the enduring grasp is for the superficial, the contrivance of emotion without feeling-that thing of being constantly connected through Twitter without ever connecting, the paranoid narcissistic horror of aging annihilated by the bronzed skin pulled back across every botoxed cheekbone.
I get lost in the romantic notion of living and working in a studio loft in Berlin or Amsterdam, and wonder if I could make more of a living from my art, in a place where the ravages of suffering are written in the pockmarks and shrapnel pits of the landscape.
I first became acquainted with Eliza Rickman's very unique musical prowess when I was showing at the Hive earlier this year-accompanied by a miniature piano called a Schoenhut, and looking like a beautiful Burtonesque, Victorian, porcelain doll, her fragile allure belied the set that followed. Kicking off with a potent version of Dear Prudence, she sounded somewhere between the mellifluous tones of Mary Hopkin and Siouxie Sioux, fed through a worm hole that plays the balmy side show static of tinkling pianola. This was to be no obscure karaoke act however, the retinue of songs that followed-with self penned titles such as 'Black Rose', 'Lily Love', Over Cold Shoulders' & 'Cinnamon Bone', revealed a delicate, haunting quirkiness to sanguine themes of bittersweet longing and friendships past. She also posessed the kind of bohemian black eyed enchantment of every willowy French girl who ever sat outside a cafe clutching a Sylvia Plath novel that I was captivated by as an art student, with the exception that this lady had acres of true talent, actually read all of those books and was and is a true starlet in waiting.
Guild the Lily-her debut cd is available to download, and she is also playing here at the Ruby Room in San Diego on the 18th of December.
There is something 1970's panoramic about this piece-my mind keeps projecting Hockney, Led Zeps 'Houses of the Holy' LP cover, and the backdrops of 'Watership Down'.
As a kid of that era, it's all too telling.
Despite the fact that the scene is from Californian vistas of Big Bear, there is something really parochially English about the work.
As a kid of that country, it's all too telling.
Another thing, as simplistic as the composition appears, distinguishing the indestinguishable has been a tremendous challenge-trees obscured by a blizzards guaze have meant rendering oil paint as thinly as a watercolorist-layering in light washes.
I scanned an article somewhere recently, that said in times of great economic upheaval, artists flourish not financially, but creatively. The edict being one supposes, that freed from the constraints of commerce, the floodgates of Dionysian proportions are open. Given that I feel like I've been tapping the vein and catching the mainline to subconscious central for a few months now, I can concur that my creative spirit is high on the cocaine of the palettes whim, whilst I am literally on the bones of my skinny arse. Not for a want of the work however, no-nothing so more mundane than a stream of delinquent debtors, stretching my patience and my accounts to dust. Madmen indeed. Even on such dark days, the small act of working a few strokes on canvas, on something as ephemeral as a snow flurry or a clutch of scrawls in my sketchbook can raise my Titanic, reminding me that I was born to be an artist. There go I but for the lack of a living. What a treacherous year-the shows are wonderful,heady even, but the betrayal of never selling anything leads me gaping over the precipice of ever wondering if at 42, the dream isn't just that-a dream. When I wonder, does one come to the cul-de-sac end of realising the devils of ones own failure? Smell the bitter coffee of defeat? I imagine when rejection siphons the soul of its last vestige of hope.
I recall something of an in joke at one agency I once worked (although they all merge into each other now) which went something along the lines that when ever there was a shortfall for a decent strap line, the words: " Time for a change:" would be a well placed warhorse.
Fridays are my only concession to the mundanity of the working week, which is only ever punctuated in the evenings by occasional ruminations at my easel. On other days, I still feel like I'm merely faking it, a Sunday afternoon hobbyist inauthentically posing as the real deal, because the drag of scratching for a living at every other time, leaves me with a clutch of hours, fighting total exhaustion late into the dying candle of the evening.Fridays I afford myself the afternoons,locked in my studio-five hours of uninterrupted contemplation of paint-its like a enema for the soul. With, the wintery timbres of Brett Andersons latest offing, en loop in the distance, the paint flowed like alchemy-I'm loving the new piece so much, it touches the innately unpronounceable chasm of living with a knowledge that someday it will all end, the awe of the nature and the passage of time. I can't wait to finish it.
Having laid down a light wash, and distinguished the details, I started to work in the background because I feel that as with the Valley piece, the geography for this piece,carries the same weight as the message. Previous deaths head pieces have been more informed by the concept, the background seeming something of an afterthought, although not entirely.
Its a process I'm learning to embrace more and more, I think for the longest time-perhaps too long, I've held a general mistrust of the real, believing that feeding entirely from the subconscious was the purest form of expressing-that to draw from life somehow diluted the idea. I still think that's the case-certainly with someone like Dali, the more technically he drew from the real, the less his work seemed informed by the surreal, but for me it feels like the work is becoming more cohesive and focused, evolving a germ of an idea into an entirely different animal. Its hugely exciting, and I've even taken to carrying a sketchbook everywhere and sketching, which always felt like somehow an attempt to elevate the mundane, but its something I am enjoying again.
the smaller study for this piece has gone through something of an evolution, certainly inspired by our weekend sabbatical in Big Bear, and having seen 'The Road' the other night.Despite the minimalism of this scratchy pencil study, putting flesh on those bones perse, is a hugely exciting prospect for me, encompassing everything I've longed to express about the bleak disquiet of winter, peering into murky icy waters seeing your breath dissipate in the cold air, and feeling the goosebumps through your soul.
"Eventually I'm going to be run over and completely forgotten by the people who paint big-eyed children"Robert Williams
Whilst at some sterile mall somewherethe other day, I was drawn to the promise of starting 2010 early by enlivening it at a calender kiosk.
Amongst the tat of doe eyed pups, Twilight vampires and Irish valleys was the obligatory 'art' section, consisting of Thomas Kinkade, Louis Royo, Boris Vallejo and Julie Bell. Perhaps its something to do with the ever homogenization of modern vacuous culture, but It struck me that the public's perception of what constitutes 'art'- which is to say relevant art-is ever diminishing. I had to ask myself, is that a bad thing? I am reminded of a time, when the section would have been consumed by the usual Impressionist stalwarts and Mucha art nouveau flourishes. The elitism of high brow gallery's took the lions share of wall space, and if there was any concession to so called low brow, it was through artists like Norman Rockwell and Beryl Cook. Of course there was also Dali and Giger to keep us purists happy, veritable sore thumbs, able to traverse the gaping chasm between both camps with imagery that defied category and the technical virtuosity of an old master.
This isn't to say, that I don't find work like Kinkaids excreble-I do-I decry most modern tastes and long for the days when art isn't relegated to matching the curtains- but because I do, does that mean that it ceases to exist as a yardstick to current cultural ideals? As such it probably inhabits the same space as a Hogarth three hundred years ago, or that poster in the 70's of a girl in tennis gear flashing her arse cheek. People-unfortunately, are just not that deep, and time, seasons the bubble gum on the sole of history's shoe with the value of artifact.
An artist friend of mine was once leveled with the charge that their painting was to art, what Merlot was to wine, which was only amusing until you realized how many bottles of Merlot are sold everyday.
Art-it seems, no longer exists in an oppulent bubble for the sniffy borgeouis, and like that tremendous scene in Sideways with Paul Giamatti, loses nothing in its flavour when consumed in the context of a fast food joint.
I'm in a hermetic funk. I know its a combination of the seasonal thing, homesickness (which is my fault) sickness (which isn't) and the inevitable post gig come down of imagining-or projecting-coincidences more significant than mere random happenstance, which is what they probably are. Still, I imagine a deity pissing himself with laughter around about now.
I need to make marks on canvas again, as well as just make my mark which is an old familiar mantra. Here's another- at 42 I'm as rootless as ever, cradling a lifetime of pummeled ego and charred fingers, and back to noodling at the square that marks the realization that if I never spent another second in the soul destroying providence of graphic design, it would still come as a moment too soon. What a special breed of wanker that "fucking profession" procures.Woe Bejaysus as my old Irish nan would say. Art and commerce, oil and water.
Speaking of oil....
I wish I could spend my days, lost in the pursuit of paint, all in the name of a greater journey-THAT greater journey.
In between design duties, I set the channel to Ovation teevee, and watch people like Mathew Collins, drool over some painted artifact-as I grumble at the succession of trust fund babies like Gauguin and Manet that he is toe curling over. I wonder how anyone makes it in these franchised, disenfranchised times. How someone like me that is, and woe is me and the artist fucking lot, blah, bollocks, blah.
Shut up David!! 'Tis not a total exercise in navel gazing however, I've finally finished the first of eight illustrations for the Octavo (pictured) Peter (J Carrol) has an exceptional breadth of imagination, as multi faceted as my own. Matching his theories in 2d space however is another matter-or anti matter depending on seating arrangements. For the first piece, I settled into the transcendental ruminations of things like an illustrated book of the dead I recall renting from Norris Green library nearly 30 years ago, but since I cannot recall the author, I canny find it online. Also in the Bombay mix-Esher,Goya and the movie Brainstorm starring Christopher Walken, and Natalie Wood, which I've not seen for almost as long as I rented that book, but my memory of it certainly adds flavor.
Nice segue David-Thanksgiving hangs as much of a pall as it does for the fattened turkeys eating ground offal, but fortunately I shall be ensconced in the North with my lovely wife at a location called Big Bear. I cannot wait to get out of San Diego for a few days and recharge-maybe a beard and a new life awaits me there.
'Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream. For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art; to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.'
Very occasionally, there comes a moment, when you feel a part of something that is the culmination of all the blood, sweat and-frankly-ballache of being an artist. And so it was last evening at the Belly Up.
Staring back down the hazy passage of 24 hours since, a muddy post beer hangover and still feeling like that scene from Midnight Express, where Brad Davies is strung from his ankles in a Turkish prison, and beaten on the soles of his feet, its hard to sum up a postcard of the night, but singularly the word that immediately springs to mind is 'profound.'
I must admit to being a little nervous before the evening-live painting is the metier of practitioners who paint from the shoulder and not the wrist, and with three hours in which to construct something I was determined that it wouldn't look like the result of a post paint enema. In the end, I went with what I know, and painted a skull with an iconic Aladdin Sane flash splashed across the dry bone surface, I appropriately titled the piece 'Dead Sound'-after the Raveonettes most well known song. Having spent almost four months crawling through 'The Valley', it was a revelation to be able to paint something that amounted to more than a stroke in such a short amount of time. Incidentally, the Valley looked tremendous hanging with its accompanying sisters in the restaurant, drawing a lot of interests, and a few price enquries. Indeed, considering my approximation to people, more intent on consuming delicious Mexican dishes, I enjoyed a healthy influx of admirers and possibilities. I was signing and handing the piece over to be raffled by 9pm, much to the disappointment of a lovely young lady who had come to the restaurant to watch me paint, but had missed me due to being seated behind a partition. We exchanged cards, and I consoled her that the piece would be available to win, and that if she was going to the show, she would at least see it in its glory, as it was up on the stage whilst the bands played. I make reference to this because it became a defining moment later in the evening, when having drawn the winning number from the hat, it turned out that this self same young lady was the winner. Coincidences of the past several months have seldom seemed favorable, but we were all genuinely floored by the serendipity of the event. I think it shows in the photo. The night belonged to The Ravonettes however, and their sonic wall of spectral guitars and haunting voices-female singer-Sharin Foo is something truly enchanting to behold, with her peroxide Clara Bow bangs, and the kind of cheekbones that could slice through paper. After they'd finished their set, they met us briefly-very graciously signing a poster and sweetly posing for a photograph. It was 1am by the time we breathed the night air, and as we passed the duo on the street in our car-we couldn't resist rolling down the window and caterwauling 'Ravonettes Rule-wooooo!!!' To which they smiled and waved. The perfect end to a perfect night.
Finally, I've heard it said, no man is an island, so before I wax another archipelago analogy, I'd like to thank the following: The lovely Jackie Eash and gracious Beau Dorin, for inviting me to such an auspicious event-kings have enjoyed less geniality. Thank you to the staff at the Belly Up who were so wonderfully accommodating, and to everyone who came out in support or who just wandered over to tell me 'hello- I love what you are doing.'
Big kudos to the Ravonettes for being so lovely and cool, and not sniffy rock stars post gig.
Thanks to my great pal and live painting master Mark Jesinoski for giving me the tip of the hat that made it happen in the first place.
And finally-to Lani, who is a bottomless well of love and support to my dreams, even when she is suffering a cold like she was last night-Thank you my darling.
Save for a few minor embellishments, the piece is done. I have it in mind to expand the concept, although not on this scale, but at the very least, this piece did instill in me an entirely new set of possibilities that I hadn't envisaged before.
All being well, and paint being dry, I shall be premiering it at the show tomorrow.
This Thursday I shall be adding a painted flourish to a show at the Belly Up here in San Diego, where the Danish duo-The Raveonettes are heading the bill. Supporting them, shall be the Crocodiles and the Dum Dum girls, and myself, who shall be ensconced at the side cafe, where I am live painting and exhibiting. I've cooked up a special rock themed piece in preparation especially for the event and shall be there from 6pm until 9pm.Belly Up Tavern, 143 S. Cedros Ave, Solana Beach, CA 92075
The official Press release reads as follows:DANISH ROCK DUO THE RAVEONETTES ARE COMING TO BELLY UP NOVEMBER 12TH, BEFORE THE SHOW, DINE AT THE WILD NOTE CAFÉ ON OUR LOW DOUGH MENU AND HAVE A CHANCE TO WIN A PAINTING CREATED LIVE IN THE CAFÉ THE NIGHT OF THE SHOW.
David Gough is a modern, surreal, fantasy artist, hailing from Liverpool, England and now residing in San Diego, CA. He has worked as a professional artist since 1995. His paintings delve into the realms of the surreal and the dark phantastique, exploring mortality through gothic, religious imagery juxtaposed with the starkness of the human skull.
Collected worldwide, he has exhibited both in prominent exhibitions in the UK, as well as being a regular addition to shows on both the West and East coasts of the US. In Oct 2010, his work shall be on display at two featured shows at the Hive and The Alternate Cafe in LA.
Featured in numerous publications and periodicals such as "Gothic Art Now" coffee table book, his own retrospective book, entitled "Gods and Monsters", and Peter J Caroll's "The Apophenion", he is currently working on illustrating Carroll's next novel-"The Octavo", due for release next year.
Inside the Belly Up the Morrison Hotel Gallery will be displaying several photos of alternative rock artists including Paul Weller & Pete Townshend, Iggy Pop, Nick Cave, Elvis Costello, Bowie, Lou Reed, Jagger, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Killers.
The Raveonettes show details are as follows: THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12 @ 9:00 PM (Doors @ 8 PM) DAVID GOUGH WILL START PAINTING AT 6PM IN THE CAFÉ
'I kept hearing David's plaintive cry, "I just wish something would break soon."' relates former manager, Kenneth Pitt in Marc Spitz's excellent new book- Bowie biography.
Reading those lines, its the Bowie I connect with the most. I think of him there, mired in pre-fame anonymity...'down on my knees in suburbia, down on myself in every way...' he would sing later on the 'Buddha of Suburbia' title song. For nine years he schlepped himself around every dead beat, dead end repository, starving for his gravy, but still an indomitable talent never the less. Pre Ziggy, he couldn't even get arrested let alone a break. What spurred that self belief? Certainly he wasn't delusional, but in the face of such endless disappointment, I imagine he must have believed that he would die in the obscurity of his Beckenham roots-demons dance you to the precipice of defeat so many times as an artist.
There go I without the rest.
Robert Williams-the godfather of pop surrealism, makes some rather wonderful observations about the artists lot in this months anniversary edition of Juxtapoz too. A soundbyte every two sentences, I could pour over his eminently quotable delivery for hours, or at least every time I take my leave to the bog, which is where I do a lot of my ruminating in all honesty.
To paraphrase: 'In the last 30 years, the most gifted have had to make do with occupations as commercial artists. The fine art establishment has purged itself of beautifully executed imagery, and Art has become what Marcel Duchamp hoped for-whatever the artist points as Art.' Though his consternation is largely pointed at the continuing adoption by the elite for abstraction, its a valid point that holds more than a cistern of water, particularly when you consider the most recent excreble contribution by post modernists figurehead, Damien Hirst, and the inevitable legion of platinum gold card collectors, that will be fawning over his shabby,Francis Bacon knock offs.
Capital "A" Art is a con, and I suspect the true artisans are those practitioners such as the Hirsts, Emmins, and that guy who glued elephant shit to a canvas whose name escapes me now. Those artists that parlay any true draftsmanship for the shock value of the emperors new clothes, and good for them-art history is littered with as many poseurs as it is Van Gogh's, auteur's rather than artists-why not give a kick to the establishment, take the money or even the Monet and run as it where. There is no honor in the artists garret, believe me. For myself, I imagine that means I've taken the lesser road then, part of the marginalized that Williams advocates, but still no less hungry for that break as Bowie was in his suburban ennui.
1.As the week draws to a close, I am putting the final touches to the piece which has taken me almost three months to complete. All being well, I should be able to post a final portrait soon.
The show at Belly Up has also been confirmed for November the 12th, and having seen the venue, I am beside myself with excitement. I shall be setting up my paints for a live painting event at around 6pm, as well as hanging the new piece and others, before the bands come on. Full details are at the following link: 2.And I posted another piece -the mentor painting, which I am reticent to sell because of its personal nature, but space is becoming an issue with so many pieces lining the walls now, and I need to let work go just as I do any emotions that manifest them to begin with.
3.So the best laid plans of mice and men-given my distaste for rodents, the quote always struck me as diminishing human achievement to nothing more than rats foraging for moldy cheese and spreading pestilence and plague with our infestation. Certainly following today's events at the Fort Hood facility, and the subsequent bile peddled by so called experts on various tv news channels, gives one pause that perhaps the sentiment isn't too far from the truth. Reflection rather than accusation takes precedent at such times, and as I watched the images, I felt moved listening to Unfinished Sympathy by Massive Attack on my ipod today. Sometimes the endless diatribe of reportage is so numbing, that one feels detached from the true tragedy of such events.
November is two days old, and I'm keen to wash the bitter taste of October from my mouth with the peppermint rinse of mentioning that today, I meet to spec the premises for the live painting event with FM 94.9 on November 12th.
I also wanted to let you know that my interview with Fantasy E-zine is now available to read for subscribers at the following address:
http://www.fantasyezine.com/ A snippet of which follows: FE: How would you describe or categorize your art? DG: I really don’t like to-its too static. By nature, artists are flighty and evolving constantly, and to formalize any kind of label is to box you in. This week, I happen to be a hyper real Victorian, surrealist with a sideline in biomechanic-steampunk, next week I may be playing jazz flute. Finally, I am in the process of illustrating a book with author Peter J Carroll, who used my Gods and Monsters piece on the cover of his previous book-The Apophenion. Peters new book is a very exciting project, and I shall post occasional teasers. It's a continued exploration of practical and theoretical magic and higher dimensional curved spacetime.
Which brings us back to matters of karmic influences in a way-arc, circle closed.
1. The eve of the witching hour,in which the front yard is suitably cobweb and corpse bedecked, sticky candy brims in a bucket head for the trick or treaters, and we are eagerly putting finishing touches to our costumes. Its a Batman themed event, so this year, Lani and I are going as Dark Knight foils-Poison Ivy and the Riddler. 2. Perhaps it was the weather or the fact that we were on the bones of our arse poor, but as a child, my families Halloween celebration extended to just ducking for apples and carving turnips-pumpkins being too much of a rarity or luxury item in 1970's England. Nevertheless, it was my favorite time of year, and my staple diet would have been the Pan book of Horror stories my Uncle Tony passed down to me, the Hammer double bills on a Friday night, and horror comic anthologies like The House of Mystery, House of Secrets and Weird Mystery. 3. As is customary, we held our own little Horror double bill last night, with the remarkable Swedish Vampire movie,Let the Right One in-which I'll review at another time-and the Hammer Horror classic the Vampire Lovers, starring Ingrid Pitt as the resurrected countess Camilla with more than a healthy appetite for buxom, young, virgin flesh. Vampire lesbians...whats not to love? It also starred the quite lovely doe eyed Madeline Smith, who I was most smitten with in my younger days-I wonder why? 4. If there was a concession to Halloween American style when I was young, it was Charlie Browns great pumpkin patch, which is obligatory, wherever you are-Happy Halloween Everyone!!:
