On the last leg, literally.
Eleven down, final canvas in progress.Hard to believe.
That's the penultimate piece above- 'Space enough have I, in such a prison'-which like the titles of all the paintings in the series-is a line from the Tempest.
Been watching umpteen adaptations, and the Derek Jarman one is still my favorite-like a Dorothea Tanning in chiaroscuro, it has Jack Birkett as Caliban, and a winsome Toyah as Miranda.
This is my version of Miranda...whats that? Looks like my wife? I won't have it - any resemblance to Lani is purely coincidental.
Actually, that's a lie, Lani is in all of the pieces, quite simply because whatever sun that has risen or set in the studio, it has done so with her blessing.
Never a hint of complaint, grievance, or resentment for that other bedfellow, for our muses are like mistresses that we spend our hours bewitched and infatuated by.
For all the "oohs" and "ahs" doled out for those concubines gazing from walls throughout history, the Art widows of the world are the true goddesses.
A sneak preview of my upcoming show-Purgatorium-has just been very kindly posted over at Upon a Midnight Dreary, as the grand finale for a 2014 Gothic Summer drive,in what writer Dahlia Jane is predicting as "the most significant solo show of the year".
So,no pressure there then.
Go See HERE
Here I am like Virgil in Hades, walking on tinder's whilst feeling the heat ,still a mad dog and an Englishman staying out of the midday sun whilst pushing to forge my day in it.
You can't see, but in between the heat and the madness, I run old films on my computer such as the Agony and the Ecstasy-Chuck Heston acting through his teeth, whilst chewing the Sistine Chapel with his cold dead hand, Rex Harrison as 'Enry 'Iggins playing the Pontiff.
It's quite epic and splendid actually, the melodrama not diminishing the awesome crippling scale and magnitude of Michelangelo's 5,000 square foot fresco one iota.
Even through the paint spattered glow of my 16" monitor, my jaw slackens at that accomplishment, whilst my little twelve piece vignette of internal first world turmoil dwarves like an anonymous pallbearer in the 16th century.
Or even this one for that matter.
Sometimes reaching a ceiling is just a reminder of how dense the shadows are cast beneath it.
The Serial Killer Culture documentary has been out a few weeks now (available HERE), and the reviews have been really favorable, with a couple of pretty splendid nods to my segment. Below are a collection of excerpts and links to the standouts.
"....two other artists David Van Gough, whose
artwork delves into the deep symbolism of the Manson Murders and graphic
artist Sam Hane, who does serial killer-inspired artwork collages in
mixed media, are showcased at length showing both the
artist’s talents and their intentions behind their artwork. Hearing
these artists talk about their own work was a highlight for me, and just
as fascinating as the horrific minds that inspired the artwork to begin
with."
Aint it Cool
" Some artists are featured including David
Van Gough. His lengthy discourse on a painting he did about Charles
Manson is fascinating to say the least. Gough really did his homework on
the Manson legacy and wove all kinds of tidbits into one
big piece. His reference point was Sharon Tate (he’s a big fan of The
Fearless Vampire Killers). This segment was perhaps the most surprising
and unique."
Liquid Cheese Fanzine
"...artists like David Van Gough who is a very talented
painter who cites there are some similarities in the Manson Murders and
the Black Dahlia Murder case (both cases had murdered women and acts of
mutilation for effect)"
shuizmz
As
an aside, there was also a rather lovely mention in a recent David
Herrle interview, for his tremendous book Sharon Tate and the Daughters of joy,
(available HERE)
"...Gough’s necrorealism made me rethink my aversion
to so-called macabre art, and he’s become a treasured colleague."
Madame Perry's Salon
Here I am, working on the beginning of the end, though still four short of that sum when all said and undone.
Had wanted to be chronological about it, do each piece in sequence, tying the whole grand finale up in a neat bow.
Then I hit a wall on the one before and apropos with all these blood moons, needed the salvation of retribution, as opposed to merely feeling like a madman chipping at a mountain with a toothpick.
What a caper this art thing is, like inclement weather eh?
It's at such times that I realize the paintings exist entirely on another plain to their earlier sketched counterparts, and looking backward is often like retracing a forgotten trail obscured by brush or at least a sable.
I realize I'm talking riddles, but the conversations I have in my head seldom make sense.
I suppose artists are just cryptologist's of their past.
It's officially out, my-just over by five-fifteen minutes of fame debut on the small screen, tying up nicely the whole artistic / atavistic Man/son foray circa 2012.
Putting aside my little radar blip, what John Borowski's splendid documentary does is through an assemblage of contributors, present an articulate viewpoint of societies fascination with it's monsters, and their dilution into the cultural psyche.
I make an appearance just over an hour in for anyone interested, just before the mighty Joe Coleman-grand company indeed.
Check it out
WATCH SERIAL KILLER CULTURE NOW!
DVD: http://serialkillerculture.com/
STREAM: http://serialkillerculture.filmbinder.com/
AMAZON: http://tinyurl.com/lg3adhc
One more pass-I keep telling myself-and this one will be done. I down my brushes and toss palettes, then spend the rest of the evening pacing in and out of the studio to pick holes in it, fighting the urge to paint over it, or at least crack the bastard over my knee.
Who was it said a painting is never finished, merely abandoned?
Its a kind of neurosis, I'd moot Van Gogh maddening except I'd be so lucky to be ailed by the kind of madness that has one knocking out five paintings before breakfast.
In a nightmarish purgatory somewhere, I work the same painting for a lifetime, the canvas caked ten foot thick with layers.
Quite aptly it'll be titled 'Misery acquaints man with strange bedfellows' when its done.
This particular bedfellow gives me no rest.
