texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows
August 27, 2012
art gallery – shop – discreet – space – light – colour. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby. The lift in the Towner Gallery – try it out – is a good experience. When you exit on the 2nd floor, this is the view to the west. A sky that resonates with me. Resonates as has a feeling of some skies painted by Harold Mockford.
What to say about this exhibition? Excellently hung and fulsome. What to say about the work? Words are just meaningless and images from the web are also unsatisfactory so my thought was to include poems by Pam Hughes ‘reflecting the friendship and mutual inspiration that they have taken from the Sussex landscape’ (Shadows on the Downs). Harold paints from memory and, I believe, that’s the spark. By inviting the viewer to be involved as a bystander in the composition it’s possible to engage with his imagination. He’s good at green too which is rare.
A few images to follow that were not in the exhibition. Below ‘Refugees’ . . .
Cast a way, a drift, a shadow,
die and death, a part, a light.
An eye, a vote, a shoe upon
the path I fled in mud strewn fright.
Lullaby the watchful spirits,
etch your name inside my heart.
Scramble through the goats’ hooved
spiked tussocks. Melt the past
with tears through karst.
Summer draws all memories from me
as my thoughts stretch into words.
Unravelled by a gentle touch,
a word, a smell, I make a map
from buried fragments. Plunge
into flaming collage, searching
words and tastes and sound.
Anything that will remember
you and me for ever bound Pam Hughes Song of a Refugee (for Anne Michaels)
Fallen Angel above and Asleep on the Downs below. Note the sky. The only reason that I regret not being in the UK now is not being able to revisit and revisit. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby: texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows.
When I walk up on the downs
I think of things you nearly said.
Skylarks broke through the cloudless skies,
bristly oxtongue snared my boots.
I’m sorry that I went away.
In the grass which we had flattened
purple clover kissed wild thyme.
I looked at you. You had not spoken
chalk and wind and sea-blown worlds.
Untroubled plantain gazed at us,
salad burnet, hurt, eyebright.
We could make it work this time.
Only mouse-ears heard the things,
high on the downs, you nearly said. Pam Hughes Whispers