Robin Hood’s Stride.

 

My ill-fated adventure to see the Nine Ladies stone circle, could have dissuaded me from venturing back to Derbyshire in search of Robin Hood’s Stride, another bronze age monument. Happily, it did not.

Much easier to locate than the Nine Ladies, though no less a test of one’s fitness, I reached the tip of Robin Hood’s Stride with no mishap, and set about gathering resources with sketchbook and camera. It’s only afterwards that one looks back at the video and thinks “What if I’d fallen? Who would have found me?”

Video: Robin Hood Stride.

I am pleased with the pastel sketches I made. Perhaps there’s a style / technique here I could return to?


 All text, pros, photos, & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Elvis in Skegness & Cheese and Chalk.

 Elvis in Skegness.

They're selling postcards of Elvis
All across new Skegness,
Alongside Betty Boop trinkets
In a state of undress.
And where "Kiss Me Quick" hats
Were the sauciest fad,
Now hang day-glow beach towels
Reading "Fancy a shag?”

Cheap Cherokee Injuns
Cast in plaster and brass,
As if their tepees were pitched here
In long ages past,
Replace Fisherman mascots
And lifeboat appeals,
Southern fried chicken menus
But no jellied eels.

And did those blue suede feet,
In ancient times,
Walk upon England’s
East coastline?
And was the King
Of shake rock and roll,
Along our Skegness Pier
Seen out for a stroll?

I did not come for Jerusalem
Just the England I know,
Stick rock candy and chips,
Not USA Tupelo.
Saucy postcards, cramped caravans,
Plastic sandals, salt sea,
Tin bucket sand castles,
How things used to be.

Cheese and Chalk.

I sit in silence
Whilst you always talk,
Defining the difference
Between cheeses and chalk.

All text copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

 Updated versions of these poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

Tower Cinema, Skegness.

 

After collecting my painting of Skegness’ Tower Cinema, from Thoresby Gallery's absurd idea of a “Salon des Refusés”, I have made some changes. Originally it featured a second figure walking towards the front of the composition. It’s much better now with just that solitary girl.

The painting is about the passing of time, as symbolized by that sunset going down behind a building that has looked much the same through the decades.  I do think my reason to start visiting Skegness for annual day-trips, was something to do with looking for old England, a country I would recognize from childhood, or at least those years before full time employment took over my life.

 All text, pros, photos, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Thoresby Gallery.

 

Thoresby Gallery had the ridiculous idea of using the end section of their gallery as a Salon des Refusés. In mid-19th century France that term heralded a revolution in Art, here it's just an area where they've placed all the entries they've actually rejected. All of my submissions this year were rejected, one to be propped up on the carpet, one hung on the wall. If they are showing them to the public, then they are surely accepted. It makes no sense to me.

All artwork & text copyright ian g craig.

Love Poem for the Lone Ranger & The Betjeman Blues.

 Love Poem for the Lone Ranger.

Two small eyes from the blankets
With a much larger name,
Watch the flickering night candle
Of a Kelly Lamp flame.

Is your Daddy still working?
Do you look for his lights?
Does your Mommy sound restless
Downstairs in the night?

In a place known as somewhere
You can rest quite assured
There'll be safety in numbers
Chalked across a blackboard.

On a black and white TV
'neath the first satellite,
The Lonely Lone Ranger
Holds Tonto so tight.

 

The Betjeman Blues.

White shorts in the rock pool,
A seaside east town,
A bed-sit for two,
With furniture brown.
Crazy golf gripping fingers,
Crazy slot machine clown,
These Betjeman blues
Are bringing me down.

A sea salt sun memory,
Tanned legs against blue,
Of sand in the bath tub,
Of me inside you.
Crazy candy floss feeling,
Crazy joy ride fairground,
These Betjeman blues
Are bringing me down.

 All text copyright ian g craig 

These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

Patchings Gallery 2007.

 

 

I have the first of my planned oak tree paintings accepted by Patchings Gallery, and subsequently sold to an internet friend in Canada. So that's one piece shown last year at Thoresby, and one this year at Patchings. Promising!

All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Grandpa.

 Grandpa

 The boy craned over the top of the old sewing machine which always stood in front of the sitting room window, obstructing his view of the garden gate beyond, looking to see if the old man had yet arrived. It was Sunday. The old man always came on Sundays, in his Grey Morris Minor with chrome detailing, and orange indicators that flipped out from the sides like flags.

The boy would retain no memory of the old man actually inside the house, only outside, alighting from the car, pipe in hand, a distinctive yellow cravat about his neck. Neither would there be any memory of words the old man might have spoken, apart just the once:  

“Little boys should not make a noise when they’re eating”.

The boy had been sure he hadn’t made any such noise, but the pressure of being told not to do so made it hard to balance the pees on the fork. And there were other rules when visiting the old man’s house, like “little boys should not make a noise when old men are sleeping”. There could be consequences.

And yet the old man’s name would be invoked every Christmas Eve, his birthday, and be spoken of as a Saint. A onetime St John’s ambulance driver, the mender of miners’ bodies broken by machines.

Time passes.

The boy strained to see the old man tied at the waste into a hospital armchair; no chrome detailing; no orange indicators sticking out from the sides; no pipe, no yellow cravat. The old man wanted to go home to die, but the rope prevented him from either attempting the journey or simply falling out.

All text copyright ian g craig

The Clootie Tree and the Stone Circle.

 

 

I’d never heard of a clootie tree, and even if I had I wasn’t expecting to come across one in the lower levels of the Rock Cemetery in Nottingham.

Research tells me they are trees, usually situated by a Celtic well or stream, on which people make a wish as they tie wet strips of cloth (ribbons) to the branches. Such wishes are commonly associated with wanting someone healed.

The Nine Ladies stone circle, on Stanton Moor, Derbyshire, dates from the Bronze Age. A fellow blogger advised me to go look at it when I was pontificating over possible subjects to paint. My trek there was a strange one.

Firstly, the place is hard to locate, and locals I spoke to were uncertain as to its exact whereabouts. I drove up the hills as far as seemed possible, before leaving my car by the roadside and proceeding on foot through a field of cows and along the woodland paths. Amongst the trees I came across makeshift tents, old caravans, and even some tree-houses, but no people. Apparently, these were the habitats of those protesting against possible mining in the area. So, I was somewhat surprised when a beautiful “hippy” girl stepped out before me as in a vision. I asked her the way to the Nine Ladies and she silently pointed to a path leading further up the hill.

It was only during the final few steps up the summit that the Circle came into view. First impressions were disappointing. The stones are only about 24 inches (60 centimeters) high. But the legend is intriguing: Nine ladies were caught dancing around this spot on the Sabbath and turned to stone as a consequence of their sin. Indeed, one can see human shapes in several of the stones. I took my photographs and left.

I have an awful sense of direction at the best of times but, for whatever reason, I totally lost my bearings and exited the site along the exact opposite path I should have taken. After a while, with the sun going down, and knowing the car was left unprotected, I became quite flustered. After walking a good distance, I had to accept I was totally lost, and needed to try and retrace my footsteps to the Circle, and start again. This I did, as the evening sky grew ever darker.

Once back at the Circle I realized my mistake, and managed to descend the hill along the correct path, negotiating the field of cows, and reaching the sanctuary of my car. It was a rather unsettling experience. Quite strange. The resultant painting may be poor, but the day itself was a memorable adventure.


All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

Hockley, Nottingham.

 I am thinking some Nottingham based subjects might prove popular? This is Hockley, Nottingham. It's kind of the "arty" quarter of Nottingham, where "alternative" fashions favour a more Goth look, amidst wine bars and the nearby Art Foundation College. I am not too keen on the resulting painting though. I seriously need to work on my colours, since abandoning my more subdued palette of the 1990s.

 All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

The First Pearl & Poem to an Air Hostess.

 The First Pearl.

In a time of quick fix and quick fortune,
When all I could take came for less,
Pleasure came from the grace
Of dark strangers in lace,
And the hands of the girls at the press.

As a boy all my heroes rode horseback,
Broad white hats marked the good from the bad,
But now far less defined
Are these things in my mind,
Far less clear is the choice to be had.

Young dark creatures of night kept their faces from light
And took turns to unzip and pretend,
In the back seats of cars
With one eye on the stars,
They compared what they shared with their friends.

So, the word spread through distance and cables
As I slid through their hands and their sheets;
A cuckoo in disguise,
Every whim gratified,
So secure in the hand that it feeds.

Then one cautious crisp grass Sunday morning,
On a secret spilled sidewalk up town,
I stepped out with a lover
Quite unlike any other,
And embraced as defenses came down.

And from the first nervous reach of my fingers
To the last gasping sounds of sweet breath,
We surrendered in smiles
To a common life style,
Both imagined that this was 'till death.

She was not the first Ruby in my dance
And of course, she was not the first girl;
She was not the best placed
When romance turned to race,
But for me, she was the first Pearl.

Love Poem to a Hostess.

Forget me not,
Miss Crystal Blue C,
As you soar through the skyways
That released you from me.
Cure the sky of its blues,
Bathe your eyes in its hues,
And keep precious the one thing
You've taken from me.

Don't look back at the ground,
Miss Blue Jean in C,
At dull road sign directions
You're not destined to be.
Let your silver winged graces
Leave white trails and traces
To fade in the sunset
Now setting on me.

All text copyright ian gordon craig

 These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".