summer sketchbook 2008

Top to bottom: Nottingham City Centre, Nottingham Castle Bandstand, Colston Bassett Church, Carrington pub, Clumber Park.

All artwork copyright ian gordon craig

Perlethorpe Church

 

I made a drawing of Perlethorpe Church in a very small sketchbook, whilst sat amongst the Duke's graves. Then in my studio I made an acylic painting from the sketch, on stretched brown wrapping paper. My intention was to make an expressive piece, avoiding all photographic references.

EDIT: I returned to this subject, and this view, in January 2017. See THIS LINK.

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

Jazzed.

 After a day walking in Thoresby Park and a night of live jazz at the Bell Inn, Nottingham.

Jazzed (a.k.a. I’m not even pissed).

Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Panini cheese dribble-rush
On relish toast rye.
Not I, café fly,
With my fake plastic eye,
I’m not even pissed.

Too high to climb,
Too low to fall,
Pussy willow forest
Catkins on the floor.
Thoresby lakeside antics,
Budby Tea shop antiques,
I’m not even pissed.

I stopped the drummer on the staircase, to express my admiration. He looked familiar, like someone I’d performed with. Probably not. I also wanted to express my appreciation to the singer, standing at the urinal  in gent’s toilet solemnity, but decided it wasn’t the right moment. Later he expressed his own
On mic appreciation
Of my collection glass donation
To his jazz band cornet cause.

And earlier to the barmaid: “Was that you singing and playing piano last Wednesday?” She acknowledged it was, unsure of my intentions. I told her how I’d enjoyed her set, and that I felt she deserved greater respect than she had been shown. And I’m not even pissed.

I’m not here to lie.
I’m here to climb trees,
I’m here to whoop with delight,
I’m here to watch blue-haired torn tights
Drunken nights college girls
Groove to the moves
She didn’t know she knew,
After her misspent childhood of Britney.

But she’s finding it now.
Her body sways,
Oblivious to the room around,
Brass jazz sound surround,
She sways in time,
Discovery sublime,
And her coin in the glass
Lands on mine.

Remember what that was like when you wake tomorrow. Don’t forget.

Sand in the sandwiches,
Wasps in the tea,
Words on the painting
Bo Diddle Eee.
Blues in the garden,
Mandolin Street,
Reds in the relish,
Beat root sweet.

There are no zombies on this bus.

copyright ian g craig

 An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

Last Night. (A homage to Adrien Henri).

 Last Night.

 

 Last night

Ten thousand silent movie fans rose from their graves,
To chase the blackened corpse of Al Jolson from their hallowed ground.

Last night

Mini-tubes of Cerulean Blue paint substituted for Smarties in primary school playgrounds across the County,
Whilst correction facilities corrected homeless people's homework,
And rehab centres shared Cleopatra's needle with my youngest nieces.

Last night

Microsoft bought curtains for Windows 7 from a sweatshop on eBay,
As Coalition Forces napalmed grey haired donkeys on Skegness beaches,
All in the interest of National Security.

Last night

Wall Street crashed into a number 47 bus on Parliament Street,
Causing Stock Market Square to drop by 40%,
Whilst my pile of rejected paintings reached critical mass.

Last night

A young woman with perfect breasts
Decided to fasten an extra button on her shirt and buy her own fish and chips after all,
Obscuring my vision of lost summer memories,
Taking a moment to cry.

Last night

The couple at the next table held long conversations with their dog. In English.

Last night

An unused ticket for the Sydney Opera House fell from my second hand paperback.

Last night

The bonneted barmaid ate the supper which management provided,
Whilst Phil Spector's Wall of Sound remained silent,
And another legendary pop star actually died.


All text copyright ian g craig.

 An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".

Muse and me.

 Muse and me.

My muse has always been of a type rather than a specific. To see one’s muse with clarity would be to chase it away. I know. I’ve lost a few. I do however know her voice, holding conversations in my mind, exploring ideas, subtly encouraging me to “just do it”. Sometimes too subtle. But, if she simply told me what to do, I’d stubbornly fuck it up like a child when told to tidy his room.

“You’ve stubbornly fucked up a lot of things”.

Ignore her. That’s simply not true. It’s just the kind of stuff she’ll come out with to get me started. I don’t want to argue with her right now. Good things can come of arguments, but they can also be so tiring when carried out in the arena of one’s own mind.

She wandered in this afternoon, sometime after the point when I discovered I’d once again bought the wrong tub of “wall filler”, one not suited to the current house renovations. I can’t seem to get on with the job. I think maybe it’s the disruptions to the house that have both unsettled me and stirred the ghosts.

“Tell about the ghosts”.

Well, it’s nothing much, but as I transform each room, I can’t help but recall what they looked like in previous times, and the things which happened herein. There are a lot of memories attached to each corner.

Her silence becomes tangible. Maybe that’s why I question the worth of my ideas more these days. This month in particular I've been far less confident. Ignore her. I shall write what I set out to write.

“That’ll be a first”.

Harsh. I always write what I set out to write. It’s just that I don’t always keep it. That’s my dilemma: Desiring to shout out loud, but impeded by an equally strong urge to hide beneath the duvet. Anyway, this post was originally intended simply to be a summary of July. But what to say?

July was
Too much wine, too much rain.
Detached, distant and deleted.
Or did I already say that about June?
Deleted.

“Deleted?”

Almost deleted. July is always disappointing after the promises of June. It never lives up to the advance hype bestowed upon it by the fanciful machinations of my mind. Apart from a few notably enjoyable distractions, the calendar above me reads like a series of appointments to be kept rather than a life to be lived.

“Like going to the dentist?”

Exactly. And that’s on the 15th to be precise.

“Admit it, you’ve missed me”.

Well, it’s been a while. My fault entirely. Stay.

“How can I not? I am always here”.


All text copyright ian gordon craig.

Newstead Abbey Fountains

 I returned to Newstead Abbey, where I came two years ago to make studies for a painting. (THIS LINK). This time I didn’t choose the building as my subject, but rather one of the fountains instead. I think the result is much better. I really like painting with acrylics on stretched brown wrapping paper, but then worry that, if it sells, it might be rather too frail to last through the years in someone else's possession.

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

Then Call the Fire Brigade.

 Then Call the Fire Brigade.

-The photo albums; the paintings; the recordings of me. Then call the Fire Brigade.

Before the Sunday morning mirror: White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile. Up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. Checks out the curve of the spine, just so. Hands smooth the stomach flat. A flick of the finger positions the elastic into just the right place, just so. Once more up on the toes. Sunday morning mirror ritual, just so. She sees I’m awake and watching.

“Did I wake you?”

- Toasty soldiers and tomato soup mugs in bed.
- Fried beans in Rainworth.
- Bridlington fish and chips.
- Goose Fair Doughnuts.
- Liverpool Sushi.

“Did I wake you? What are you writing?”

She makes no request to read it. Kindred spirits indeed.

- Spirits: Vodka, spiked and not stirred. Beyond the whirling pit and into the realm of vertical jumping picture interference. Any level beyond that is simply marked “unknown” on the map.

- Beer: Newcastle Brown. Whirling pit only, but with a shaft of light from the door onto upright posture in bed, with drooling jaw over yellow plastic bucket trimmings. Attractive.

Last night, like every night, in those moments when cautious reservations float down the safe duvet valley between reality and sleep, she had made plans: Take a chance; step forward; seize the moment.
This morning, like every morning, those plans disappear with the shower gel down the drain. She dresses for the day, as a shroud of tiny hesitations slip back into place. Life for her continues to be filtered like sunlight through net curtains, somehow once removed.

-The emerald green diary; the aspidistra she gave me; then call the Fire Brigade.

“If you go on staring at those nets, you’ll wear a hole in them.”

Rowdy and Clint reached the bridge. Clint said “Have you still got that chocolate egg in your pocket?” Rowdy turned pale. Only two minutes from the shop and already he’d forgotten about the egg. He’d only taken it for a joke. The old lady was always so slow coming to the counter, he’d snatched it from the display and into his pocket to make Clint laugh. He had no intention of stealing. He’d never stolen anything in his short life. He anxiously gripped at his pocket, wishing the egg shaped bulge would somehow just not be there. But it was.
Trying to explain to Clint the innocence of his intentions, he threw the cream egg as far as he could down river. Quite an impressive throw for a young cowboy not known for any particular sporting skill beyond maypole dancing. Then, hoping all feelings of guilt would travel as quickly as the egg downstream, they mounted their imaginary ponies and galloped away.

Before nightfall Clint snitched on his partner. Rowdy was sent to bed without being allowed to watch “Rawhide”. He would have preferred a smack and got it all over with.

“What is it you’re writing?”

-The sketchbooks; my kid sister’s hand print; the signed Everly Brothers CDs. Then call the Fire Brigade.

If there was one person I strived most to catch as she dropped towards the rye it was Ruby. But she always faltered at the last minute, stepping back from the edge. Did she lack the courage to take the plunge? Or did she lose confidence in my ability to catch her? I would have made the catch. I really would. Anyway, I wrote a song about her.

“Tell about that initiation thing that happened at the newspapers.”

-It wasn’t the newspapers. It was the place which printed the
newspapers.

“Okay, tell about that.”

-I never tell that.

“You told one person.”

-Yes, and she told about fifty!

“Not that many. I doubt she had fifty friends to tell. Anyway, I wouldn’t let it bother you. It probably marked you down as a hero.”

-It doesn’t bother me. It’s different for guys.

“Weren’t you embarrassed?”

-I just went along with it for a laugh. A good sport; one of the crowd and all that.

“Do you reckon it still goes on?”

-No. The printers closed down, and nobody uses those little letters for printing anymore.

- I had a John Bull printing press like that once. Perhaps I should include that with the black plastic hairbrush; the stone bird table. Then call the Fire Brigade.

Sunday morning comes around, its mirror in the same place. White cotton, top and bottom. She turns for a side profile, checking the curve of her spine. Hands smooth the stomach flat, just so. Once more up on the toes, enhancing the calves, just so. A flick of elastic into just the right place. Sunday morning mirror ritual. Sunlight filters through the net curtains. Like life, somehow once removed. She sees I’m awake, watching.

“Did I wake you?”

-Sundays are different from other days of the week, but not special enough for my list.

“What are you writing?”

- Call the Fire Brigade.



All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.

Words.

 Words

White.
No, blue.
Then white (with a sun roof).
Then blue.
A darker blue.
Then black.

Ketchup, not Brown Sauce. (Except on bacon).
Chinese not Pizza.
Fried not boiled.
Beer not wine.
Oils not chalks.
Pubs not clubs.

“It’s all over the carpet now. Your bed is like an island.”

- I know.

“If you get off the bed it will stop.”

- I don’t want it to stop. Not just yet.

Shared silence not inane chatter.

Was it something I said?
Did you draw that?
How long did it take?
What is the name of the tune that goes
Do you know the way to San Jose?
That is the answer.
What was the question?
Was that someone at the door?

“You could change the rules. Make it that it stops only if you go out the door, but not if you just get off the bed.”

- No. The game monster will know.

Angela Bishop’s socks, worn thin at the sides from the constant tugging of her thumbs.
Red fuchsias in a green box.
A tin RSPCA badge.
A caravan in Mablethorpe.
Sleeping on the very edge of the bed pretending it was a branch.

“Do you remember that night in Liverpool when you took that decongestant for a cold? You said you could hallucinate at will, and control the entire content of your dreams. And you had a medical examination the next day to qualify for the profession.”

- Yes. It’s a bit like that. I doubt that stuff is still legal. Are you going by a chemist today?

I’ll see you in my dreams.

There’s someone at the door.
There’s no need for all that.
There’s nothing anyone can do.
Didn’t you used to be?
At the third stroke it will be.

People only accuse you of trying to be clever when you’ve completely out smarted them.

T.V. Comic.
Then Lion.
Then Billy Fury Monthly.
Then the N.M.E.

One in 3,700 Kit Kat bars have no wafer. Make a wish if you find one to find another one. Then wish again.

The first picture I got on a wall was of Africa. It was just a tree surrounded by grass, but the teacher said it looked the most like Africa because there was no jungle. I suppose the Tarzan books must have lied to me. I lied about Lion Comic earlier on. Both Biggles and Tarzan came before that. 

My first oil painting was of a sunrise. I’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to go to the toilet, saw the sunrise, made a quick sketch of it, got up later and painted it using the box of oils I’d got for Christmas.

I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It plays on my mind.
It gets on my nerves.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.

- What will the first comment be on my blog?

“I don’t know. What does it say in the first few lines?”

- Just a list of colours.

“Then the first comment will be about someone’s favourite colour.”

- I could put that bit nearer the end, only there’s no end in sight.

“I hope you’re going to pick all that up after you.”



All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.

Ms Desperately Seeking and Mr Upwardly Mobile.

 Ms Desperately Seeking and Mr Upwardly Mobile.

Ms Desperately Seeking contacted Mr Upwardly Mobile via telephone. She, a teacher of the English language in the empty space where the midlands mining community once stood; He, still reeling from a head on collision with a hermetically sealed family of four and their cunningly booby-trapped daughter of a lunchbox.

Ms Desperately Seeking Someone made the first call, that’s how these things work. Mr Upwardly Mobile Sought-After, decided on the place. “But how shall I know you?” “Oh, in these situations, people always spot each other”. And so, the date was made; a try anything once, smart but casual distraction to help ease the pain of solitary living. And why not?

But what to wear? Ms Desperately Seeking decided on her off-white, trouser-legged, one-piece, zip-up jump suit, designed for maximum coverage and protection in sensual combat, whilst concealing the self-conscious economy sized legs that matched the paintwork of her economy sized teacher-mobile, the latter for which she had saved the original box knowing it would be worth more to collectors one day.

Mr Upwardly Hopeful, but horizontally inclined, elected for white shirt freshness with a pair of snug but subtle fit black cords; a naughty but nice mixed message of opposing tones. Blame it on the Boogie. “Do you come here often?” He was about to find out.

Whatever happened to conversation? Whatever happened to butterfly hands in hands on the first walk home? Whatever happened to under street lamp embraces? First time tastes of a stranger’s lips? And more to the point, whatever happened to the coffee he had made her?

Ms Desperately Seeking Action suddenly swept up and set aside their two cups and plate of custard creams with gingers, as if the FBI were about to raid a Casino and all evidence of gambling had to be concealed. Stooping to place said culinary delights on the not-a-drop-was-spilt carpet, she took a deep breath and began to consolidate her position against his lower regions, rapidly breaching the black cord zipper wall of defence about his thighs.

Mr Upwardly Mobile, now more upward than was even usual, froze like a rabbit in her head lights; a water buffalo staggering under the inevitable conclusion of the lioness fangs. Looking down from this position, he saw no point in even attempting a reciprocal advance against her trouser-legged one-piece. He had thought another custard cream might have been nice, and suspected a crumb still lingered on his lip, but concluded it was probably uncool to wipe it off right at this moment. Just sit back and think of Scotland. Take it like a Clan.

Ms Desperately Gasping for Air soon emerged from his lower regions, pleased and smiling from her inspection of the goods before making a purchase. Grading things as teachers are won’t to do, she awarded it a 10. Then, deftly pinning her prey with one arm whilst reaching for the gingers with the other, she extended him the plate:

“I’ve been wanting to do that all evening. Would you like another biscuit? Take your mind off it for a few minutes?”


All text copyright ian gordon craig.

47

 

I’ve always wanted to pursue Abstract Art. To this end I decided on an experiment: Make 47 images, one per day, all composed within the same grid. The above shows 12 of the 47 results. 

All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig