Although very disappointed to find that access to Thoresby Lake has now been fenced off, this has been the summer of the sketchbook, involving several visits to other favourite locations in which to laze, chat and sketch in the sun: Clumber Park, King John Palace, a Papplewick pub, and of course good old Skegness.
All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.
Skegness is So Bracing.
Once, every working class family
From Nottingham town UK,
Come summer, emerged from their factories,
Impatient to get far away,
And spend the pennies they'd been saving
To be beside the seaside for a day.
In clattering steam train carriages,
Industrial packages, all looking the same,
Third class tickets and yesterday's sandwiches,
Ciggie stains on the window frame,
Communal singing, all knowing the lyrics,
They shook, rattled and rolled their way.
Their agreed destination?
A holiday camp for the nation,
Billy Butlin’s first site,
Red coated persuasion.
“Skegness Is So Bracing!” said the slogan,
And it was So true.
Donkey ride magic,
Sticky candy floss chew,
Food cartons of plastic,
Caravans just for two.
In rock n roll bunk-beds
Radio Luxembourg phasing through.
All text copyright ian g craig
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
At the end of March, 2010, I took a few small snapshots of the Malt Cross Open Mic Night. Music being one of my main interests I thought a series of paintings of Nottingham musicians might prove successful. The acrylic painting above was completed this month.
I’m really happy with it. Yet, as with previous paintings of the Bell Inn jazz band, and the Jam Café reggae group, although the musicians seem as pleased as myself with the work, no-one ever asks if they’re available to buy. Similarly, the Malt Cross didn’t even reply to my request for details about hiring their gallery, whilst the LeftLion newspaper, keen at the outset to publish some of my work for free, I never heard from them again.
All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.
Above: Jam Cafe, Nottingham. Acrylics with collage mixed media.
Out on the town last night. Big wheel on the Market square, Nottingham Contemporary Gallery, and various pubs. Ended the evening in the Jam Cafe listening to a small white reggae combo. Today I stretched some paper ready to do some paintings based on the night.
I walked home afterwards. When I turned the corner into my street who should be there under the streetlamp but Rusty, my spirit friend the fox. She always turns up at significant times. Always a good omen.
Above: Stuck in 2nd, reggae band.
Below: The Jam Cafe sofa.
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Latte in the Contemporary Art gallery, before hot soup and bread rolls in the Dragon, then Jazz Night at the Bell Inn, where I wanted to give a photo copy of my Jazz Night painting to the band. (Above). It was received really well. Even the pub management wanted to pin it up. I granted them permission to use it, and provided an internet link where they can download a much better copy. Handshakes all round. A good time was had by all.
Above: An attempt to produce some "commercial" projects. A design that might go on mugs? T-shirts?
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Clumber Park, New Year’s Eve. Stood watching the final sunset of 2009 beside Cumber Park Bridge, with my "Kid Sister" and her two girls, having eaten lunch at Thoresby Courtyard.
The Dukeries has a way of putting everything in perspective and me back in focus.
All artwork & text copyright ian gordon craig
Putting on the Style
We were gathered for the occasion of my boss’s birthday and his retirement. His daughter’s guitar was placed in my lap, whilst his Brown Owl wife, keen to se everything formally organised, handed out the lyric sheets. “Is it in tune? We will do this song first, and then the snacks. Are you alright sat there? Are you ready to do it now?”
I was indeed ready, and went into my song, “Putting on the Style”. Or perhaps rather my brother’s song, he being the designated childhood owner of that particular 78 rpm shellac disc, stored in the white cupboard alluded to in a previous post. I had performed it once before for my boss. In 1984 he’d asked me to do an after-dinner show in Barnstone Village, so I put that particular song in my set because he himself had sung it in a show during the skiffle years of the 1950s.
The sing-a-long went well, after which everyone dutifully turned over their lyric sheets whilst some guy out of sight from me launched into “When I’m 64” and a little girl banged her tambourine with impressive skill. (I myself had fancied staying on for a fun verse or two of “Winter Wonderland”, but not to be). The piano player fared less well, on account of Brown Owl had transcribed the words wrong, attempting to re-write certain verses to fit the occasion. Then it was much furtive gathering of lyric sheets, exchanging each in turn for a paper plate, before relocating to the kitchen for snacks.
It was fun. And I can still hit the high notes, Putting on the Style.
All text, pros, & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Another August Evening.
It has been a perfect blue and blustery day, and looks set to continue being such into the evening. But no matter how perfect the weather outside, such days can also lend themselves all too readily to spells of cat nap dreaming within, and that, combined with Joyce’s “Dubliners”, has been the focus of much of my day.
I write my journal entry now, before retreating to the garden bench for a sunset of tea and jammy dodgers, the jammy dodgers having been bought from the corner shop just minutes ago, especially for this purpose. My short walk there took me past that rather dubious “Aryan” looking gent, seated as he sometimes is upon the low wall opposite, his white hair visible in the dark shade of the tree. He hates talking to anyone, so I couldn’t resist confronting him with a cheery “Hello”, and some banal comment about the “lovely day”, forcing a response from his grudging expression. I’m “old school” when it comes to cheery hellos and chat with strangers, not discouraged when some show visible signs of surprise if offered a courteous “Good morning” on the street, or a “take one for yourself mate” tip at the bar.
Patricia the Show Girl (I have no idea of her real name) is “old school”. She recognised me last night in The Bell Inn from the time before; the time she saw the light of my camera screen in the darkness above the heads of her audience, as she performed her solo enactment of Bill Sykes’ grisly death scene from “Oliver”.
So, it was nice having a little banter with Patricia the Show Girl. Maybe one day I’ll get close enough to find out her story, without wanting to pry or cause distress. There is something about her disposition which might suggest a once institutionalised person whose behaviour might never again fully align with the expectations of the outside world. Good for her.
Dave the Fish Guy is definitely “old school“. He doesn’t do what he does simply to sell fish from pub to pub. It’s more a performance for him, donning the white hat and coat overalls, strolling amongst us. It’s the fine details, like his bow tie, and kitchen foil silver-lined basket, with carefully self-printed label, which give him away. All combine to suggest one thing: “Show time”. Another clue as to why Dave the Fish Guy does what he does was his asking price when I asked him to pose for a photo. Any other market trader would have accepted a purchase in return, but not Dave the Fish Guy. His stated price was to be photographed alongside the lady friend I was with. We obliged, and at his request I posted that photograph to him today.
Nottingham is presently proving an exceptionally sociable place to be. Once again, I had to walk home, having got the bus time wrong but feeling safe along the way. I think I’m relating to the city in a way I’ve never done before, even though I once spent countless hours behind its nightclub doors. I like it that some of my sketches of the city’s venues come up on Google’s search page. There does seem to be an undercurrent of creative things happening here. Even David Hockney is on his way, or at least a retrospective of his work at the Contemporary Gallery.
My neighbour tells me summer officially ended yesterday. That’s not true. Summer cannot possibly end until the children are all back inside school. And even then, we can all make wishes for an Indian summer of sunny mid-September outings. Outside is still blue and blustery. I shall go and devour my jammy dodgers.
All text, pros, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Something about Elvis.
The big white cupboard with the 1950s style plastic handles, to the left of the tiled fireplace, is where we kept our records, along with the large wooden needlework box, an assortment of simple board games, the all but forgotten pages of a great grandfather’s sketchbook, and a sea captain’s black writing chest. Almost all of these records were of the large, shellac, 78rpm variety, lying dormant in those dark recesses for 53 weeks of the year, until my father’s Hogmanay celebrations came around, for which the entire nearby village of Perlethorpe would seem to cram into our front room. Not surprisingly then, the titles would favour endless Scottish reels by Jimmy Shand and his Band, alongside bland British versions of “popular music” epitomised by the likes of Malcolm Vaughn‘s “You Are My Special Angel”, with just a smattering of Tommy Steele and Jim Dale. I think the only American record present was Harry Belafonte’s “Mary's Boy Child”. Not for our family the vulgar excesses of Johnnie Ray.
As a small child I was more fascinated by the little silver fish which would scarper across the tiled hearth of the fireplace next to that cupboard, but by the age of nine the contents of what was inside became more intriguing. Two discs in particular caught my attention, being smaller than the rest. These were the new-fangled 45rpms which heralded the change from “popular” to “pop”.
I cannot imagine for the life of me how Elvis Presley made his way into our home. Of course, I thought I knew what “rock and roll” was. I thought it was anyone who wore flashy clothes and topped the bill on TV’s “Sunday Night at the London Palladium”. Surely Alma Cogan was rock and roll, and Liberace, and certainly Tommy Steele, judging by the full colour picture of him on my Big Sister’s wall, wearing a blue shirt with red guitar. I had no idea that Elvis pre-dated both Tommy and Jim Dale by at least three years. So, imagine how I felt when I first played those pieces of black vinyl with the triangular centres? It would have been akin to opening my “Lion Comic for Boys”, and having a topless picture of the lady from “Watch with Mother” drop to the carpet. Even more, it was like discovering something which had hitherto been kept secret, and which no-one else appeared to know about, like it had been planted in that cupboard for me, by hands unknown, the final piece in the jig saw picture of dawning teenage puberty.
I soon discovered that the ideal place for playing my new found treasures was the little used Dining Room at the rear of our property. It was here that the hollow space beneath the floor boards, aided by the penny I taped to the record player’s arm for extra bass, would enhance the sound of the track, sending it resonating out into the surrounding forest. I had no concept of what songs were current, or new. To me they were all records. Danny Kaye sat easily alongside Lonnie Donegan on my play list. All that mattered was the magic of the sound. And there was no sound more magical than Elvis.
The intro to “Dixieland Rock” is long, building up the tension, anticipating the moment when Elvis will start to sing. I would try and guess that moment, trying to come in at the same time as him: “Well down in New Orleans at the Golden Goose, I grabbed a green-eyed dolly that was on the loose”. What the heck? I had no idea what he was singing about, but long before I even saw a picture of him, I knew how he moved. However, the real slice of heaven came on the B-side to “It’s Now Or Never”, where Elvis’s superior post-Army vocal chords slide in unison with the honeyed left hand of Floyd Cramer pumping the ivories, as the doo-woppin’ Jordanaires urge them both on from the sidelines: “You say that you love me, and swear it to be true, well a’ think that’s fine if a you ain’t lyin’, just make me know what t’do”. That moment was like Gabriel had arrived with his horn. No digitally enhanced CD will ever match the sound of the first few seconds of “Make Me Know It” as it reverberated atop those hollow floor boards, courtesy of a portable mono record player, not forgetting the all-important penny taped to the arm. And nothing ever will.
It would be a year or so before we got to see what Elvis looked like, aside from a few out of date pictures in Big Sister’s comic, the editor of which surely favoured the safer home-grown sounds of Cliff Richard. We were on holiday in Ingoldmells, when “G.I. Blues” was playing at the nearby cinema. From that moment on Elvis Presley was a constant “presence” in our house.
As short years passed we all had our individual heroes. Big Sister would embark on an imaginary love affair with mop-top heart throb George Harrison. I would be caught trying to listen to a hidden copy of Sgt Peppers at grammar school. My Middle Sister would subsequently scream her lungs out over David Cassidy, to be superseded in turn by Kid Sister becoming the first (and only) punk in town. But we ALL came back to playing an Elvis record from time to time. It kind of united us when apart, and at family gatherings when wild renditions of “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” were the order of the day.
On August 16th, 1977, I was at “home” in my parents’ house, watching the TV. Mother came through on her way to the downstairs toilet. Whilst she was in there the news came: “We are getting unconfirmed reports from Memphis, Tennessee, that Elvis Presley has died”. I started thinking how I could best break that news to mother. Such are the silly details which define our lives. Kid Sister was also at home, and we spent the following hours of the night and well into the morning, listening to non-stop Elvis on Radio Luxemburg. It was hard to believe that someone who had in part orchestrated our lives for so long was now gone, and yet at the same time it seemed somehow “right”. Warning photographs of a “fat Elvis” had never appeared in the British press, who hadn’t really been near a recording studio for the last three years of his life. Also, 42 years seemed so old for a pop star back then!
Elvis was “The King”. He’s still regarded as such. The people gave him that title way back in the 1950s, without being prompted or paid to do so. John Lennon once said “Don’t worship dead heroes simply because they’re dead”. And I don’t. I “worship” Elvis partly because he was one of the greatest performers that ever lived, but mostly because of something which was ignited in me by the contents of that big white cupboard to the left of the tiled fireplace, a long time ago.
All text copyright ian g craig.
August Evening
I’m in the garden. Sunset to the left, not that I can see its orb depart behind the rooftops. Two pigeons coo in the trees to the right, sexually and lovingly fulfilled. Above me, airliners like small silver bullets leave white vapour trails across a sky bluer now than any witnessed in recent days. Occasionally there is a rumble across the heavens as they strain to gain altitude. Decades ago, I painted a portrait of an air hostess. This year she sent it back for lack of wall space. Or was that last year? I have no sense of time.
It’s been a good day. Emulsion paint has given way to spirit based undercoat, bare timber has turned white, and the kitchen has two new blinds. But last night was not a good night. I have a second recurring dream, worse really than the one about the open back door which I can never lock. Maybe if I write it down I’ll break its spell:
The dream finds me having to go back to work as a teacher. It seems someone made an error and I couldn’t leave after all. In the dream I have no control over the classes. No-one listens to me, and I’m forced to scream louder and louder and louder, but never gain their attention. I wake up alarmed and distressed. The dream bears no resemblance at all to the reality of my working life, where I always enjoyed positive relationships with my students. So maybe I don’t feel in control of my life right now, and the dream is a manifestation of that? Maybe. But enough about dreams.
A young couple with a baby have moved into the house opposite. It’s a nice sound. Every evening the man of the house seems to come home with something new for their garden: Wind chimes; a Buddha; ornamental animals. And he rides a multi-mirrored mod scooter. You have to like people who ride multi-mirrored mod scooters.
As for my own garden, I intend changing that around come September. The tree I bought with a previous girlfriend years ago, seems to be naturalized, extending now far beyond the 4 metres maximum height I was assured. It’s going to need trimming, but one has to “wait until the sap stops rising”. Unlike the way she left me without waiting for my sap to stop rising. I suppose rules are made to be broken.
The sun is almost gone. What now? Another mug of tea in my Workhouse souvenir mug? Or wine? One last hot tea I think. Time enough for wine later.
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
After recently making some music promo videos (see THIS LINK), Nottingham musicians would seem to be an interesting theme for a series of artworks. These sketchbook studies were made in the Jam Café.
All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig
All text, pros, poetry, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Jeremy.
The ever so slightly crossed brows and straight back posture of the girl on the check-out counter betrayed her growing impatience as she shifted from side to side in her seat, scrutinizing the black rubber squeaky pig toy in her left hand, looking for a bar-code. Then, as an increasingly impatient queue of shoppers looked on, she raised her head for what she had to do next, and what she had to do next, not for the first time that morning, was to summon her assistant. Her assistant was:
“Jeremy”.
Her tone an almost indelicate balance between frustration and professional etiquette. The queue turned their heads as one, to see Jeremy emerge from behind the shelves in the middle of the shop store. He shuffled quickly towards them. Walking with any combination of both speed and elegance was not an easy task for Jeremy and, if under stress, not an option at all.
“There’s no tag on this one Jeremy”. She held up the offending item.
“No tag…” Jeremy spoke only a little faster than he could walk.
“That’s right, Jeremy, no tag. And I need a tag don’t I? So I can scan the bar code for the price”.
“Bar code for the price…” Jeremy repeated everything, not that he was seeking confirmation of what he heard, but so he could remember it.
“So, can you go and get me another one please? There are two sizes. This one’s the small. I think they’re next to the stationary.”
“Stationary”.
“There are pink ones and black ones”, offered a child in the queue, below counter level, visible only from the neck up. “This one’s black”, he added, wanting to be helpful, but at the same time cruelly wondering if Jeremy’s breathe might resemble that which the black tag-less squeaky pig exhaled when the checkout girl plumped it down in front of his face. Much like Jeremy exhaled his words.
After a short while Jeremy shuffled back into view, looking pleased with the result of his mission. But it was immediately apparent to the queue that he had picked up the wrong sized pig; a large sized black one. If he had chosen a small pink one everything would be okay. The price tag would have been the same. But he hadn’t. Jeremy clearly matched the price of items to their colour. Not their size. Standing in the queue that day, I really liked that. I don’t think the checkout girl shared my opinion.
All text copyright ian g craig.
I’ve never either accepted commissions or chosen to do portraits of people I don’t know. For me, using a model is a process based on a level of collaboration rather than instruction. And the nice thing about collaborating with other creatives is it brings out different ideas, encouraging experimentation.
Above: “Under the Bridge” was both a joint venture and an experiment. Outsize masks were made in advance of taking photographs at Lady Bay Bridge, Nottingham, and also on a small pier beside Thoresby Lake. The painting is about how most of us can have two sides to our character.
Above: This large oil pastel drawing was originally intended as a study for a painting, but I thought I’d never capture again the spontaneity of the drawing. The collaboration involved a story-board communication. I suggested poses via sketches, she provided images to work from. The result is one of my personal favourites.
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
A letterbox full of returned A4 prints usually means rejection. However, this year there was one print missing, "retained by the gallery for internet use". Which means my painting of Colston Basset church has been accepted for the Patchings Art Centre 2009 Exhibition.
Of course, one is then left pondering “Why that one, and not one of the others?” But I can see why: The painting looks like the moment in which it was created. Spontaneous; scant regard for fussy detail in preference for bold brush strokes, colour, contrasting tones, and a striking composition. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that, if any were to be accepted, this one would be it. It’s almost “commercial”.
All text & artworks copyright ian g craig.
I have no idea what time it is. I didn’t know whether I was meant to put the clocks forward or back, and that was a couple of days ago. But I do want to keep some track of Time here.
March has seemed rather quiet, especially for a month renowned for its characteristic winds of change, like the one’s which tore down my fences last year. But I have been active creatively. In fact, almost non-stop.
March evenings have found me in my studio, firmly attached to my glue gun (often quite literally), constructing sets for the next round of promo videos I make for a musician friend. It’s a refreshing challenge, responding to someone else’s creation. I can construct the sets quickly, like “action painting”, then modify them whilst checking the composition, getting everything ready before the performer enters the shot.
See finished video on THIS LINK.
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Top to bottom: Nottingham City Centre, Nottingham Castle Bandstand, Colston Bassett Church, Carrington pub, Clumber Park.
All artwork copyright ian gordon craig
EDIT: I returned to this subject, and this view, in January 2017. See THIS LINK.
All text, pros, & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
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.
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.
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.
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
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 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.
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
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.
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".
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 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.
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".
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
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
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.
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.
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".
"Sunflower Seeds". My first painting to be exhibited since leaving full time employment, though I'm happy to say there were many in the past.
This meant a lot to me. Thoresby Gallery is a short walk away from Perlethorpe Primary School in which, as a child, my first paintings were once pinned on a wall.
All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
A Figure on the Beach.
The sun is low, the summer season passed.
Pale knee reflections in multiple rock pools,
Are caught and left stranded by the retreating sea.
Headscarves, hitched-up hem lines, and much stooping,
Peering into puddles, whilst lover's cuddles
Cast lengthening shadows across seagull screech beaches,
Their toes pressed in cold sand.
Everything feels distant on an out of season shoreline.
White-grey light shimmers from the ripples,
The coastal breeze sketches the edges
Of her autumnal silhouette against the skyline.
Colours fade as the amusement arcade falls silent
Behind padlocked shutters, to return next summer,
Like a much-favoured toy from its box.
Circus posters in the streets are fading.
Local residents are now reclaiming their town
From departing holiday makers, dodgem car shakers,
As she leaves the sea's breakers for the comfort of a cafe.
And then, tea for one, maybe a warm scone
“With a small jar of jam on the side?”
“I shouldn't really, oh go on then”.
She sits alone, looking beyond the window glass,
Her mind focused on something past,
Another season, long ago.
On an out of season seaside beach,
A solitary figure and a silly dog.
The kind of dog that seems to belong to everybody,
Just for one day.
The Gift.
Tick tock from the mantelpiece
Measuring time,
A gift from the council
At the end of the line.
Forty years loyal service,
Giving his best,
A gift from the council
Now measures what's left.
Chimes through the household
Punctuate every hour,
A gift from the council,
Mini mantle clock tower.
The day passes slowly
To its soap opera end,
A gift from the council,
A clockwork cold friend.
All text copyright ian gordon craig
These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".