Sketches, syringes, and a sunrise.

 High winds at the start of the year made it necessary to have my beautiful conifer cut down. I remember planting it in 1985 with a then girlfriend of mine. Sad to have had to lose it.

The tendons in my shoulder are still giving me trouble. The cortisone jabs did nothing to improve things, and I think I’m on my third physiotherapist. Nevertheless, if I’m careful with my posture I’m still able to make art.

 

 

I have actually finished my painting of  Sherwood Forest Sunrise. I abandoned it for months and painted over the entire tree section in black, thinking I might return to it one day and use a light-over-dark technique. The only thing that stopped me putting it in the bin was a small area of sky on the left which I always liked. 

 

Above: Whilst waiting for my date in The Lincolnshire Poacher, Nottingham, the above cat sat perched on a bar stool beside me. I'm not too fond of cats, but as I had my sketchbook with me, I ventured a quick sketch. I call it Pub Cat.

 All artwork & text copyright Ian G Craig.

Skeggie Day.

 Skeggie Day.

A railcard ticket
To Lincolnshire’s coastline,
“Which way are we facing?”
We’re going back in time,
For a day beside the seaside
The rain did not stop play,
On Skeggie day.

Snakes and ladder fingers
On the backseat of the train,
Slipping her the whiskey,
She slipped it back again.
In a place of cloudless fancy
Only kite strings blocked the way,
On Skeggie day.

Under the Boardwalk, Up on the Roof,
“Above the age for drinking?”
The landlord asked for proof.
Photographing footprints
All along the beach,
So close to the salty edge,
But always out of reach.
Walking away,
On Skeggie day.

The ice-cream van stood frozen,
 The bandstand had no band,
Just Betty Boop mementos
For a Jolly Fisherman.
He thinks he’s on a promise,
A saucy postcard date,
But Betty left too early,
And the Clock Tower’s always late.
Time ticks away,
On Skeggie day.

A penny for the arcade
Soon comes to push and shove,
As four and twenty seagulls
Refrained from making love,
Swoop down on deep fried chickens,
Their favourite fast-food prey.
Cheap Take-Away,
On Skeggie day.

The tin skinned street art lady,
Trapped in her pantomime,
Waves secret hand-sign signals,
That passion is no crime.
She pays for rusting tea breaks
With small change from her jar.
Her day job is a statue,
By night she works the bar.
She has no time to play
On my Skeggie day.

The cinema on the High Street
Is showing “G.I. Blues”,
They haven’t changed the programme there
Since nineteen sixty-two.
A balding breathless doorman
In braided uniform,
Has a look of recognition,
Thinks he’s seen me there before.
He checks the tickets at the kiosk,
Checks himself out in the glass,
Checks the sidewalk for a certain girl
Who’s way above his class.
Perhaps a lack of judgement?
It’s not for me to say.
I leave him to his fate
On Skeggie day.

Returning to the station,
The train is running late,
The driver’s in his swimwear,
Been on a heavy date.
I take my seat inside the carriage,
Take a moment to reflect,
Take a photo for a memory
Not finished with me yet.
In the pages of my sketchbook
The pencils from my trips
All draw upon the good times,
Plus all the empty bits.
I’ve said too much already,
There’s nothing left to say
About Skeggie day.

Now plastic Disney figures
In fairgrounds long shut down,
All chat about the summer
When I still came around.
There’s no-one left to heed now
Their wind metallic voice,
They stand there for no reason,
They do it out of choice.
Before a wintry snowman
Took them all away,
On Skeggie Day.


All text copyright ian g craig. See also THIS PAINTING.

Note: "Skeggie" is a common nickname for Skegness.

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

Later.

 Later.

Bright sunlight streaming into my South facing window.
That moment when the day is optimistic about its possibilities.
Lines of small square lawns and patient green wheelie bins
Conceal the suburban morse code message transmitted by
The continuous beeping sound of a truck reversing.

Later
Overcast, hot tempers flare.
Everyone is being told to get the fuck out
Of everyone else's fucking face. A door slams.
Flying ant day in the city, white powders at the ready,
Locked and fucking loaded.

Later
A squirrel skips down the street
Pretending the tarmac is still too hot.
The relief of a cool breeze is tempered by
The knowledge it won't ever be quite as sunny again
For another year.

All text copyright ian g craig.

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

 

Now.

 Now.


“I'm ho-ome!"
My house welcomes me with the echo of my own voice.
I keep the carpet cluttered and the mind tidy.
The sun shines on the red bench
Where I peal back the wrapper from my Cornetto.
The sound of a steel chain saw,
Ripping through raw green branches in the heat.
A drainpipe Robin sits impatiently for me to go
So he can return to his worm.

Now
The faintest trace of bar-b-q aroma,
Whilst silent dark clouds come in from the South,
And the second hand on my clock ticks louder.
My neighbour chases pigeons from the berries on his bush.
They retreat and coo from a safe distance.
Whilst waiting for one thing to be resolved,
My mind makes decisions about 100 others,
Then changes them all.

Now
The day's vapour trails turn to street lights.
I turn to the music of a long time since.
Muggy night on the edge of the city.
No-one gets too excited about going into town.
A bedroom light in an opposite window.
Wet roads amplify the sound of traffic,
Making night sound like rush hour.
But the pace is slow.

Now
A rain shower on my open window
Turns the CD in my headphones to charity shop vinyl.
The garage door opposite is open again.
I think someone uses it to sleep in.
They might at least close the door behind them.
A girl in blue steps onto her balcony for a cigarette,
Perhaps needing permission to smoke in her own flat.
We exchange curious glances.


All text copyright ian g craig.

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

Summer’s over.

 Summer’s over.

On the pavement, scurrying by,
Cell phone myopia
Impedes the passage of those with a purpose.

Drowsy students clutch cans of Red Bull
Whilst the early bird catches the parking space,
And the showers pass.

A Blackbird points his beak skyward,
First East and then West,
Then ruffles his feathers knowingly.

A young mother takes her hands from the pushchair.
Her dishwasher nails reveal the dubious fortunes
Of a lottery scratch card.

A lone footballing teen on the street
Tests his testosterone levels
Against a neighbour’s garage door.

A man with miss-matched eyes,
Smoking jazz cigarettes,
Takes up permanent residence in the local bus stop.

With no fig rolls on the shelves,
And no mini pizzas in the freezer,
What's so cooperative about the Co-op?

This summer's happy days already seem
Like shiny display case memories, when
A train whistle blowing, made a happy noise.

 

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

All text and picture copyright ian g craig

The Dragon Inn, Nottingham.

 

The Dragon Inn, Nottingham, has been another favourite “pub” in recent times, and provided a good backdrop for my music animation of “Here Comes the Night” last year.

I made these two sketches there of customers at the bar. The interior is quite dark, and so these pieces were started on location and finished back at home.

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

Animation.

 They say a change is as good as a rest. Seeing as I don’t do “rest”, I opted for change.

Towards the end of September, I decided to attempt some animation. I don’t have an animation program on my computer, so I drew all the frames by hand, scanned them into Photoshop to add colour and then dropped all the frames into a very basic Windows Movie Maker.

Lulu “Here Comes the Night”.

 At the start of October my animation for Lulu’s “Here Comes the Night” was ready to upload to Youtube. Why I chose that song I don’t really know. The title was probably suggested by the oncoming dark nights of the UK’s winter months.

You can see the finished video on THIS LINK

 Goose Fair, Nottingham.

 Goose fair is a big event in Nottingham each October. I gathered all my resources with a small camera, recording sound files as I went along. My process is basic, but I like basic.
You can see the finished video on THIS LINK.

 Woodpigeon Translation.

 Drawing so many animation frames provided the distraction of activity I always seem to crave. Motivation is high. I go to bed at a reasonable time thinking about tomorrow's work, and get up looking forward to a day in my sunny South facing studio, listening to music as I draw. November produced my best animation to date, a promo video for the same musician I’d worked with in the recent past. Our mutual admiration for John Lennon meant he made a thinly disguised appearance, whilst a sequence from a Fred and Ginger movie informed the dance movements.

Outside my studio the snow (and temperatures) reached record levels as November became December. Bad news for heating bills.

You can see the finished video on THIS LINK.

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

Life is just a slice of pizza.

 Life is just a slice of pizza.

Life is divided into slices, like pizza, and one can never predict when the next cut will fall. Life’s more unpalatable slices only seem to last longer because they are harder to swallow. But that last 5 years slice of my Life passed quickly, because it was everything I needed it to be.

From Skegness beaches to
Matlock’s highest reaches.
Transatlantic bloggers.
Feeding midnight foxes.
Glue gun theatrical sets,
Video shoots by a water’s edge.
Tune a day music,
By the light of full moons.

Three pinta sessions, Jazz in the Bell,
Hockney in town, (he didn’t like it too well).
My work in a gallery on the A614,
Had to ask for the key, never been there before.
Edinburgh sketches (when I’m lucky to view),
Serve to remind I can still learn from you.
Oaks in a clearing,
Lidl isle of dreams skipping.

Singers’ nights and after-hours bars,
Jelly baby dashboard, country bound car.
Handstands in the park,
Walking home after dark.
Twig making sculptures,
Dragon soup lunches.
Market Square helter-skelter
Forfeit snakes and ladders.


All text copyright ian g craig.

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

Summer stress & higher spirits.

Spent the end of July and the first weeks in August, wiping off as much paint as I applied. Much retreating to the duvet ensued.

 Rusty Pearl came by again, a city fox I call my animal spirit guide. She stood on the patio and pointed to the empty space where I used to put out raw chicken for her, but what I think she was really doing was pointing out the empty space in me compared to how I was when first we met. She always communicates so clearly. Seriously.

The last week of August found me playing guitar and singing in an after-hours jam session. A very casual affair, but it felt good after so many years. Never thought I'd be doing that again.

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

summer snapshots 2010

 One to remember.

All images and text copyright ian g craig

Sketchbook Summer.

 

 

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.

 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".

Malt Cross Open Mic.

 

 

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.

Winter changes into Spring.

 

February was too cold to remember what I used to do in February. But I'm sure it didn't involve keeping warm in one room, as the snow piled up outside. It only encouraged me to get up late, put a fire on, and be too easily distracted by menial tasks. Before too long it was time for bed. I hate dark nights.

March began by being bitterly sunny. Last year’s geranium on my bathroom window stretched its neck to impossible heights, trying to reach sunlight, and needing to get new roots into New Year soil. No chance of that yet. I re-assure my hot water bottle it won’t be long before it can return to its summer hibernation spot under the kitchen sink, but every evening further rubber particles from its decaying insides spill out onto the white porcelain basin. I think it’s terminal.

Above: Spring Daffodils. Acrylic painting on brown wrapping paper.

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

Jam Café, Nottingham.

 

 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.

Into the New Year.

 

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 sunset.

 

 

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.

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.

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.

 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.

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.

Live Music studies.

 

 

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

Last Thoughts on June.

Last Thoughts on June.

June’s playground children came busting out all over,
Scattering fast food footprints on stately home clover.
June looked her finest when viewed from a distance,
It was not of her doing, just perspective’s insistence.
The pencil never lies, in June.

June tried her best to get here much sooner,
One foot in the past, no thought of the future.
June only wishes she could linger much longer,
But absence she knows makes all feeling much stronger.
Always far away, in June.

June saw me filming musicians in the park,
Editing videos long after dark.
June put me back on a gallery wall,
The last place to look for me, away from it all,
Painting ruins, in June.

June put out the empties in fortnightly rotation,
Brown plastic blooms for a recycled generation.
June was sometimes unsteady on my feet,
Discussions cut short, me accepting defeat.
It was always brown bin day in June.

June held conversations like gaps in a song,
When football chant tempos get the rhythm all wrong.
June left my words hung in spaces unheard,
Like Scrabble board spellings, the meanings absurd.
There were no squares for my letters, in June.

June paid her forfeits in games of few tactics,
Webcam connections and laptop screen antics.
June stretched out before me, summer splendid perfection,
A glow from the north, shining light inspiration.
Rain showers had no curtains, in June.

All text, pros, poetry, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.

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

Jeremy.

 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.

Creative Collaboration.

 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.