sketchbook landscapes.

 Top: Trees and Rhododendron bushes in the grounds of Newstead Abbey. Below: Landscape around the Oxton area of the county.

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

Drawing August 2.

Twitter's art theme / challenge comes round again. Last year I think I was into coloured pencils. This year I'm into pound shop gel pens. In a big way.

 

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

The Selfie. Self portraits.

 

Above: 10th January, 1963. “Love Me Do” moves up to number 17 from last week’s 24. Elvis Presley’s “Return to Sender” at number two has already made me a music fan. The Beatles ensure it will remain a lifelong passion. My art teacher has set me the only worthwhile homework he manages to dream up in the seven years I will know him. His problem is he doesn’t dream. Maybe two years National Service took that away. I am a grammar school boy, identified as an arty type, but only ever directed to copy from books, add some lettering, and contemplate the painting of roses on tea trays at the nearby Metal Box factory as a better career option than the coal mines. I don’t know why. It pays far less. But for this one Thursday evening at least, studying my face in the mirror, it felt like I was doing Art. Assessment rating: Seven out of ten. Very fair.

So why do artists’ make self-portraits? Certainly not for money. The general public are not keen to purchase the portrait of a complete stranger for their home. One answer to the question can be found in the work of the two greatest masters on the subject. Rembrandt and Van Gogh both used the painted selfie to document their respective journeys through life. Rembrandt ageing with dignity, tinted by sadness; Van Gogh striving against mental instability.

For infinitely lesser mortals like myself the motives are usually much simpler. As long as one has a mirror one has a model; a challenging subject on which to develop the skill of recording from observation. However, no matter how simple the intent, can capturing a likeness ever be the sole outcome of a self-portrait? Or is some other aspect always destined to show through the surface image and disclose more about the person inside? Recently, as I use my own life experiences to inform a book I am working on, I looked back through my sketchbook selfies and was surprised at how much they reveal.

Above: July 1972. I am living below street level in a basement flat. Liverpool’s Anglican cathedral is so close its shadow merges with those of the feet passing by my window. The feet are all I can see and, as I’ve developed the fatal art student practice of “staying at home to do some work”, life is decidedly subterranean. This month nineteen bombs will explode across Belfast in eighty minutes, Gary Glitter will begin his abuse of the pop music charts, and I am on a poorly tutored graphic design course rapidly losing all enthusiasm for art let alone the ability to draw. I'm sure it was all foretold in Revelations somewhere.

Above: August 1979. The Yorkshire Ripper is afoot. The Trade Unions refuse to listen to their own Labour Party Prime Minister and make the ensuing Thatcher Years inevitable. Former Liberal Party leader Jeremy Thorpe is cleared in court of allegations of attempted murder, whilst Syd Vicious dies in his prison cell before reaching trial. I am living under a pitched roof high above it all. It is a time of much after hours drinking and introvert music. Ironically I teach myself more about art and its history whilst working as a full time teacher than I ever learned as a student. After a couple of years in the profession I feel confident enough to devote more time to my own painting. To my amazement my first serious artworks gain a one man showcase in Nottingham Castle. I may have peaked too soon.

For obvious and understandable reasons a full time teacher adopts a kind of alter ego, and I see now in retrospect a clear division between self-portrait sketches made during classroom lunch hours and the more expressive, perhaps more personal studies produced at home. This was also the time when rejection slips started coming thick and fast, as the political landscape turned art galleries which once took risks into formulaic commercial craft shops.

Above: 1990. Glasgow is awarded Culture Capital of Europe whilst London streets are beset with poll tax riots. I am the son of a carpenter. Our relationship is not close, and I can’t walk on water. But I can modify my approach to self-portraiture. Less raw, hopefully no less expressive, the result is exhibited in the Bonnington Gallery, Nottingham.

Above: January 2006. James Blunt and Coldplay win Brit Awards. Thinking this must surely herald the “end of times” I resign from full time employment and, as a bonus for never buying their records, award myself a five year playtime.

Below: 2013. The ghost of Mrs B returns to tell me playtime was long since over. I must not have heard the bell, having been accepted by ten Open Exhibitions, published twice, and awarded a truck full of sketchbooks which still spill from the loft. She leads the way back to class.

 Below: 2014. Twitter becomes a good place for feedback and further experimental self-portraits. According to Rembrandt, “Life etches itself onto our faces as we grow older, showing our violence, excesses or kindnesses.” If that’s the case I really should smile more.

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

Accepted in June.

 

My "Skeggie Day Trip" painting on show this month in Patchings Gallery.

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

Pastels in Newstead.

I haven't wanted to get involved with any serious painting projects for quite a while now. But I do seem to be rather prolific when it comes to observational studies. This month's favoured medium was oil pastels, the location Newstead Abbey.

 

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

Nottingham Musicians.

 During recent years depicting musicians performing live in various Nottingham venues was a recurring theme in my work. Suffice to say I didn’t paint any subject whose performance I didn’t enjoy. 

Spending the early 70’s in Liverpool it was commonplace for me to see rock bands and beat poets sharing the same billing, as the preceding decade’s Mersey Beat morphed into the Liverpool Scene. It was a city where the Arts informed everyone’s way of thinking, assisted in no small measure by its Irish and West Indian links. Simultaneous to this, the steel works of Birmingham were forging sixties beat music into Heavy Metal whilst, before decade’s end, disillusioned youth in London gave vent to Punk.

By stark contrast, whenever I came home to Nottingham during the 70s, one’s social life was very much about Night Clubs. No wonder then that our city’s greatest claim to musical fame became Paper Lace of “Billy, Don’t be a Hero”. Such show bands thrived and made a good living on the chicken-in-a-basket circuit of Tiffany’s and Working Men’s Clubs across the Midlands. Punk and post-Punk bands were all happening elsewhere. We got the ones still in flared trousers with feather-cut hair.

Happily, today one can see any number of fine musicians in Nottingham, often in pubs utilizing their (usually unpaid) talents as a prop against the recession’s diminishing customer count. Listening to Nottingham bands today one is more conscious of the content of their individual record collections than any communally shared musical agenda, but that is more a comment on the city than the artist themselves. “Madchester” was never going to happen here.

Johnny Johnston Quartet at the Bell Inn:

Trad Jazz was never a favourite of mine, but the Johnny Johnston Quartet at the Bell Inn were always superb entertainment. The first band I ever thought of painting, it established at the outset how I would proceed with future similar subjects. Sketchbooks in the dark were almost impractical, but I could watch closely to memorize typical poses and expressions, and take small cell phone type snapshots, without flash, to cut up, arrange, and work from back in the studio. The background here is an impression of sound rather than an imitation of the interior.

Pictured are Johnny Johnston (left), sadly now deceased, and Brian Bocel. The band were amused and excited to see the final piece, and I enjoyed sharing it with them. The manager of the Bell Inn asked if he might put a copy on display. Fine. But I had not envisaged it would be reduced to sepia tones and pinned next to the gent’s toilet. The painting was more successfully exhibited in the Thoresby Open Exhibition of 2012.

Stuck in 2nd at the Jam Café:

The Jam Café Nottingham, functions as both licenced coffee bar, and live music venue. Pictured here are reggae band Stuck In 2nd. I remember the lighting on that occasion was particularly dark, so more than ever I relied on a liberal use of shadows to disguise my lack of information, and think some of the final painting a little too static. But I was happy with the way I captured the movement of the conga player on the left, his entire body swaying and playing the instrument. If you can play an instrument yourself (I can manage about four chords), it helps when trying to convey rhythm pictorially, or having to make up small details in the final piece.

Will Jeffery at the Malt Cross Inn:

As readers will know from previous posts, the Malt Cross Inn was a music hall in eras gone by, and the small stage is still used today to present live entertainers. What obviously caught my attention in this scene was the very dramatic lighting from the spotlights, making pools of light on the stage and casting large shadows on the wall behind. An opportunity to paint an upright bass in such a setting was not to be missed. Never successfully exhibited publicly, this one remains my personal favourite.

Jonathan Beckett at the Guitar Bar, Hotel Deux:
 

 When Jonathan Becket performed a retrospective of his songs at the Guitar Bar I was especially taken by one called “The Midlands”, a recurring theme in my own work. Once again I returned to my studio with some very hazy snapshots from which I could produce a “likeness” of the two musicians involved, working from blow ups on the computer screen as if they were seated before me. But this time I created a background based on images associated with the Midlands. One can see references to miners, Sherwood Forest, and factory building skylines. The painting was successfully exhibited in the Patchings Open Exhibition of 2012.

Rosie Abbott, singer songwriter:

 Between 2006 and 2010 I made a series of music promos for Rosie Abbott. This portrait came from an image made during one of those video shoots. Rather than depict a public performance, I wanted to convey more of the creative spirit of the songwriter. The painting was successfully exhibited in the Patchings Open Exhibition of 2011.

Thee Eviltones at The Maze:

 My last musician painting to date. The Maze is an especially dark venue, and certainly one of Nottingham’s most popular. Once again it was a matter of crawling about below audience eye level, not distracting from their entertainment with an intrusive flash, taking small snapshots. Back in the studio I chose and arranged what seemed like a typical “pose” for each band member. I knew I wanted a dynamic setting for such a high energy band. The solution was inspired quite simply by the band’s striped t-shirts. If it was such an important motif to them that they each wore one, then it was important enough to incorporate in the painting.

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

The Malt Cross Inn, Nottingham.

 

It was more by chance than design that I started making so many sketches of the Malt Cross Inn, Nottingham. This was where my ever-present sketchbook met with other creative spirits as a good place to meet and chat.

The daylight as it streams through that antique arched glass roof, to then sweep steadily across the room as the hours go by, creates a visual effect akin to being inside a huge sun dial. Or, if you’re on your third pint, maybe a kaleidoscope. The atmosphere is an interesting juxtaposition of contemporary events, against a respectfully tended backdrop of red and green 19th century music hall ironwork. The harmonious result offers sanctuary to those of us not particularly enamoured with the garish multimedia lights and fast fry delights of menus elsewhere in town. If I want to look at a TV screen I’ll stay home.

It’s impossible to do justice to the Malt Cross in a photograph. There’s too much visual information for the lens to digest. One needs to edit. Are my sketches any more successful? A little.

Some of my sketches come from the times I sat here engaged in half sober conversations imagining we were perhaps the Ginsbergs at the San Remo, the Dylans at the Café Wha?, or even the Lennons and the Henris at Ye Cracke. Until we sobered up and had to accept we were not.

Malt Cross Inn has much in common with other favoured subjects in my portfolio: A dramatically lit scenario where history still lingers in the shadows.


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

Above: A later piece from 2018.

Girlfriend or Grapes?

Girlfriends or Grapes?

I awoke in a hospital bed, a young nurse stood on a chair beside my pillow, reaching up to open the curtains which had been shut tight for the previous three days. I have no memory of those three days, and my recovery from meningitis was not anticipated. Still an innocent sixth form grammar school boy, the antibiotics pumped into my system had gathered all the potential pimples from my entire body into one huge pimple at the end of my nose. The nurse took care of it as I blushed with teenage embarrassment.

I am told that at the onset of this illness I had been carried screaming from the house, my language so offensive that an exorcist might have been more appropriate than the ambulance which arrived late. I am also told that, whilst I was in hospital, two school friends of mine arrived carrying grapes. Unable to find me, they apparently sat down on the hospital steps and ate the grapes, before returning to school to tell everyone I had died. This would explain the look of alarm on the headmaster's face some weeks later when I went back to continue my studies.

After my being discharged, a third school friend came to visit me at home. Unlike myself, he had decided against staying on into the sixth form and had started work in the coal mines, an option most grammar school boys in that town took anyway, regardless of the opportunity of further education. We had first met at the back of the maths class. We were both heavily into James Bond novels and secret agents, which explains why, regardless of their being a teacher present, I tried to sneak up behind him and grab him in a headlock. Unfortunately for me, he was already fairly well acquainted with the basics of Kung-Fu, and his defensive karate chop practically took my head off, splitting my lower lip in two. Covered in blood I made a swift exit to the toilets. He followed on behind, worried, but no doubt secretly proud of the blow he'd delivered. The maths teacher simply continued with his lesson as if nothing was happening. From that moment on we were close, hence his visit to see me.

As a young working man, he had now started to earn a wage, and pursue the social life which went with it. In other words, Girls. Therefore his ideas on how to accelerate my full recovery involved something much more potent than grapes. He had fixed me up with a blind date. I should mention here that this would also be my first real date, such being the consequence of attending an all boy's school.

Come the day of the date she and I strolled around the grounds of Newstead Abbey, escorted at a discreet distance by a small entourage of her friends, checking me out as I imagined a Sicilian Family might. Of course, they were not Sicilian, but the mining communities were tight like that.

She was five foot six of a sixteen year old working girl, a striking juxtaposition of jet black hair and bright blue eyes. A factory seamstress by day, a mod by night even as her Midlands working class rocker roots showed through. I was a slight of build sixth former, eager to grow my hair longer than school rules would permit, bored with A-level Chaucer by day, alone at night, sketching, strumming. She was just what the hospital doctor of some weeks previous should have ordered. She jump-started my hitherto dormant teenage years, her nicotine fingers impatient to explore the content of my jeans, taking a firm grip and guiding me through all the gears. I was quite shocked, and I needed to be. She was indeed much better than grapes.

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

 

Out of the house.

 Out of the house.

I don't really want to go. Cold dark evenings in November are not best suited to trekking up the hill to Nottingham Castle’s art gallery. But what does one do instead on cold dark November evenings? I need to get out of the house more. So I do.

The occasion is the opening night of an exhibition; the gallery a place I myself had shown in a decade ago. But the real attraction for me is that this particular artist's work was some I'd seen in the past, when I was just about to embark on a career in teaching. Back then I was still far too distracted by the superficiality of the night club scene, and not yet painting with any serious regularity or direction. Seeing his work had helped motivate me towards changing all that.

So, I get the bus into town. The market square, decked up for Christmas, is between shifts of daytime skateboarders and night-time revellers. In a pub at the base of the hill I decide on a brandy, its taste somewhat tainted by an extortionate price, and the smell of frying fish permeating the room. But at least I’m out of the house.

Upon reaching the gallery it seems I am one of the first to arrive, then I realise everyone else is in the bar. It gives me a chance to watch the exhibition’s accompanying video without distraction. I like to watch an artist at work. I’m into processes. After the video I decide on a glass of red, compliments of the gallery. Apparently the reason for everyone being in the bar, apart from the obvious, is that they are waiting to hear the speeches before looking at the paintings. The event is very well attended, but I do see an empty table at which one person is sat. I approach.

“Mind if I take a seat?” She doesn't look up. Just raises her book a little more above eye level. I'm not trying to chat her up, although I confess a little female company to share opinions about the paintings with might be nice. Her book becomes a wall. I sip my wine and check out the rest of the room. These are not my people.

The speeches are probably much shorter than they seem, read verbatim from rather dull notes. The artist himself says little. He doesn’t have to. The work on the walls is superb. Just as I remember it. It is almost exclusively “old” work from the late 70's early 80's, depicting a bygone age of a more industrial Midlands. But its merits are undiminished in my eyes.

After it is over I take the opportunity to congratulate him on his paintings. I tell him how I'd admired them years ago in a very small local gallery; of how clearly I remember that night, no doubt on my way to the clubs, snacking for the first time in my life on the gallery's caviar; of how I’d been inspired to pick up a paintbrush once more. That particular small gallery is now a thing of the past, much like the industrial subject matter of his paintings. But it was nice being able to share that memory with the painter himself. He enjoyed it to.

Text copyright Ian G Craig.

Sketching in January. #sketchjanuary.

January’s Twitter theme for art was #sketchjanuary. My sketches focused on some of my musical heroes.

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

Still (life) December #stilldecember.

The Twitter theme for art was #stilldecember, as in still life. Amongst my contributions was a drawing based on the sad headline announcing the death of Nelson Mandela. Of lesser merit to me personally was a drawing of peanut butter on toast. (A weakness of mine). However, The Painters Online newsletter selected that one (bottom below) for their publication, asking me to write a few words about the process of drawing.

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

Bob. (Robert Thwaites).

I knew him as Bob. I leave it to the curious to search the web if they wish to identify the person the UK press would come to label “Britain’s most notorious living art forger” who “conned Antiques Roadshow host”.

Bob was one of my flatmates during the years we attended Liverpool Art College. I made few friends in Liverpool, and kept in touch with none, but Bob was the one I spent most time with, and with whom I had the most in common.

A year younger than myself, Bob sported the post-hippie beard prevalent amongst students in the early 1970s. Tall, of stocky build without an ounce of fat, he peered short sightedly out at the world over the top of his round spectacles. On those rare occasions when he wasn't drawing, his hands would constantly tap his cord jean thighs in time to the tunes he muttered quietly through his bearded chin. More often than not a selection from Jethro Tull's “Stand Up”, which was always his album of choice on those evenings when it was his turn to use our shared portable record player. But almost all of the time, Bob sketched. And sketched. And sketched. The pen in one hand, the bottle of ink in the other, and the sketchpad on his knees, all seemed like permanent fixtures with which he created black and white worlds of caricature and humour. It was this shared passion for drawing which brought us together, plus our early morning forays across Liverpool searching newsagents for the latest Marvel / DC comics containing the work of Jack Kirby, in a time before specialist comic shops were hard to find anywhere outside of London.

The college lecturers treated Bob with disdain, dismissing his large, slightly splattered sheets of animated figures, whilst advising us all that carefully executed diagrams for “how to tie knots” manuals, and similar mundane illustrations, were a more meaningful career path to follow. But his reputation as a “cartoonist” spread across the campus, gaining favour with fellow students because of its Pythonesque humour. Like Gerald Scarfe on Benzedrine.

One night a knock came at the door. It was a student from the nearby University. We could tell that from his purple corduroy jeans and grey trench coat. “Does the guy who draws cartoons live here?” The student wanted a poster drawn for an upcoming concert at the university hall, the payment for which could stretch to five pounds. Bob, delighted at this bit of recognition, agreed to the job and asked for the name of the band. The student fumbled in his coat pockets for the piece of paper on which he'd written it down. Refreshing his memory, he read aloud: “Supertramp”. Nobody had heard of them, but we all laughed. Supertramp, what a cool name for a band. The following day the poster was delivered, featuring a suitably super tramp bedecked in ragged gabardine, wine bottle in hand, and a multitude of Monty Python style rats emerging from every fold and pocket.

The great irony is that, considering the criminal reputation Bob's skills would one day gain, at college he couldn't paint to save his life. Neither could his drawing skills adhere to what one might deem a more academic approach to proportion and form. I saw him try, but his patience would always run out. And yet, whilst others would give up art all together for other career paths, he was the one, albeit the lowest graded, who got to put “graphic designer” on his passport.

I don't condone what he did years later. Something about forging a piece of art when you're an artist yourself seems worse than basic theft on the morality scale. And I have even less regard for the so-called expert who purchased his forgery, expecting to sell it on for a huge profit. One has to smile. And I'll bet many a subsequent fellow prison inmate smiled at Bob's portraits of them.

I smile now at my memory of him. One of the few smiles I can muster when looking back on my days in Liverpool. And I smile in particular at the knowledge of what Bob would really have liked to become, as he sat of an evening reading his Thor comics, and dipping the knitting needle he'd pre-heated on the electric fire into his mug of beer, Nordic style. To paraphrase his favourite Monty Python sketch, Bob never wanted to be a graphic designer. He always wanted to be... a Viking.
.

Top: My 1973 sketch of Bob. Below: Bob's sketch of me (sadly unsigned). Bottom: Bob as I always remember him.

Edit: Robert "Bob" Thwaites died far too young in March 2019.

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

string & card printing

 This month the Twitter challenge amongst my art followers was #printoctober. Printing has never been my thing. I think good equipment is necessary to get good prints. But wanting to take part, I stuck to a simple card and string technique.

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

Lady Manvers, Thoresby Estate artist.

 In September I was asked to write an article for Nottingham University’s Art History dept., to be used in conjunction with their organising an exhibition of Lady Manvers' works in Thoresby Gallery. Lady Manvers’ paintings would be the first artworks I ever saw after those of my great great grandfather William Catto, so I submitted the following with pleasure:

 If, as the early 1960s advertising slogan stated, Thoresby Hall was the Heart of Sherwood Forest, then Lady Marie-Louise Manvers was surely the Art. The Lady in the cream jacket, skirt and hat, that the residents of Thoresby Park would routinely come across seated amongst the trees, faithfully recording and cataloguing the life of the Estate in her water colour sketches much as one might do today on iPads and cell phones. As someone who lived the first thirteen years of his life on Thoresby Estate, formative childhood years during which I observed and encountered the Lady in question at work, I offer this article in response to Nottingham University’s 2013 “Wandering Thoresby” project. 

 Born in 1889 as Marie-Louise Roosevelt Butterfield, the future Lady Manvers exhibited a passion for art at an early age. So it was that her father Sir Frederick Butterfield of Cliffe Castle, Yorkshire, enrolled her in the Julienne School of Art when the family moved to Paris in her teens. This Art School placed particular emphasis on developing a high standard of drawing skill, the legacy of which is evident in the portrait and figure studies she would subsequently make of the servants and game keepers on Thoresby Estate. At the turn of the century, the young Marie-Louise’s style combined a high level of observational drawing skill with the colourful palette of Post Impressionism, and would continue in this manner for the rest of her life; capturing the vitality of a scene without sacrificing the accuracy of its detail. When one looks through her oil paintings, and the voluminous amount of water colour sketches, it is apparent this is not simply the work of a privileged girl spending her hours painting for leisure. This is a highly motivated, prolific artist with a clearly defined agenda: To record life as it goes on around her, paying equal regard to accuracy and artistic expression.

 Before recounting my own memories of Lady Manvers at Thoresby, might I direct the historians’ attention to one particular 1930s water colour of hers which will both illustrate my point and chill the soul. It is a small painting depicting a narrow street I assume to be situated in Germany. It is not a remarkable piece. One imagines Marie-Louise seated there in a fairly innocuous place documenting her travels in her sketchbook. But look closer. From one of the upper widows hangs a small flag, unfurled, but bearing the unmistakable insignia of the then rising Nazi party. The artist places no emphasis on the flag. It is simply and accurately recorded within the impression of the street as one might depict the doorsteps and paving stones. But oh, what that little flag would soon come to represent in that very place.

  Marie-Louise had married Gervas Evelyn Pierrepont in 1918. When he succeeded his cousin as the 6th Earl Manvers in 1940, she took on the title she would always be known as when moving into Thoresby Hall at the start of that era. I was born the son of one of the estate’s joiners at the very start of the 1950s. Like every other small child on the estate, I knew how to stand still at the side of the road when we saw Lady Manvers’ limousine approaching from the distance, to wave politely should she wave first, and to move on only after she had passed. Does that sound a bit servile? Not a bit of it. We loved her. She was the nice lady who stood by the piano in the grand hall, handing us our presents at the end of the annual Christmas parties organised for the children of the estate’s workers. We were looked after. The 3rd Earl Manvers was responsible for the building of Perlethorpe School, on the estate. The 4th Lady Manvers would organise the delivery of fresh milk, eggs and butter to any child too ill to attend Sunday School. Marie-Louise, the 6th Lady Manvers, carried on this close, caring relationship between Duke and estate employees. And, of course, she never stopped painting.

 One of my earliest memories of seeing Lady Manvers outside of her limousine or the Great Hall, was the day she came into Perlethorpe Primary School, situated close to the Hall, and now serving as an Environmental Education Centre. In the already silent classroom, there was of course a great hurrying to stand as teacher Mrs Bruce greeted such an important guest. It transpired Lady Manvers was looking for a model for that day’s sketching. It came as no surprise to us all she selected Verna Langstaff, one of the senior girls (c.11 years old) widely regarded by us all to be the prettiest. Lady Manvers then escorted an undoubtedly nervous Verna across the road, seated her on a low branch beside the church gate, and commenced to draw. That drawing became a must-see favourite with us all when visiting the Hall. But it did something else. It planted a seed in small minds that Art was something important to do. Combined with the endless nature walk specimens we drew, and even the little weaving frames we used in class, the fact that the Lady of the Estate spent time sitting and painting, gave such skills a position of importance to us. A skill to respect.

 A second encounter with the Art of Lady Manvers occurred much closer to home. By the mid 1950s my father’s work as a joiner had gained him the position of Foreman at Thoresby Estate’s Woodyard, requiring us to move from Perlethorpe Village Green to the Victorian house know as Three Gables, attached to his place of work. There was undoubtedly an element of friendship within my father’s relationship with Lady Manvers. Possibly because it was not uncommon to find him re-upholstering and repairing items of her antique furniture in our back kitchen before they were returned to Thoresby Hall in time for the weekend tourists. That amused us no end.

 Perhaps as a consequence of this relationship, when Lady Manvers turned up at the Woodyard one day in 1962, intent on depicting the activities therein, her choice of subject was to be my father, William “Jock” Craig, in the joiner’s workshop. Lady Manvers, with her chair and easel, was almost always chauffer driven to her painting sites. On this occasion the car’s engine had barely stopped before William was dashing all of a nervous fluster into our house calling out for a clean shirt! I’m sure a most understanding and patient Lady Manvers had probably tried to persuade him that wasn’t really necessary.

 The resultant large water colour sketch (above), a combination of relevant detailing and enhanced colour, accurately captures the atmosphere of that mid-Autumn workshop I remember so well. We certainly enjoyed seeing that picture hanging on the wall in Thoresby Hall, and I was even more delighted to obtain it upon the Hall’s closure as a stately home.

 We left Thoresby Estate in 1963. The last time I saw Lady Manvers was in 1979. She was once again engaged in conversation with my father as I, now a full time art teacher, kept the respectful distance I would have observed as a child. She was in the Great Hall, standing by the same piano where a lifetime before she had handed out Christmas presents to children like myself . It was the end of the Manvers line; the end of Thoresby Hall as a stately home open to the public. With her usual grace and smile she was greeting the Hall’s final visitors before its closure; selling souvenirs. I bought a souvenir pencil, and have it still.

UPDATE: Artist Lady Manvers, my dad, and Coquette. Click on the link..

Text copyright Ian G Craig. Painting by Lady Manvers private collection Ian G Craig.

Exhibited, published, awarded.

After being included in an exhibition at Patchings Gallery, my painting “Along the A614” was published in Painters Online magazine as a result of winning the Clairefontaine Award. It was then also selected and shown in the Thoresby Gallery Open Exhibition.

 

 In search of new ideas this month I also painted two quick self-portraits, and three experimental paintings. The third of these was also a parody of a David Hockney's "Flight Into of Italy". I call my Flight out of Liverpool..

 

Thoresby Park stepped back into my life to a small degree when I was invited to  attended a VIP buffet and lecture about the war years on the estate, as well as contribute my memories of Lady Manvers to the Nottingham Uni History Dept. A most enjoyable afternoon, and I was able to contribute / clarify some information the speaker was unsure of.

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

Drawing August #drawingaugust

My entire journal for August comprised sketches of various locations in Nottingham. This was part of the Twitter collaboration, #drawingaugust, and raised my profile and Follower statistic considerably. The music I chose for this month's video was my cover of “Don't Get Around Much Any More”.

You can watch my journal for August on THIS LINK.

Below: The homeless guy is called Frank, the dog Sasha.

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