Original studies for the RNLI

The big RNLI fundraising project is back, with brand, spanking new, juicy studies available each and every day until Christmas.
These studies are the small originals that I paint every day wherever I am. They are never usually exhibited and act as reference for my larger paintings.
They do however work as a great fundraiser for the RNLI, and with your help last years project raised the RNLI just over £22,000!
Get involved here...

Colour theory blah, blah

I have just received the September issue of The Artist magazine which contains my latest article on all things artistic, my thoughts on colour mixing, Picasso and other paint related matters goes something like this...

WHEN I HAVEN’T ANY BLUE I USE RED

On the bookshelf in my studio, sandwiched between Turners Watercolours in the Tate and Banksys Wall and Piece, I have a copy of ‘A Manual of Oil Painting’, by John Collier, published in 1890.
Within the books pages I am given clear advice, “Economy should be studiously avoided in the setting of the palette; there is nothing more likely to give a bad style in oil painting than insufficiency of colours.”
No offence to John Collier, but in my experience nothing is further from the truth.

Colour mixing is such a subjective process. What works for one artist fails for another, and of course each artists approach is unique when choosing a palette of colours.
However, there are a couple of basic fundamentals that can, and do make all the difference when faced with a sweetie shop of paints to choose from.
These fundamentals are: a limited palette always works best and a limited palette always works best.

I always think of painting and colour mixing in a similar way to cooking; as great fun as it might be to create a dish using twenty ingredients, unless you are Gordon Ramsay, it is pretty difficult to pull off anything worth eating.
However, if you concentrate on just a few quality ingredients the task becomes infinitely easier.
The same process applies to colour mixing - fewer colours equals great results.
A palette full of sweetie shop madness equals a disappointing canvas of mud.

As Picasso said in 1966, "They'll sell you thousands of greens. Veronese green and emerald green and cadmium green and any sort of green you like; but that particular green, never."

Well, what colours do you use? I hear you ask.
Very few, usually only Ultramarine, Cadmium Red, Cadmium Yellow and Burnt Umber plus of course good old Mr Cobalt and his lovely wife Mrs Titanium White.
With these few basic essentials I can mix pretty much any colour I need.
You might have noticed that I don’t use black.
This is simply because, for me, black from a tube is pretty full on and demanding, a bit like having a naughty child who has a head full of E numbers.

Instead I like to mix my own black, using a delicious combination of Burnt Umber and Ultramarine.
Of course the mix isn’t a true black, but it is dark.
Furthermore it is rich, deep and satisfying.

You will also notice that I don’t use greens, instead I find it far more interesting to mix my own.

My palette of colours certainly shouldn’t be taken as the definitive list, some artists love green from a tube…as a fellow artist who shall remain nameless says, “admitting that you use Hookers Green from the tube is a bit like admitting that you are an alcoholic, but I use it because its great”.

And of course everyone’s view on colour is unique and personal, “How lovely yellow is! It stands for the sun” – Vincent van Gogh, “What a horrible thing yellow is.” – Edgar Degas or even “They call me mellow yellow...” - Donovan.

After experimenting with colour and refining your palette you become best friends with certain colours, you get to know each other, you get to know what makes the other tick, what you can do with Ultramarine and his friends and also what doesn’t work.
This is priceless practice time, you simply can’t skip the ‘get the palette right’ stage, you’re choice of colours is your bedrock upon which you can build your paintings.

“Colour and I are one. I am a painter." - Paul Klee, 1914.

Mr Klee nailed it with that quote, he knew how colour behaved, how it worked and how it enjoyed mingling with other colours.

When you are as great a painter as Paul Klee, you can of course use as many sweetie shop colours as you like, because purely down to experience, practice and intuition you can control the whole orchestra.

But for us mere mortals, think limited palette.

My own adventures in paint have gone through many stages, from tight oils, using twenty different colours to my current work using only five.
Of course that isn’t to say that I never add or work with other colours.
Sometimes a tiny dash of orange or a blast of pink can revitalise a painting, often the tiniest stroke will lift the painting to another level.
Also, it’s a great idea to change your palette now and again. Introduce new colours and discard others. You will gain much more knowledge of colour mixing and your work will develop along the way.

Recently I have been using a lot of collage, trashy magazine cut outs mainly.
These often abstracted shapes and garish colours give me exactly the unexpected juxtaposition of colour that I crave.
By using this random technique the work almost paints itself and creates it’s own life, it’s own magic.

It is this collage technique that led me to my current blue and pink obsession, as seen in ‘Small Busy Harbour.’
The magic of blue and pink, like the magic of any colour combinations lies in the composition and placement of colour.
Angela A’Court sums up colour placement best…
“Sometimes when I'm having a colour moment I think to myself, okay what would be the most disgusting colour to add here? Sometimes that 'disgusting' can turn out to be 'surprising' and 'completely gorgeous'.”
That statement is so true and works almost every time, just try it, you will be amazed.

I personally have no idea why one colour can transform another, but when it does, it’s like hitting the jackpot.
Even Picasso was puzzled “Why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No.”

When it comes down to the actual mixing of paint, it pays to remember that it is easy to tone down a bright colour but very difficult to brighten a dull colour, therefore start bright and you can’t go too far wrong.
It is also easy to get bogged down by the whole Hue, Tone, Chroma malarkey.
I’ll tell you about these three muskateers and how they work, but then feel free to forget it all and simply concentrate on experimenting with the three primary colours and their three complimentary colours, as that is all you really need to know.
The colour mix triangle shows the three primaries, yellow, red and blue and also shows when mixed, their complimentary colours green, orange and purple.
When mixing three of the above you can create a myriad of tertiary colours.

But for all you colour theory geeks out there here is my run down:
HUE is basically another name for the actual colour of a pigment.
You might well have noticed the word ‘hue’ used on paint tubes. This is because the term ‘hue’ is also used to show that a colour is not made from the pigments that were originally used for that paint, but equivalents that are either less expensive, safer or more lightfast.
TONE can also be called value and basically measures how light or dark a colour is, just like a black and white photograph.
TONE pays no attention to HUE.
Where Mr Tone comes unstuck is when he is placed against other colours or tones, so for instance, a mid Cadmium red will look darker placed against a pale colour than it will when placed against a dark colour.
Finally, CHROMA which can also be called saturation. Chroma measures how intense the colour is. Chroma is pure, bright colour as opposed to colours that have been lightened with white or darkened.

Colour, colour mixing, colour theory…

At the end of the day colour comes down to one thing, “When I haven't any blue I use red.” – Pablo Picasso.

Explosive elderflower and blackberries

The elderflower champagne is ready.
I know that it is ready because it told me.
Well, it didn’t exactly tell me; it more screamed at me “I’M READY TO DRINK”.
The elderflower champagne screamed in the only way it knew; by blowing the bottom clean off one of the NASA Super Strength flip top bottles.
The studio now smells of dusky, musky booze.
The lady like fragrance of elderflower and lemon belies the steaming, menacing bottles stored ‘in a cool, dark, airy place’, i.e. the studio.

I don goggles and gently touch a bottle, the bottle frowns back at me, “just you try it”, the bottle threatens.
With my left hand, I gingerly pick it up using just an index finger and thumb; if any fingers get blown off, those are the ones to go, I reason.
I hold my breath, the tension mounts, the bottle and I stare at each other intently; a soft sigh of relief, my fingers are still intact.
Gently placing the eleven remaining bottles into a plastic crate, I slowly lift and carry it at arms length, with no sudden movements up through the garden with all the nervous calm of a bomb disposal expert.
My aim: to deposit the bottles into the safety of the fridge with no further damage.
On reaching the fridge and opening the door, all manner of milk, butter, cheese and other ‘essentials’ are turfed out onto the kitchen floor to make way for a glorious shelf of our own garden grown champagne.

Phew, stage one complete.

Stage two, the opening, was carried out with the same diligent measures.

One chilled bottle was carefully taken outside and placed onto the garden table with the greatest of ease. Crouching below the table I reached up, placed my fingers onto the flip top mechanism and; flip; a heady aroma hit me as the bubbly foam gushed from the bottle, glasses were filled and the first sip was taken.
The result was astounding, far and away better than any sparkles that we had ever tasted; fragrant with elderflower and dry with a hint lemon, this was truly the homegrown sparkly wine of the gods.

“Can we try some” giggle the kids, followed by “what is it?”
“It’s sparkles,” answers Tal.
“Sparkles?” questions Katie, “Is that the wine what tingles your tongue?”

Kerry and I drink the first bottle with the last of the garden new potatoes, lamb steaks and the first of the blackberries flambéed in brandy.

Truly a marriage made in heaven.

Well, a marriage made in the garden.

Happy to still have all requisite fingers I finish a large Yacht canvas.

Wendy's Good Shot at Charles

Monday was the day that Charles and Camilla visited Marazion and the whole town took a glorious step back in time to the 1950’s.
Union flag bunting decked the shops and houses, flowerbeds were miraculously weeded overnight, streets were swept and front doors got their once a year coat of fresh paint.
Marazion school children sang traditional Cornish songs at the tops of their voices while their teacher swept her arms and tapped her feet in time to her imagined beat.
I was told a week before about the impending visit by the impeccable town mayor. The town mayor was taking the arrangements extremely seriously and gave due diligence to the role that he had so obviously been placed upon this planet to fulfil.
My instructions were to open the gallery by 10 am sharp and dutifully stand outside with a ready smile and a firm handshake, just in case.
By 10am the town square was packed with people, tourists and locals alike waiting to catch a glimpse take a photo or even speak to the Prince if they got the chance.
I made no effort whatsoever and chose to dress in my usual uniform of scruffy, paint covered T shirt and paint covered, ripped combats.

Needless to say Prince Charles avoided me.

Our mad friend Wendy however did make an effort.
Gloriously bedecked in red, white and blue, complete with a cherry red overcoat that flapped in the breeze like a baby seagulls wings when learning to fly.

Wendy had a plan.
Wendy was ready.

When Charles and Camilla strolled into view, Wendy aided by seven-year-old son Luke and hostages Tal and Katie swept into action.
With Luke clutching a posy of freshly picked sweet peas and his mum with a glow in the dark smile they darted through the crowds, through the tourists and their oversize back packs and on through the security TAG team as if they were not even there.
Before Charles had a chance to escape he was caught off guard, Camilla, dazzled by the sweet peas couldn’t help and Wendy had the Prince in the palm of her hand.
A quick but very gracious chat ensued before the Royal entourage continued towards the beach.
Wendy and her sidekick Luke also headed towards the beach.
Weaving in and out of the crowd like cat burglars they made their way to the Godolphin steps and waited, ready to pounce once again.
This time Charles had even less protection against Wendy’s ninja tactics, “Hello again” she called, “erm, good morning”, replied the future King of England slightly confused.

The Royal meeting finished with Wendy scrambling to the top of Chapel Rock to ‘get a good shot’, (we hoped that she meant a photograph as oppose to the bang, bang variety), as Charles scurried across the seaweed strewn causeway to the safety of St. Michaels Mount.
I immediately start to make a collage using a commemorative Charles and Camilla Royal Visit poster and discarded paper Union flags.
I expect that I will be using them for some time.

Castles, Kippers, Angels and Boots

So I find myself once more travelling North, this time in the company of my friends Mitch and Ian from Three S Films.
We are heading to the North East to film the third in our series ‘A Brush with the Landscape’, and we are all excited.
Mitch is testing me on my historical Northumbrian knowledge while Ian chatters about his beloved mountain bike and scrutinises the road map.
I ignore the backseat road map directions and instead follow the SatNav… recalculating, recalculating, recalculating…
After nine hours of driving we stop to film the opening sequence at the Angel of the North. Beautiful in design and at twenty metres tall and fifty four metres in span, majestic in size. The Angel courted controversy in 1998 when the sculpture was clothed in a Newcastle United football shirt bearing the name of Newcastles football legend Alan Shearer.
After half an hour Police arrived and undressed the Angel.
Still loved and loathed in equal measure the Angel has been voted Britains favourite sculpture and re-named locally The Gateshead Flasher.
Either way, Antony Gormleys masterpiece makes a strikingly iconic welcome to the North East.
This is an area that I am getting to know well, I love the bridges and streets of Newcastle and I have a growing and deep fondness for the wilds of Norhumberland, the huge, spotless beaches, the countless dramatic castles, the windswept coast roads and most of all a fondness for the people.
While at the Angel, children congregate around, fascinated by what we are filming, “We’re filming the opening sequence for the new James Bond film”, I tell them, “I’m taking over from Daniel Craig”, I add; the children scurry off to tell their mums.
A couple of hours further up the coast we finally arrive, tired but buoyant at Seahouses and our chosen pub for the trip The Olde Ship, and what a fantastic choice. The pub is a veritable treasure trove of nauticalia, artefacts from every age of marine history. There are lanterns, models, brass instruments, floats, pots, name plaques, paintings, and ephemera of all kinds propped, hung, squeezed and squashed into every available space.
For a Newlyn boy this is heaven.
We eat well and sample a few pints of the local beers deciding on which will become THE beer of the trip, unanimously we decide on the Farne Ale.

Over breakfast the next day we hatch our daily plan of action and decide that our first filming location should be Beadnell. This tiny village a couple of miles south of Seahouses on the shores of Beadnell Bay gazes south over a two mile long, blue flag beach to the skeletal remains of Dunstanburgh castle.
The cute harbour has an entrance so tiny that only the handful of local Cobles can gain access.
I make a large charcoal drawing of the boats, lobster pots and the massive lime kilns that crown the quayside and consider just how peaceful a place this is.
While chatting to the Parish Council Chairman I discover that over half of the village is now in the ownership of holiday home occupants, and that this is putting tremendous pressure on youngsters from the area.
I am then introduced to the last working fisherman in Beadnell who tells me that he is netting for trout, ‘The problem is though, if I catch any Salmon, I’m not allowed to land it before June, so I am forced to throw them back, dead or alive, now where is the sense in that?”
Before leaving I meet a retired fisherman, he is 85 but looks twice that, with the weather worn, brown, crinkled face that holds a lifetime of experience and memories. Born and brought up in the village, he had seen at close hand the many changes over the years.
“Aye, the beach was once full of Cobles, there were boots as far as y’can see man, boot it all started to goo wrong, and I’ll tell you who was responsible”, he whispered confidentially, “It was that Mrs Thatcher, she was responsible for the loss of the boots”.

Pondering the situation that is repeated all over the English coast we drive the quiet, windswept, sandy coast road, with huge marram covered dunes on our left and fields of intense lemon yellow rape to our right, searching for an access point to the beach below Dunstanburgh castle.
Now Dunstaburgh, although Northumberland’s largest castle, is the only uninhabited, ruined castle and that just makes it even more romantic.
I choose a viewpoint high on a dune above the beach, trying to avoid any stray balls from the adjacent golf course. I paint the stunning view as a small watercolour and recount to the camera the story of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, who after rebelling against his Uncle James, King of England was beheaded.
The twist to the story is that King James being particularly annoyed with his nephew hired a YTS executioner on work experience who after the first chop found that he needed to chop again, and again, and again, in fact eleven times in all.
But never let gorey stories put you off your food!
When on the Northumberland coast, however far you need to travel, you must, must make a pilgrimage to the small, scruffy harbour of Craster to sample the kippers.
I queued at a stall for my Kipper in a roll behind a Geordie coach driver who told me where (and where not) to go in Newcastle “Ayeman, the girls down the Bigg Market are right up for it and forward too, they just wanna take you home, and then in the morning kick y’ out – it’s everymans dream man!

I munched on my smokey, fishy delight while watching gulls wheeling and screeching overhead.


Excited cats and rain

It’s a dark, dark start to the day, a spattering of rain, not the drizzle kind of stuff or even the ‘get you wet’ kind of rain, no, this is my favourite kind, the warm, big, satisfying heavy drops; the drops that don’t seem to make you wet or cold, I like to think of this rain as tropical rain.
Tropical Cornish rain threatens, the Paynes Grey sky broods with a heaviness that weighs down the fragile landscape with an impending deluge.
The rain will wash away the hot summer pressure in twelve hours leaving behind a fresher, brighter, lighter Cornwall.
And I hope it does because it’s our daughter’s birthday tomorrow.
Katie will be eight.
And Katie is excited.
You know the kind of excited I mean, that exuberantly, can’t sleep, won’t sleep, manic, thousand words a minute at the top of your voice excited, the kind of excited that gives you goose bumps and limitless energy, the kind of excited that you can only experience at the magical age of eight, well, seven (until tomorrow).
A girlie sleepover with “my bestest friends from school” has been requested.
Katie’s ‘bestest friends from school’ are also excited, and so is Katie’s brother Tal, who although being eleven and therefore far too cool and ‘whatever’ is just as excited as his sister.
Even the cats are excited.
Especially Tabby, Katie’s “awe, fluffy little boy, come ere, awe Tabby just winked at me mum” cat.
Tabby’s sister Teasa is under the impression that it’s actually her birthday, while their older stepsister Lily the Tortoiseshell simply looks down from her drowsy garret with disdain.
I retreat to the sanctuary of my studio to work on a painting of Fowey.

The best cure for post match blues.

Monday 28th June
Another belter of a hot, sunny day and I’m busily being busy painting a study of dog walkers on the beach at Marazion. I am trying to work out exactly how did Turner paint those amazing skies?
This consideration will probably perplex and frustrate me forever, but then again, perhaps its better that way?

After painting, often comes shopping, and in a moment of madness I find myself with my seven year old daughter in Morrisons. Katie always makes it her job to find the various items on our list and this was no exception, until I say “we need some sour cream”, “eeeeeeergh!” comes the screeched reply. “It’s lovely” I reassure her, “where do you think we’ll find it?”
After a moment of consideration comes the answer “in the calcium aisle!”

Unfortunately though not all was joyous at Macey Towers this weekend as yesterday England were completely stuffed by Germany in the knock out stages of the World Cup, so to ease my frustration and as a kind of solace I did what I always do in times of trouble…I made a curry.
But not any old curry, oh no, this is THE curry; decidedly tongue tingling hot, and seductively fragrant.

Try this and trust me, you will not be disappointed.

First and not to be missed out is the good old spicy rub which consists of
2 tablespoons fennel seeds, 2 tablespoons cumin seeds, 2 tablespoons coriander seeds, 
1/2 tablespoon fenugreek seeds, 
1/2 tablespoons black peppercorns, 
1 clove, 
1/2 cinnamon stick, 
2 cardamon pods, sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now simply dry fry the above in a small pan over a low heat until the spices fill your kitchen with an amazingly evocative scent. Then, simply bash n grind with a good old pestle n mortar.

Next the curry paste for which you will need a decent sized piece of fresh ginger, a couple of red onions, a whole bulb of garlic, a big red chili complete with all of those lovely heat giving seeds and a bunch of fresh coriander.
Peel, chop up and blitz in a food processor together with your spicy rub.

In a large oven and flame proof (yes, I have exploded Pyrex pans on the hob) pan, fry the curry paste mixture in a decent knob of butter until it turns golden, stirring regularly. Add a couple of tins of chopped tomatoes and ½ pint of stock. Bring to a boil, and then pop into the oven at about 170 with a tin foil lid for 1 1/2 hours, this will intensify the flavours and scent your whole house.

After the sauce has had it’s 1 1/2 hours blast in the oven pop it back onto the hob.
This is the real fun part; as the sauce simmers you get to decide whether you are feeling veggie, meaty or fishy and you can simply add your chosen favourites to cook in the sauce. I choose some beautiful free-range chicken, which is simply diced and stirred in to bubble away for an hour.

Finally stir in a good dollop of natural yoghurt, chuck over plenty of roughly chopped mint and squeeze in the juice from a lime.

Serve with Basmati rice or even better small, roasted, spiced potatoes.

I promise, this curry always helps to numb the pain of watching how bad England play, well, this curry and a few cold beers.