Once there were the puzzles In the back of the papers Working out a puzzle On the back of a bus Working out a puzzle On a double decker bus We like to solve a puzzle We like it, we like it. They were the puzzle makers They were the puzzle creators People like a puzzle So they put them on the walls Put them on the floors And the gallery halls People like the crosswords On the gallery walls They like to play Sudoku On the gallery floors We like it, we like it. They are the puzzle makers They are the puzzle creators Where are all the cockneys? Where are the Arthur Daley’s? They sold them down the Thames To the Home Counties They sold him down the river To the Home Counties Arthur Daley’s On a wall Prime position On a gallery wall Laughing in a Golden frame Minder is building an Installation Arthur is reading out Instructions “You want to be a success You want to go far Get to the yard and learn To sell a second hand car!” We are the puzzle makers We are the puzzle creators Art imitates life Life imitates art The world is a puzzle Though you couldn’t Have scripted it You couldn’t Have predicted it Turner say’s there’s a Big bum in the sky Big arse in the clouds, Causing a funny sensation… Going Parp, Parp, Parp Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump, Trump! Puzzled In the newsrooms Puzzles on the Rostrums As the news Reader’s stumble The autocue Is anagram Tectonic plates Are shifting They’re not quite Fitting This jigsaw’s sinking And the weatherman’s Misplaced his map Whilst the machine From Countdown Is churning out Numbers All the wrong Numbers They just don’t Add up We are the puzzle makers We are the puzzle makers
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There’s a buzz about my paintings Though not from art collector’s or dealers There are BEES flying about my paintings Though not too much of a distraction Perhaps two or three They must be attracted to the colour In fact my whole studio is awash with it, Bright, thick, viscous colour The bees must perceive My studio as a prairie, Or that I’m a purveyor of flowers I am using a lot of Gloss lately, Especially Magnolia, The aroma is sweet; You can almost taste it Though not recommended These bees seem To REALLY like my paintings, As they’re buzzing Around with increasing Energy And Amplitude My studio must be Some kind of Sugar factory To them BZZZZ BZZZZZ I usher them out The window With some scrap Canvass Not conducive to good painting Bees buzzing about Can’t concentrate After all I do not want to get stung The windows shut The gateway blocked Free of bees Outside Noise Out There’s silence now Apart From The extractor fan Indoor noises Huuummmmmmm, Huuuummmmmmmm Huuummmmmmm, Huuuummmmmmmm Huuummmmmmm, Huuuummmmmmmm Huuummmmmmm, Huuuummmmmmmm A silence I like, Hypnotic It reminds me of being In an art gallery Good paintings are often Accompanied by The hum Of an Extractor fan, Or Air conditioner unit When you hear those Low vibrations It’s time to give The painting some Considered Thought Huummmmmm, Huummmmmm Huummmmmm, Huummmmmm Hhhmmmmmmm, Hhhmmmmmmm Hhhmmmmmmm, Hhhmmmmmmm BZZZ BZZZZ BANG BANG!!!! BANG!!!!!!!! BZZZZZZZZZZ… The bees are back! Though this time They are beating Against the windows And this time there are MORE And they are wanting IN! Buzzing around Knocking against The window They seem inebriated High on colour And Insatiable! They can’t get enough! A whole party load This time Those first two or three Reconnoiterers Must have Invited The whole hive! Sent out bee chemicals In the air Party pheromones Hey! Come get some, Fill your boots with nectar! There’s a whole sugar, Flower, plantation Factories worth here Check these paintings, Nourish yourselves, Get rapturous on colour! BZZZZZ, BZZZZZZ BANG, BANG!!!!!!! BZZZZZZZZZ… BANG! BANNG! BZZZZZ, BZZZZZZ Thankfully… All windows are shut All routes in, Blocked… Though somehow The BZZZZZ BZZZZZ Is now back INSIDE The room?????????? They are buzzing Around my paintings Again… They are crawling through The cracks In the wooden floor boards They are determined And thought this through ‘You’re living a lie’ ‘Creating tangents’ ‘Its all an illusion!’ Getting pollen from my paintings? It’s not real, no substance, There’s no nectar here! And stay away from That wet gloss You do not want to get involved With that stuff That will be the end, A very sticky end! The new batch Of interior Bees Are really erratic, Drunk on colour! These bees Must be Releasing there Volatile party Pheromone chemicals Because The exterior gang Of bees Are really Going for it now With renewed vigor BZZZZZ, BZZZZZZ, BANG BANG BANG!!! BZZZZZZ, BZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!! BANG BANG BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!! I can’t compete With this force of nature! Masking tape on the cracks of The wooden floorboards Doesn’t seem to work As two is four is six and twelve And BZZZZZZZ, BZZZZZZZ I can’t see the paint for the bees! And the entire room of Colour Is spinning… I can’t open the window To let them out cause…. This is not conducive For a good days Painting It is time to… STEP AWAY FROM THE STUDIO. Come back tomorrow, A clean slate, Blank canvass Perhaps they would have Moved on? Found a party Elsewhere… Aware of the errors Of their ways Or maybe too hung-over To care… Walking home Free of bees I wonder Wouldn’t it be Good If those bees WERE Art collectors, Or Dealers, Creating a storm, Drunk on colour Waving checks at me Through the window Shoving them through The gaps in the floor And that if it’s only Bees I seem to be Attracting lately Then perhaps All its really about Is sending out The right Kind of Pheromones I saw James Blake On the ‘Jools Holland’ show Last night He opened his latest Tune With a hauntingly Whispering Gentle wail Sampled and thus Repeating hypnotic The same sound over The more I listened The more I likened It To Warhol’s ‘Marilyn’s’ Perhaps it was the Repetitive, Melancholic nature Of the singing. That made me think of This particular piece A shared melancholic Sentiment Amidst a patchwork Of colourful repetition Sound and vision And sound and Vision and… As Blake’s Sampled echoes Filled the room Repeating I could picture A multitude of Stamp shaped Marilyn Icons In my minds eye The composition grows as The band adds layers And Discordant keys Merging Into the Foreground The drummers beats Permeate Adding depth Mark making Gestures Sweeping over The whole… A Warhol/ Blake creation /connection (((Different times Seemingly Unconnected Something to do With repetition? A timeless concept? Started by Andy? Now, (repetition) Technologically Ubiquitous What with the Multitude of Keys and buttons Press, press, press Press))) Sound and vision And vision And Sound… When I heard Blake’s Sampled Gentle Wails I thought of Marilyn’s Iconic pose Subtly yet Tragically Distorted Similarly If I were to see Warhol’s piece In the raw… I wonder if I would be Confronted by The discordant keys And haunting wails like that Of James Blake Sound and vision And Sound And Vision, Endlessly Repeating and Entwined Through time The composition is too rigid Like a design on a coin Symmetrical like Statues inert at a gate Paint over! Start over! Edit the figure Is it an interior? The figure with computer In interior is Uninspiring Dosen’t make sense Or makes too much sense! (A few days away at work And then…) Let the screen device theme evolve Gateways to other worlds Screens like canvass All 4 cornered Arenas Let the device take over… Usurp the figure Imposing like an icon… Like the Artist who painted Large scale horses… What was her name? Rutherford? Half and half colours, Clashing paint, reverberating Harmoniously A pure Eye dissonance Sensation. A tutor showed me some Reproductions from a book It didn’t resinate at the time Though perhaps I now see What the tutor meant A painting has the right To be uncluttered Uncomplicated Perhaps it is the Depth The brush strokes That are Loaded, The image… Let the paint do the talking In the moment… Standing back Waiting for a Response… Anything… I reflect… I’m at a bus stop On a wet dank Day in Bognor again! Though there could be Something in this Rainy bus stops Plain indecisive? What about those Other times? Dancing, buzzing In a tropical idyll Too many colours? If it’s not right Keep painting, Best to keep Moving… Like that Woody Allen Joke About the Shark, Annie Hall I think. Painting doe’s that It ignites Many memories Like kicking earth Unsettling the sediment Dusty powdery clouds Many coloured pigment Forming outlines, Contours, shapes, Creating Concrete words Concrete steps Keep Painting Keep Digging If any one can, Duchamp can
If any one can, Duchamp can Tracy Emin was very good At not making her bed Tracy Emin was not very good At making her bed People said she was off her head If anyone can, Duchamp can If anyone can, Duchamp can Carry the can Spill the can Spill the can Carry the can Marcel sleeps well In Tracy’s unmade bed Marcel and Tracy in a bed Zee Zee Zee Zee Zee Zee...Z Ready made Unmade Ready made Unmade His name was
Pond Edward Pond Who’s work accompanied me Through a period of time On the train from West Hampstead To Streatham And back in The mid to late 90’s My late teens I remember the worn blue Geometric fabric seats And blue plastic interior Of the train And in the four far corners Of each carriage Blue panels on which Were printed Edward Ponds In all their shades of blue They also had streaks of white Flat areas of grey Intersected by Thin black lines Drawn and resembling London landmarks Such as St Pauls cathedral And London Bridge I could hear the brief… ‘Don’t jolt, and not too Bold’ A smooth transition From beyond the window To interior And artwork and Beyond the window Interior and Artwork And… Network South East Or Thameslink I think? Luton to Sutton, A to B Overcast skies Over Looking The River And the Stations... Stations That were, In keeping with Their uniformity Repeating down the line ‘And make it blue.’ I remember the sound of brakes Getting louder, High pitched notes Ascending Harmonica sound As the train slowly halts And then Jolts to a start On it’s way over The Thames to Streatham I was in a carriage, In London Going through my passage Of time From teenager To Adulthood No career To think of Uncertain yet free And in my prime Sometimes With friends Sometimes alone One constant was… The work of Edward Pond And Being cocooned In all this blue Repeating On Network South East Or Thameslink I think? Going from A to B And back And A to B And... Now that the sun comes out
I go outside to draw Urban aspects Like buildings They surround me Black squared windows Thin drainpipes Cornices, roof tops It’s all very symmetrical Bricks having straight lines and all Though I cant last more than 3 mins Before I get tired of symmetry Straight Exact ordered blocked shapes Rendering this tiresome I now draw without looking At the paper I scan the buildings With my eye And feel the pen Drift Across the paper I wont look at the page for Perhaps 10 mins And then see what I get An ink sprawl of Urbanity Buildings outlines Seem alive Through their irregularity Lines like live wires! After all Aren’t buildings alive? Imbued with all those stories, Generations overlapped Layers of Tenancy’s And Histories Inhabitants I remember…
Paintings evoke memories, Images come out in painting Broken arm when little, Walking dogs at the pond. Painting from experience Frieze fair. Metaphorical images, Golden mushroom figures, Spreading their Inspirational spores. Golden for freize fair wealth. Bonnard relates to animals, extra sensory. Especially cats. Seeing not just the external realities. I remember my Friends cat, jumping around the room for no reason. I could only ascertain That it was seeing the broadband rays, and jumping around these invisible Beams. Coming to the conclusion that cats can see broadband. Would Bonnard have seen broadband too? Guinnes advert. “Good things come to those who wait”. I remember... Aching feet in The rain, Walking in Glen Coe. Scotland. Walking and walking, Waiting To get to That moment When we turned The corner And The scenery changed, Shifting direction. Reminds me of Turning a painting sideways Or Upside Down, After hard grafting. Pleasently surprising Views. Perserverance. “Good things come to those who wait” Painting is like travelling. Not a packaged holiday. I don’t know where I am going when I start to paint. Going into the unknown. Sense of adventure here. Not sure Where the destination will be. Holidays for me never had the outcome To what I Expected. Like painting. This is what I like about the holiday. If you plan a holiday to much it can Become boring, sterile. Though the draw back Is not knowing Where one is going One could always just end up At Bognor Or stuck At a bus stop. If this is the case Then just get on the bus. Best to be moving. I experiment with colour to the point that it looks, Hideously wrong, In which case I paint over it, And start again. This leads to texture, Which I like. Texture is not an Illusion Or a lie, It is What it is. A Celebration. Paint In all it's essence |
AuthorSam Weldon - Artist |