Sampling

Discomforter: rough edges 2002 detail

I have been reading In Camera: Francis Bacon - Photography, Film, and the Practice of Painting by Martin Harrison. I am greatly attracted to the work of Francis Bacon, and so at the exhibition I indulged myself with two purchases: the catalogue and this book. Up until now I have not really studied Bacon's oeuvre as such, simply allowing myself to enjoy it as I saw it. The retrospective exhibition gave me more of an opportunity to look and learn from the paintings themselves, building on previous reactions, and this time I definitely felt a deep curiosity about their making.

Although I believe that art should communicate without the necessity for explanation, information about the artist and the making of the work can enhance one's experience of the work. And I found that this is certainly so with the above-mentioned book. Not classically trained, nor put through any kind of standard education in art, Bacon's facility with interior design and his attraction to figures in photography and film gave him the makings of the raw materials of his paintings: influencing his compositions and providing content for his own expressions.

Seeing the use Bacon made, so often extremely directly of source material - and yet how much he changed it, infused it with his very particular intensity of emotion, I take as a validation and even an encouragement for one's own sampling. After all the photographic etc. samples are but a physical manifestation of all the images we all build up over a lifetime in our memories which inevitably contribute to the visual work we then produce. It is inspiring to see what a powerful use was made of Bacon's samplings.

Having finished this book, I'm now going back to the works in the exhibition, and will start reading the catalogue. Then I shall return to the catalogue of another Bacon exhibition we saw at the Hayward Gallery in 1998. It was a double bill with Cartier Bresson, and was altogether a stunner of a show. In those days however, although visually delightful, the catalogues were not such treasure chests of articles as they are now.

First class stimulant

Francis Bacon Self portrait 1978

Saturday provided just the medicine I needed to return my cylinders to full functioning. We went to Tate Britain to see the Francis Bacon retrospective.

Initially disappointed that the galleries were already full of visitors from the Frieze Art Fair who had had a private jamboree in the hour before the Tate opened officially, it soon became clear that the wealthy drifters were simply grazing, and moved on pretty quickly. I first spotted Orlan, the 'living work of art', when irritated that she and her friends were blocking the doorways just chatting. I was ready to summon up my best French to ask her to please move, but on recognising her and seeing that early in the morning is not her best time I suddenly felt sorry for her. She certainly paled in significance beside the magnificent paintings.

In addition to the Bacon show we also visited the Goodison Room which at present has a display exploring work artists have done with the Curwen Studio. One of the recent Tate shots is playing there with Paula Rego's print being worked on. I very much admire her and her work, and it was her final words on this short film which were the powerful shot in the arm I needed.

"You have to trust the picture because the picture that you are doing is telling you what's inside you ... and you discover at the end who you are."

The display of prints was like a strong espresso after the most satisfying of meals. I was left only with a hunger to work.

Measure of success

Measured response (2005)
wire mesh, linen thread, holographic thread, digitally developed image, digitally printed on canvas, hand stitched, cut, acrylic frame

A butterfly net in my brain seems to have scooped up flutterings towards an area of thought I've decided to pursue here. It has been an accumulation attached to perennial questions which are never far away from me: what is my worth, and what on earth am I doing with myself?- this time prompted by a series lack of success in various attempts to be accepted.

My conclusion is that my measure of probable success is at fault. I am looking for acceptance in areas where my work is either inappropriate or mediocre - or both, of course. I have been mulling this over the past couple of weeks in trying to balance what expenses I should continue to incur producing work which in the end might largely be a means of self expression and therapy, and which otherwise ends up first in the attic, then in landfill.

Then, this morning I came across an article about John Adams, the composer. It was interesting on various levels, but one element joined my flutterings, and also formed a link with a hobby horse. Talking about the state of contemporary music Adams said:

"We're in danger of an overflow of extremely mediocre music," he says, "partly because composing has become dangerously easy. Everyone can carry around software programs on a laptop and compose a new piece in a single evening.

Ever since I started seriously to express myself in an artistic medium I have been concerned about assessment - measure. I agree that at this stage in our civilisation we have so much leisure, access to materials, tools, and instruction, and encouragement that mountains of work flow out of us - but no-one talks about mediocrity. We are not encouraged to strive to improve, nor to feel content with our chosen goals, not least because there is no consistent reliable respect-able critical measure.

There is a dearth of rigorous critical writing about the best work, and equally there is a lack of reasoned critique of what does not hit the mark - nor of course of defining what that mark is, and why. I am specifically talking about the art quilt arena where being accepted into the juried exhibitions is no longer a question of quality but one of chance. So, the lack of success of the mediocre work can be excused by its maker on the luck of the draw. And it is seen perhaps to be a failure of ambition not to want to be accepted into the best exhibition showcase - even if criterion of quality is not discussed.

But I don't want to shrug and say, well it's a lottery. I want to know if my work is considered unfit for purpose, and why. I want to be able to choose for myself whether I wish to comply with that measure, and what to do about it. I want people to feel confidently measured in their opinions of my work that they can reasonably argue how they rate it.

I was delighted to read Denna Jones' review of Contemporary Textiles: The Fabric of Fine Art in the current issue of Embroidery magazine. I know that the academics in textiles want to distinguish themselves from us amateur hordes, and there is indeed a problem of lack of discrimination - and that is my hobby horse. But arrogance and incompetence in means of expression is not the way to a cure.

I believe that the difficulties of scale and appropriateness of category could be overcome with more critical thought all round. I do not think of this as providing more barriers to success, but exactly the opposite: what I would like to see are more signposts to successes.

There comes a point

when feeling rotten is just too boring to bear any more! So despite my niggling cough, and persistent dizzy headachesI'm banishing it all by reminding myself of the exhuberant beauty of Dale Chihuly. What a breath of joy his work brings. The photo above is one I took of a huge sun-full of pieces at Kew Gardens a couple of years ago.

I love glass as a form, but have bought very little of it during our collecting years. Of course it does not help that our taste outreaches our purse! But visits to the V&A glass gallery from time to time feed the desire to savour the delights. Apart from Chihuly, I particularly admire the work of David Reekie, who is also a great jolly boost to the spirits, Alison Kinnaird, Steven Newell, Tessa Clegg (whose work I did purchase in the early 80s as a christening present for my god daughter), - oh, and too many others. Even the memory of some objects can bring cheer, and even joy.

Hydrangeas at Hillier's

Still hacking away and feeling rough, but I enjoyed a glorious late afternoon trip to the arboretum
about an hour's drive away. It is a very pleasant place to visit, and the sun and shadows made it magical for a stroll round. The hydrangeas in the dappled shade were particularly attractive.
I prefer them to the perfect specimens, which almost look artificial.The spindle is one of my favourites at Autumn,
and the berries are plentiful everywhere this year. These look like glace cherries.

Side effects

My mother is temporarily on steroids, and so we have to be careful that she does not catch a cold. This of course is just the moment for one of the Fates with a sense of humour to give me a whopper!Georges Seurat Woman reading 1883 chalk on paper photo AKG Images

One of the pleasant side effects of being struck sideways thus - probably the only pleasure in this situation: I feel as fuzzy as this image looks - is that I have license to read all day without any pang of guilt. It also seems right to look out of the window at the wind blowing coloured leaves all over the garden.

Having read all of Steven Saylor's Gordianus books, the Sub Rosa series, and enjoyed them thoroughly, I was delighted to embark on Roma. My curiosity had been aroused by the informative whodunnits, and so I was looking forward to reading more about the early history of Rome. Saylor chooses a clever device in following one or two families through the generations, and tying them in closely to the important action. I did learn a lot - but was left rather dissatisfied nonetheless. We are plunged into intimate acquaintance with each particular protagonist, see them through what turns out to be stirring and portentous times, and then pfut! off we go again to the next important episode, jumping who knows how many generations.

I'm being picky, because it is extremely difficult to present history thus, and Saylor does make a good job of it. But it is not always comfortable falling between stools. I am excited to read, however, that there is another Gordianus adventure for us to read.

From Ancient Rome I leapt to contemporary Glasgow in Denise Mina's The last breath. This is her third Paddy Mehan novel - a journalist who solves mysteries As someone who was brought up in 'nice' Edinburgh this is a great way to indulge in the darker side of urban Scotland - doubly the other side of the country. I have read all of Mina's books, and have enjoyed them all - and despite the frequent acquaintance with murder have found them all on the edge of believable. The characters are vivid, and I can see them clearly - but this time I found the ending a little beyond my believing. Great stuff, nonetheless.

I am now staying in the gloom with Deborah Moggach's In the dark. The only other book of hers that I have read is Tulip Fever, which was ok. But I have heard several of her novels dramatised on the radio and have really enjoyed them. So far I am enjoying this one, which is set in London in the Great War. She draws a good portrait of the characters and their situation.

I have also been catching up with my magazines, which have landed on my doorstep in a bunch: as friends of the Tate, the V&A museum, and the Royal Academy we receive regular fat magazines which inform us of more than just what is on at each of those institutions. Then there's the latest Fiberarts, Sculpture, and American Craft, as well as finishing the latest Embroidery. It sounds like bliss - and in between the wracking cough, the phlegm, the headaches, the exhaustion, ... I suppose it is.