How to understand (my) abstract art
Well, the first thing I’m going to tell you is that I’m not going to tell you how to understand these paintings. Sorry to disappoint. I can’t. You will see what you see. Everyone sees things differently and that’s the point - it’s ok just to look, spend some time observing, come closer, step further away. The time you’re spending looking is precious time to breathe.
I will let you in on a little about the processes, though. I used to paint landscapes, which I enjoyed, but constantly worried about colours, horizon lines etc. I started my MA Fine Art at University of Chester in 2018. The tutor thought she was getting a landscape artist, but I flipped, pivoted, as they say. I initially wanted to explore something close to my heart - the experience of chronic pain (yes, I have it and deal with it fairly well). When I looked for work on this topic, there were plenty of artists showing figurative depictions, images of nails under the skin, bruises, electricity, even some of Frida Kahlo’s work depicted pain in gruesome ways. Not something I want to look at myself (sorry if that’s your thing).
So, I explored the experience in a different way, the movement, touch and energy involved in the process of pain. This gave me such freedom. Freedom to use whatever medium I choose, whichever tools I have at hand, and make up my own mark-making. This then became a wider notion of disruption and containment - we all have things we try to contain, we all have a private and public persona (I’m in a choir, so have a performance persona and my normal one). Abstract work meant that I could be free from having to ‘depict’ anything specific and focus on the processes of painting - I have become obsessed with lines, forms and patterns overlapping, blending, scratching in, and also during the pandemic I became aware of inside, outside, space, framing, distance, and encroachment, so you’ll see lines emerging out from a square or circle, you’ll see groups of circles perhaps, and also paint overlapping other shapes.
I also like the idea of failure to contain as this is very relevant to many things globally and politically we are and have been going through - what happens if we fail to contain? What happens if, for instance, our mental health becomes something we can no longer ‘contain’ behind the professional ‘fronts’ we manage? What about the environmental crisis - how do we contain the physical destruction and our emotional responses? Or do we not?
And layers. I love layers (strangely, I’m also a fan of winter layers and thick jumpers). These layers create a history, something buried underneath. Treasure. Stories. Death. Secrets. Scars. Truth. These layers show through. Only just, sometimes. But they’re there. Like treasure or shells we find when hunting on a beach.
Our histories, our experiences have made us strong as humans. They deserve to leave an impact, an impression, a legacy, even just a tiny trace. We survive, learn and adapt.
Close up detail from painting Energy 4, 2020…. “That part looks like a tent to me,” someone said. Could be….
You might also see shapes that look like something you might recognise. “Is it a…?” I hear people ask. I have one painting in which a shape emerged that looked like a 1980s TV with an aerial, another that looks like it has a jellyfish, a washing line, lantern, a doorway. But it’s not. Or is it? Could be. It’s up to you.
You’ll notice I have some paintings that are very bright, some that are muted colours, and some that are both. I don’t believe in sticking to one particular set of colours. I explore what works emotionally. Sometimes the feelings we have are explosive, angry, vibrant, and energetic; sometimes we’re a little more chilled, passive, calm, meditative - my paintings show it all. I absolutely love bright colours, but then when I work over them in layers, I love the tranquillity it produces too.
“Watermelon sugar high, watermelon sugar high…” as the Harry Style song goes. Every time my child sees this painting they point out the ‘watermelon’ (top left). It’s not, but it can be if you like. It’s just one of those random shapes and colour combinations that appear due to the process.
I know that if I try to finish a piece too early, it will speak to me. I wish I could just slap a few colours on and be done, but I don’t work that way. And I’m not precise (line work, precision, patience, nope, that just hurts me). I work this way for a reason. This is my voice. My fingerprint. Follow the process. This is my mantra. This is how I produce work that is unique, one-off, never to be repeated. I may make a series, and I may continue a series, but you can guarantee that every painting is an original. A one-off. I honestly wouldn’t be able to copy one myself!