2nd of August
For my own entertainment, I wept today. Shut up, me, for wimbling on, gasping. Afraid to bend for three days with broken, crossed-out eyes and looking very shifty. Figgis. Merging uncertainly with columbine, spiders creepy-crawling. Off with me to the lanky tree line, careful not to step upon bending grasses. How long did it take me, Prade the Figgis, whilst wallowing in the meagre satchel?
3rd of August
Concubine, tuft, and trumpton are all good words to use when talking to grasses. It is one of life’s greatest pleasures to listen to their music and to embrace the topsy-turvy images they conjure up. Figgy me. Last night, I tangled and wrangled in the emotional threads of someone else’s brain fever and now feel the need to voice my concerns, but to whom? My day undulated with the fallout, and I wonder whether I should be sitting in that special space. I’m waiting for the marshes to dissipate, waiting to disappear.
5th of August
I’ve been fly catching – not a pretty sight. Flummoxing around like a fool, blurting out. At odds with myself, actually. On recollecting, mustering up, pre-fabricating, I must hover. Poor rabbit—he drew near, but only because he was dying, his nose bitten. Forgotten in a bed of thistle-down. I called over to the goats, and they came and kissed me – beautiful it was. They climbed up to show me their ancient horns. I touched them and wondered whether they were forever. I think so, Figgis.
6th of August
Gérard Depardieu has also got a big nose. He blew it hard one day, and I felt it from here.
8th of August
Been busy. Squabbled with myself when I awoke, then thought of nothing while I filtered through soil with my fingers. I toyed with the idea of erecting a monocle until the jezebel hussy ripped through from the other side, sounding like wind whipping through ice sheets—shivering insect rhythms. I can tell no one about this, apart from my big toe, who is a very good listener. Meanwhile, a wood pigeon flew my way. He fluttered and whistled, turning at a steep angle, seeking refuge from my gaze in nearby branches. Quite an uncanny manoeuvre, I thought—I must have made him start. Flap, flap.
Prade the Figgis
oil on board, 50 x 50 cm
Reflections on the creation of this painting
I approach painting with the spirit of adventure. I enjoy engaging with what emerges on the board, especially when a painting is unplanned and develops thoughtfully through a process of refinement.
Seeking a dialogue with it is part of that refinement process. "Who are you?" is a question I often ask. The perceived answer in this particular case is, "Prade the Figgis." Prade by name and Figgis by nature—a kind of faun, if you will. I want to inhabit this being and his surroundings.
In the way one can anticipate a melody and feel where a tune is heading, this is how I follow my imagination; the more credence I give, the more perceptible the response becomes.
I began the painting after a long walk in Waltham St Lawrence, where I encountered the goat in the photograph below.
