Work In Progress: 'This S(c)epic Isle'. Fridge Paintings 2

'Fridge Door Painting' (Work In Progress), Mixed Media On Salvaged
Refrigerator Door, August 2017

2017 continues in its somewhat distracted, desultory way, but the work continues.  The extended summer break from school has flown by, as ever (and with certain other demands on my attention - but my fridge door paintings progress nonetheless.  Here are the most recent examples.

As is often the case, when I work on each of a series of pieces in parallel, there's a little insecurity about just making the same painting over and over, but, to be honest - I'm bored with looking for problems this year.  If that is the case, the real solution is not to get bogged-down in introspection - but to just keep going and allow the work to develop at its own pace [1.].  It's also important to remember that, whilst the imagery on each of the four existing doors has reached a certain level of resolution - they're essentially grounds for further elements.  It's always been my intention that these will include texts and/or further (possibly printed) motifs.  If that plays out, it should allow for greater distinction between each piece.  That's the hope, in any case...

'Fridge Door Painting' (Work In Progress), Acrylics & Mixed Media On
Salvaged Refrigerator Door, August 2017

[1.]  On a slight tangent:  This year has even seen a dispiriting reawakening of the fears of imminent nuclear annihilation which stalked my young adult years.  It interests me how age can bring to bear a certain philosophical resignation upon even the most existential threats.  Perhaps it's just a case of having less personal future (as in, actual number of years) at stake - although, at root, the perceived human rush towards total obliteration still bemuses and angers me as much as ever.  If the motivation for such folly really is nationalistic - then perhaps these current paintings have some connection with all that.  These days, however, I seem more prepared to delude myself that vested interests, or other shadowy moderating influences, might really be working behind the scenes to short-circuit the apocalyptic petulance of their baby-man figureheads.

In recent days, I've even heard raised the trite old question of how one would choose to spend one's final four minutes.  The tempting, if predictable, answers for me would be: in the arms of a beloved; or staring at a favourite view.  However, I'm a bit between beloveds these days, and the views that really move me most profoundly are all some distance away.  In that case, if we've all got to fry - I might as well do it with a paintbrush in my hand.  Also, didn't Indiana Jones once escape a nuclear blast by climbing into an old fridge?