The Four Apostles
Just started work on this over the weekend, I’m using oil pastel for the first in ages having a bit of a struggle getting them to do what I want but I’m getting there.
Pavement Artist. (Paul Jones) by SuperShiyo on Flickr.
This is me just starting an early version of I own That look early in the summer
Via Flickr:
Met this man in York whilst on my holidays, great person, painting a girl blowing bubbles into a mirror at the time. (?)
Here is a better photo of my Minster drawing still havn’t been able to finish it due to the rubbish weather hopefully I’ll get a couple of mild days soon and get it done
A better photo of this drawing now that it is finished.
TS1 ER
Stencil on Paper
32cm x 38cm
The clouds scud overhead, mirroring the thoughts tumbling through my mind. The house, like many others round here, is a terrace once peopled by working folk…a family perhaps. It’s likely the doorstep once gleamed with elbow grease and the smell of home baking wafted from a window left ajar, but it’s sure that those were better times. The house’s neighbours are boarded up, eviction notices splatter the plywood encasing the doors and windows and the area I hurry through on my short cut home is quiet, unpopulated, unwelcoming. I wouldn’t want to be round here when dusk falls, though the girl who stands in the door way of the two-up two-down I rush past is probably anticipating it, wishing it here so that she can earn a wage…
The town whispers that this is a brothel, a cat house a den of iniquity. To me it oozes sadness and despair. She often stands in the doorway, whoever she is…someone’s daughter or sister - perhaps she has no one. She pulls hard on a cigarette, glancing at me dispassionately as I dash through the street. She looks younger than me, but older simultaneously, as if the life she leads has hardened her, made her into a woman before she needed to be. I wonder about her punters, the men she fucks for money. Though I imagine (like many others) that they are lone bachelors with dirty secrets and body odour, sweaty socks and crumpled notes, they may just as well be husbands, other women’s lover’s, anxious virgins looking to get the first time ‘over with’. What secrets might sigh from the walls of the solitary house’s walls if it deigned to speak? And what of her, the girl-woman with the narrowed eyes? Does anyone miss her? Did she leave another world behind to inhabit the after-dark existence I imagine she now skulks through, leaning into car windows to enquire if the drivers are looking for company?
I reach my destination, jiggle the key in the lock and step inside; shutting the door firmly behind me lest that other world seeps in to contaminates the one I inhabit.
