« Songs for the End of Summer | Main | A New Look for Phoenicia »

August 27, 2015


I have a better understanding of what you mean in this post as I am unpacking my own things. A house becomes a home, my home, when I have the things I love around me. Like the drawings in my sketchbooks, they have their stories to tell.

I love the naked, sensual, pared down lines of that top drawing - very Matisse, yes, but in your own way.

Would that I were good enough to be able to write pastiche Waugh, Joyce, Henry James and then to be dissatisfied by the result("they're also more derivative of the Matisse and Picasso drawings I was poring over at the time."). More particularly to be able to reduce subjects to an absolute minimum of words (as you have done here with lines) so that plausibility, or the lack of it, becomes harder and harder to achieve.

Lacking such skills I take comfort from Tom Lehrer's hymn to Lobachevsky:

Let no one else's work evade your eyes
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes
So don't shade your eyes
But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize
Only be sure always to call it please "research"

I like these drawings very much.

Oh, I hope those discarded works went out in the hall for people to take!

Clive's still lives always seem strongly self-portraits... And I have done plenty of self-portraits in words that would have seemed like something else entirely if I hadn't labeled them so. Enjoying your self-collections.

The comments to this entry are closed.

My Photo

Who was Cassandra?

  • In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well, you know what happened.