Three short stories

1/

At work he was reduced to slavery, the kind of slavery that no amount of pay could free you from; he was sandwiched between gravestones, sandwiched between birth and death like a grape in a vice. His mind, was liquefied in his head, it began to swirl around in clouds of oblivion. Out of the oblivion cries were heard, desperate curses made their way out into reality.

People stood and stared, he was a shadow given a wooden body and set free; he was a body twisting and turning in the midst of a sacrificial fire. Dug deep into the flesh of time like a blackhead, the national company he worked for was surrounded by wrought iron railings, the kind that protect a grave. The director came into view floating like one of Goya’s witches.

In a dreamlike state I climb a fire engine ladder towards him to ask about my future. It’s too bad he says, you should never have asked for more.

2/

The child was brought up by the god of war, but loved too much. When he entered puberty the threat to the war god’s authority was plain to see. Tired of the child’s love and hating his first born son with a vehemence that not even his enemies had felt the god of war turned his son into water, bitter cold water that flowed away from the fires of the war gods rage into the winter night over the bed rock over the land, steaming and destroyed, stained by blood, polluted by death.

Over the land he flowed into a new continent. There was a young girl who came to him sometimes, looking into the mirrored surface of him and he fell in love with her. Each day she passed by and took a sip from the cool water of him without knowing who he really was. He looked at her with great sorrow, alienated, but loving to see her constant happiness And rested there for so long that he nearly forgot who he was or where he came from, so at peace was he. And other people came by too, singing and dancing.

After a long time had passed this land became threatened by his father the god of war and he came to the land to destroy and enslave this peaceful land, and to take enslave the girl he loved but his son was there and became agitated into fury like a gushing raging river, he went foreword to meet his father head on. The fire arrows were extinguished; the swords shattered by the torrent that rose unexpectedly above the god of war and the angry deluge crashed down onto him and extinguished the hatred of the war god and his army. All that was left was the god of war who asked who he was and where he came from. The fury of the waters abated and became still and the war god looked into the waters and saw his son reflected there, then he lay down with a broken heart by the waters edge and died.

3/

Life was good then, there was kindness and freedom in those early days like no one had ever known before; the freedom to move about without fear of death or failure. Then they built a temple, it rose high up into the sky and from the top sacrificial blood began to stream. Widening through the centuries into a river until the Great War when the river of sacrificial blood became a great ocean,

and the shadows of the dead flew above it like a cloud of black crows.

Stepney Green Gardens series

This is a series of paintings I’ve done of Stepney Green Gardens, a long narrow strip segmented by little paths that cut across it. Looking down it you see a series of gates and sections of the park so that each section is a visual section of the gardens. They are large 3×4 foot oil painting. I either painted them with painstaking detail with a small brush or in shapes using a large brush. Altogther their is an impression of walking down an everchanging pathway.

Questions?

What makes a photograph a photograph campared with: What makes a painting a painting of the subject. Do you use wood or stone? What are the qualities that make method unique. Does one surpass the other or does one make the other redundant.

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