What's in a Name?

(I only found this today in the Drafts (26/7/14). I thought I published this back during the Choose Yourself Exhibition. Oops. Decided to put it up now anyway. You'll have to do the TimeWarp)

Two more of my works sold. Maelstrom and Zephyr. Funnily enough, that's the three I named that are gone. All the others are Tangles 1 through 12. Naming my artworks is not something I like to do.

Maelstrom, Megan Hitchens, 2014, ink and graphite on heavy cotton paper

Giving paintings names is a relatively new phenomenon. Originally they didn't have names. They got known as things, but they didn't have names. A lot of the art that we know as "such and such" wasn't named by the artist, or the owner. The names we now know so well were acquired over time.

There were different ways a painting could gain a name - the subject matter was a favourite. For instance, "Judith Slaying Holofernes", "The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian", "The Oath of the Horatii". These have come to be seen as names whereas really they are descriptions.

Another method was through ownership, or the place it was kept.

More recently they have gained names through identification of particular figures or elements within the painting. My two favourites of these are Whistler's Arrangement in Grey and Black No.1 and Pollock's Number 11, 1952. I can gaurantee you know each of these famous paintings by a particular name.

Despite what Doctor Who said, Leonardo would not have referred to his famous painting as "Mona Lisa". So next time you see a painting you like, think about how it acquired its name and why. Me? I had to come up with three titles so I chose three words I liked. There was nothing more to it.

The Reality of Friends and the Faking of Relics

Long time between drinks. Between everyone else having flu (mummy the nurse) and then me getting a mutated super strain that didn't care I had had the flu injection, and then life going to hell in a handbasket, there hasn't been much time for drawing or painting, or reflection.

Things have been crap. They will continue to be crap for some time, I suspect. But I have some sense of perspective on it now, whereas this morning it was overwhelming. This morning I felt like running away, or disappearing into the murk. I don't think my children understand that sometimes grownups feel like running away. Maybe it is better that they don't, maybe it wouldn't hurt them to know.  Thanks to two lovely friends, and a facebook friend from across the seas, I don't feel quite so overwhelmed. They didn't do anything particular (well, not true, one came bearing hessian bags and dark chocolate, and just patiently listened). They just were themselves, wonderful and warm and full of wisdom. I am lucky to know intelligent, caring people who don't care that I am weird and are patient with my self-doubt and moaning.

Back in 1992 my spouse and I visited England, Scotland and France. Spouse had a conference in France (service at the conference centre made Fawlty Towers look good, but that's another story). He and the other academics were in sessions so one of the other extraneous spouses hired a car with the idea of driving around finding places of interest, which was a bit tricky because we had different ideas of "interest". A lot of the time I was happy to wander off on my own and explore while they went looking for "stores". But we all agreed Chartres would be worth seeing.

Chartres Cathedral is insane. Beautiful, but insane. It has a labyrinth on the floor which is supposed to be "walked" on your knees, for penance. There were lots of people walking it. No one on their knees. It is quite a size. All the statues had had their heads removed in a state of religious fervour sometime in the past, some nutters taking a stand against idolatry (can't remember who at the moment, couldn't be bothered looking it up) - you see the same thing at Notre Dame and other places. Chartres also has a number of relics, including some of Mary Magdalene's hair (if you line up all her hair held by various religious bodies there is something like 20 miles of the stuff), and Mary the Virgin's birthing robe, which they know is hers because it is spotless.

Off on a tangent, because it is too much fun. England had a famous relic hunter, Hugh of Lincoln (later sainted and his body treated as a relic). He promoted himself as the go-to guy for relics. Churches and cathedrals often made offers to buy relics from each other because relics equalled pilgrims equalled cash. Sometimes swaps were done - "your saint relic is more appropriate to us, we have one more appropriate to you" - but usually money changed hands. Mostly it was no deal. And then Hugh would be called in. Hugh could broker deals where others couldn't, and he was willing to resort to other means if turned down. He prided himself on coming through with the goods, and became very wealthy as a result. As far as I have found, he didn't resort to fakery to fill orders (although I think most relics were fakes - the head of John the Baptist as a child comes to mind. And relic fakery was a lucrative business. Funnily enough, it was at the height of this that the Shroud of Turin suddenly turned up).

Hugh was commissioned to get the arm of Mary Magdalene from a church in Normandy for an abbey in England. There was clearly no deal to be done, so he asked if he could see the arm, to properly venerate it before he sadly departed. The monks agreed (more fool them), He asked to kiss it. They were suitably impressed by his piety and acquiesced, at which he promptly grabbed it, took an almighty bite and legged it with a piece in his mouth. He made his escape and returned to England triumphant, where he received a handsome payout for a job well done. The Normandy monks complained in writing, thereby verifying Hugh's version of events (1).

Back to Chartres. It is an amazing place. You drive along and the land is flat. We were there just before harvest, so the fields were full of wheat and barley. Green and golden heads waving in the breeze, stretching out around us. The day was very overcast, storm clouds gathering, but occasionally a shaft of sunlight would break through. And then from nowhere rises a building, majestic in the light. It stands alone in the fields, like a beacon. It is only as you approach the town that you realise why. The town of Chartres is built in a bowl, the Cathedral on a hill in the middle of that bowl. So it is on the same level as the surrounding fields and the town is hidden from view. It is an amazing thing and exceptionally beautiful.

I had forgotten to take my camera with me, which was a curse and a blessing. I would have liked to have had photos (I had a wonderful camera back then, in the distant days of film), but because it wasn't there I ended up really looking, really seeing, and my memories of that day are amongst the strongest of that trip. Doing a couple of sketches no doubt helped. Has our ability to instantly record robbed us of our ability to observe and to truly remember?

Anyway, I was feeling this morning like drawing cemeteries or blasted ruins, or wrecked ships. Instead I ended up thinking about Chartres rising from nowhere and glowing in the dark, like my wonderful friends who provided me with much-needed warmth and light today. I am still down, but I no longer feel like I am drowning. The quick drawing below is done from memory and my original sketches. And I am annoyed about the image. Digital reproduction is often problematic.

Chartres Cathedral, Megan Hitchens 2014, charcoal, white and red chalk, blue pencil on grey paper.

Choosing a song was hard. I was leaning towards "End Of Days" or "Downtrodden", Instead I have chosen a piece by Levon Menassian, the Armenian duduk maestro. This is, I think, amongst the most wonderful music on earth. Meloncholy, eery and heartbreakingly beautiful.

(1) This story is often recounted and there was plenty written about Hugh by his contemporaries and later. He seems to have had something of the Indiana Jones about him. I first came across this particular story at University when I was researching the medieval church. Christine Quigley writes a brief account in "The Corpse: A History", which is available online.

  

It's Over

Well, the Choose Yourself Exhibition is over. I nearly said no to this. We were only given a few days notice, I didn't have much that was new, I had reservations about a few things. But either I am serious about this or I am just playing.

As some of you already know, this has been an incredibly successful exhibition for me. Normally I bring home everything, or if I am lucky I bring home everything minus one piece. This time I put in fifteen pieces and brought home only six.

Six.

Only six.

Still a bit stunned by that.

Frank Woodley, the ultimate bewildered comedian. I am with you all the way, Frank

More bewildering was WHO purchased some of the Tangles.

Wyong Shire Council has always banged on about the arts and its support for local artists and artisans. Sometimes it has backed this up with real support, other times not so much. The actual council officers in charge of the arts (as opposed to the councillors) have always been great, very understanding, very interested, very knowledgable, and the Council does make grants available which have facilitated many arts projects on the Central Coast. If you are looking for financing for a project, see what your local Council has to offer. You never know.

This time, however, Council has started something lasting. It now has an arts acquisition fund, aimed at building a permanent collection of local artists' works. The acquisitions officer visited the exhibition last week and decided that six of my little pieces would be a good fit. As I wrote elsewhere at the time, I feel a bit concussed by this. Several days later it is still making me blink.

I knew one of the other exhibiting artists, Amanda Anderson, all the others were new to me, but I feel so privileged to have been in this with them. The styles were different, but somehow worked well together, and as people we worked well together. I think I have some new friends from this, which is the biggest bonus of them all.

Now I have to get on with making something new, for the next time. Because there will be a next time, and a time after that, although I am mentally preparing for the inevitable return to drought following this. But that said, there's no going back now. I am on my way.

(And I have included this clip just because it's a laugh, and I feel like laughing today. It was this, or Freak Fandango Orchestra)

A Preview

I wasn't going to post any of these until they were all finished, but I am forcing my own hand to a certain extent. There has been a beautiful image appear on the internet, and, while not like these, there is a link. I don't want to be accused of plagiarism, so here are my preliminary sketches (done on my first duty day at the Choose Yourself exhibition). I will actually get off my arse and hopefully finish some of these properly this afternoon, and there will only be six in the series instead of the planned nine (although they may come later, if they will just stop morphing in my head and on paper). They should all have been finished already, but it has been a very busy few weeks, so they have crept along. I am about ready to add colour to the finished pieces, so it shouldn't take long.

Preliminary sketches, "Airships of Asia", Megan Hitchens, pencil on paper, 7 June 2014

These sketches are linked to a post I am writing about Steampunk and cultural imperialism.

I don't know that anyone will really care, and I am probably just being paranoid, but, hey, what does it hurt to cover your arse once in a while?

I Want More!

SOMETHING SOLD! Ha ha! Something sold!

Someone bought one of my pieces in the exhibition. Actually, someone bought my favourite piece in the exhibition. Which is wonderful. My mother doesn't like to put her favourite pieces on sale in case someone buys them, but I suppose we are a little different.

There are a couple of pieces that I will never sell, but beyond that...

My wall at the Choose Yourself Exhibition, Entrance Gallery, The Entrance, 2014. Cipher is the one in the middle, you know, the one with the snakey thing.

As you already know, I put in abstracts drawn using the Zentangle method (you can find out more about this wonderful way of drawing here), something of a departure from my usual figurative realism. And I was quite nervous about them. But I am quite proud of them, they are good pieces. And I love Cipher. I think it works really well.

So it is very satisfying that someone else thinks so too.

My painting master, Charlie Sheard, always said to do what you love - eventually you will find someone who loves it too. This was in the context of "don't paint to trend or market", and is very sage advice.

And it works (and has covered the cost of the frames).

But here's the drawback - that's one sold. What about the others? Who will give them a home? Who will love them enough to GET OUT THE WALLET?

It's not enough to sell one. I am a selfish git. I want more.

Moan, Moan, Moan

Okay, be warned. I am having a whinge.

Anyone who knows me knows I am a whinger. Never more content than when I can tell my woes to another. Quite disgusting. Especially when I have friends who have real problems - divorce, illness, deaths in the family. Could I possibly get some perspective?

But I am still going to have a whinge.

My kids have flu. They were supposed to go away with their father this weekend. Down to Canberra to roleplay at a convention. And I was supposed to have the weekend all to myself.

For the first time IN YEARS.

But they are both quite ill. Which isn't their fault and sucks for them more than for me.

And to make matters worse, my daughter, whom I thought was on top of all her school work, has chosen, CHOSEN (see those capitals?) to send it all (well, History anyway) to hell in a great, big flaming handbasket of doom. Doom, I tell you.

So it has been a lovely day. And I really feel like going to the exhibition opening tomorrow and then doing duty on Saturday (I'll be there Saturday, and Monday 16th June if you want to come in and say hi. Promise I shall be chirpy).

I think I shall stick my head under the covers for a bit.

And just to prove that it's not all Abney Park and to give me the kick up the bum I deserve:

I've Been Framed

Actually, my works have been framed. Took a few good hours (DIY is a good way to save money), but I don't think they look too bad.

T12, Megan Hitchens, 2014, Sakura ink and graphite on heavy cotton paper

It's been a mad dash, and there were many instances when I wished I had a TARDIS or a time turner, or ANYTHING so I could sneak in a couple more hours. This morning I had to drop them all off at the Entrance Gallery. We were supposed to start hanging today, but the previous exhibition hadn't come down, so instead we did a whole lot of waiting around. We'll start hanging tomorrow.

Cipher, Megan Hitchens, 2014, Sakura ink and graphite on heavy cotton paper

A form for the exhibition arrived in my email this morning - you know, artist bio, description, work title, description, extra notes or instructions, that sort of thing. I'm terrible about this. I don't mind writing a short bio - who I am, where I studied, how long I have been doing this - but I WILL NOT write a description/explanation for each work. I hate that sort of thing. Drives me mad when I see it on paintings, whether in a small gallery, the AGNSW or wherever.

Either a work stands on its own or it fails as art.

I'm not talking about the need to explain a particular element that references something specific (thereby enhancing your understanding). I am talking about an emotional response. If you need an A4 sheet of waffle in order to respond to a work, if it has no meaning or resonance for you without that, then it has failed. You are responding to the written words, not the work itself. As an artist, if you need an A4 sheet of waffle to justify your work or show how "clever" you are, go do something else.

Side bonus - the form has just become quicker to fill in.