Clive Wright: Gallery of Artworks

A good deal that is written about contemporary art, including the things that artists have written about themselves in their statements, seems to me to be so obscure as to be impenetrable. With that thought in mind, I write this intro with some unease. My intention is simply to shed a little light on the things that inspire or compel me to make pictures. I certainly do not want to translate into words on paper what I have sought to represent in paint on canvas; that would be silly. My pictures must speak for themselves, but I will be disappointed if my pictorial intentions are misunderstood by the viewer. However, I realise that each of us brings to a work of art his or her personal experiences, visual enthusiasms and prejudices; and no two viewers will see precisely the same thing.

I chose the title, Mixed Signals, because it hints at the ambiguities that seem to characterise the images I make. In common with many others in their mid-sixties, I have long since abandoned the search for simple descriptions of life, preferring complex explanations. If there is truth in these pictures, it emerges form an interpretation of the world that contains contradictions and uncertainty. Obviously the things that I paint are linked to my interests and subjective views, as well as my personality. Having said that, I hope that viewers will not think the pictures are merely idiosyncratic.

Important Influences...
My childhood was spent in a coal mining district in the north midlands. If there was a duller place, I never discovered it. The upside is that I developed a power desire for its opposite - colour and exoticism. The annual visit of a funfair was an exciting event, not just because of the lights, noise and movement, but because I admired the painted rounding boards of the Noah's Ark, Waltzer etc. The ornament, bold stylisation and intense colour seemed wonderful. Later I gained the same excitement from the theatre. Mostly I preferred artifice to naturalism; I still do.

It is hard to imagine a young person today exhibiting the naivety and ignorance that was common in my youth when mass communication was all in the future. Even a trip to the nearest market town was a big event for us and I can recall no one who had visited a theatre, museum or art gallery. Strangely, this turned out to be an advantage since it stimulated my curiosity.

I lived in a house without books and pictures, but I did read comics (Beano and Dandy). The economical line drawings and simple, flat colouring used by the D C Thomson illustrators seemed to me to capture scenes and characters with startling vividness. It surprises me that many others who grew up with Dennis the Menace and Korky the Cat still find the work of the great 20th century masters, such as Picasso and Matisse, difficult. For me, the transition seemed natural.

It is sometimes said, and it might be true, that the English are less comfortable with painting and sculpture than other Europeans. We have, however, excelled in the field of literature, producing world class dramatists and novelists. I wonder if this love of words partially accounts for our fondness for narrative paintings. Popular taste appears to favour the sentimental and humorous. Certainly, in most Waterstones bookshops, there are more monographs on Jack Vettriano and Beryl Cook than, say, Francis Bacon, who was a great artist and much admired internationally. Evidence of our continuing fondness for schmaltziness and whimsy can be found in any high street card shop.

When, rather late in life some might think, I began travelling, it was Asia that fascinated me most. I had long since begun collecting antique figures, masks and puppets that were made in West Africa, Java and India. These theatrically emotive pieces and the mythologies that gave rise to them have influenced both my thinking and my painting. Even when I am not depicting the objects, their spirit is usually present. Some friends have suggested that I have created an existence inside my own head that is far removed from reality. If this is so, I am not really aware of it - and not much concerned anyway.

Of artists who worked in the western tradition, I hold in high regard: Van Eyck; Rubens; Velazquez; El Greco; Holbein; Hals; Cezanne; Matisse; Picasso; Beckman; Chagall and Bacon. The well-known living artists that I admire include: David Hockney; John Bellany; Tony Bevan; Marlene Dumas and Ana Maria Pacheco. The work of two less well know painters, Philip Sutton and Harry Weinberger, inspired me. Indeed, Harry was my role model and much of my current thinking can be traced back to his influence.

Almost without exception, the artists that I revere have created works that have universal meanings, even when the subject matter is personal or provincial. Although some have painted mythological scenes, none of them could be pigeon-holed as a story teller. I try to avoid narration in my own work.

Other stimuli...
The immediacy and transience of news items appeals to me. In addition to reading two national newspapers every day, I listen a good deal to the radio (I do not own a television). Press photographs sometimes act as starting points for pictures and, in recent years, I have also developed an interest in the work of some photographers, especially Diane Arbus, Sally Mann, Henri Cartier-Bresson and August Sanger.

I think that my real interest in books only emerged when I stopped watching TV, some 35 years ago. My home contains a large number of novels, poetry collections and non-fiction volumes. Regular trips to Oxfam to hand in bags of books that have not worked for me creates space for constant buying. Of the poets that have shaped my thinking I would single out Philip Larkin and Simon Armitage; the first now dead and unfashionable, but the latter very active and much lauded.

As mentioned above, I have surrounded myself with may artifacts from around the world. These were once hidden under the earth in China, decorating templates in India, entertaining village folk in Java, or adorning dancers in Sri Lanka and Africa. Although this makes my objects sound rather grand, none is of museum quality and all show distinct signs of wear and tear. Each is individual, rooted in traditional and full of vitality - the very qualities that I want my own paintings to have. It pleases me to research the cultures that gave rise to these works of art, discovering subtle nuances and layers of meaning that are not immediately apparent, again features that I would like to incorporate into my own work.

Painting Pictures...
I never allow anyone into my work room when I am painting, not exactly difficult when you live alone. The space is small and, between exhibitions, too crowded because completed paintings are stacked against the walls. Others are in a secure storage unit. I do not work on prepared canvases but make my own stretchers, on which I lay triple primed cotton canvas cut from rolls that are 5'6" wide. This is expedient, but it has another advantage in providing a gradual entry to the actual picture making business. Such thinking time is essential. The preparation can also be dragged out to postpone the difficult bit: making images. At present I use acrylic paints because I like the fast drying properties of this medium. Rather than use a palette I mix largish quantities of colour in plastic tubs. Often the same colours are used in more than one picture.

My intention is to end up with an effect that looks as if the work has been created in one go, without modification. There are, in reality, innumerable alterations needed, despite all my attempts to maintain an appearance of spontaneity. Generally I do not work from one preliminary study, but from several - and even from fragments of photographs and sketches. Although I often imagine I draw very little, I find that I have ended up with many books filled with drawing that are complete in their own terms.

Like making stretchers, framing pictures is a good diversionary tactic for me. The simple black frames are there for two reasons: to protect the pictures from damage, and to define the edges. Ideally, I would prefer to see my work professionally framed so that wider borders surrounded the images. Defining the edges makes a real difference. Once the frame has been attached, I usually feel that I am seeing the work anew; I am consequently compelled to repaint parts that I thought finished.

Those who have never painted probably think that the main activity is the application of paint to canvas. In reality, most of the time one is looking and thinking. This is much harder than it sounds. The product of long periods of gazing at a picture might result in a minor modification, but any change requires a complete reappraisal. Sometimes a painting emerges quickly although, in my experience, this is unusual.

Most pictures are part of a series on the same theme. I should like to offer an impressive explanation for this but, in reality; the reason lays in my incompetence. By this I mean that each of the pictures fails in some important way and I am forced to approach the same subject from a slightly different angle in the hope of coming closer to my original intention.

Some people paint for relaxation but, for me, painting is a sort of compulsion. I generally find the activity vexing and unsatisfying, but on the rare occasions when I think that I have achieved something worthwhile I am fulfilled. These few good moments provide me with the will to persist.

I am often asked how long it takes to paint a picture but I do not know how to answer that question. The pictures that are displayed in this exhibition are the product of two years work, although in another sense, they have emerged from a much longer gestation. I rarely know where an idea comes from. I suppose that images emerge slowly growing out of my direct experience and the things that interest me.

Familiarity with failure has taught me that almost everything can be improved. On the reverse of each canvas there is a completion date that, when I wrote it, seemed like an end point. Sometimes (often months later) I realised that the painting must be reworked and as a consequence many canvases have multiple completion dates. Bits of one picture are frequently reused to the point where some things have become old friends e.g. a small Moroccan table, crows, lilies, and items from my collections of old masks and puppets (especially Punch). Some personalities recur too: for instance, I have painted Aung San Suu Kyi many times. For all these reasons, it is hard to say when a particular picture starts and ends.

My paintings must speak for themselves. Nothing that I write will improve them, and I hope that my words will not detract from the experience of looking at the works.