I've been doing alot of drawing with pen and wash, lots of odd, scratchy pictures that come from God knows where. I studied painting at school but left it behind to do proper things. I had forgotten the joy in the mess of making, laying claim to some disinterred intention in the accidental.
I always wanted to have a go with this media. I think it's to do with a book I had as a child, illustrated by Edward Ardizzione (look him up if you've never come across him). I don't know why it took me so long to use it. I love the way the wash bleeds and the pressure of the hand is faintly discernible in the steadiest of lines. This is the body fucking with white space.
This is all part of a great recovery; the past I shut away. I want to do things without purpose now that are frail, absurd and full of joy. Spending your life in thrall to some notion of the purity of social function is boring.
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