Gentle Giant

 INTERNAL LANDSCAPES

For as long as I'd known him, a dear friend had grieved over the estrangement of a once-close friend. Although he had thought it impossible, they had just recently reconnected after that gap of lost years; and then, he died - very suddenly & unexpectedly.

Grief has to be the least charted of emotions; the hardest to navigate. Not quite knowing what to do with himself; unable to sit, or stay still for any period of time, I suggested we meet on the sea front. Walking back & forth in the cold night air, until my friend had talked out enough regret, remorse, shock, and bitter-sweet memories to let it rest that evening. 

In the process of our night-walks by the sea, I heard so many stories and mad anecdotes, I felt privileged to 'meet' his friend second hand, and kind of fell in love with him, too. Obviously larger than life in every way: crazy, funny, loyal.  Irreplaceable. I grieved, and decided I'd make a tribute for my friend to remember him by. 

A small palm-sized cigar-box painted black; adding to the front an album cover, significant to my friend.

The map showed the country they'd both lived in before my friend left. My friend, a writer-poet, poured his heart out in a powerful, heart-wrenching poem as his own way of coming to terms with the irrevocable loss. I used excerpts from it, and added a black & white head-shot.

One evening as we walked together, I chanced upon a tiny bottle labelled Breathe. My friend laughed at its appositeness, so much-needed, at that very moment; taking in at the same time that it was a typical kind of happenstance he  had witnessed so many times when with me.  

The little bottle seemed to 'fit' in every way.

I'd had such a warm and detailed picture of this gentle giant friend, I felt as though I knew him. And, strange to say, it seemed as though he came to visit a couple of times, usually as I was soaking in the bath. Imagination can be a powerful healer; I went along with it. 

He had, from what I'd heard, lived & played hard; thoroughly enjoying all his vices. Obviously very loving & loyal, and just too damn young to die. The shock to family & friends was palpable (even at one step removed) with all those last scenes replayed; last dialogues re-run; questions & endless soul-searching. He himself would not have been prepared to go so suddenly; so young. 

I prayed for him, his friends & family. And was grateful my little tribute brought so much comfort to my friend. The least I could do. R.I.P. Gentle Giant. 

Our Father who Art in Heaven

OUR FATHER.....

This was an artwork I made to commemorate my father, Henryk Karpinski, who died when I was 10 years old. He was born in the ancient walled city of Torun, in the north of Poland, the home of Copernicus; I found a picture of the tower in the city wall whilst sorting through boxes of photographs of the tower in the wall, shown 3rd up from bottom left. 

I wanted to touch on the main elements and highlights of his life: as a young boy, then as a young man with his peers; his being in England, at Trafalgar Square with a pigeon on his extended hand; his wedding day; the christenings of his 3 children; enjoying his young sons; and his place of work, the Savoy Hotel. He loved photography, and making cine films, which I commemorated in a poem: 'Goodbye', that was published by MacMillan in The Works 4 - Every kind of poem on every topic you will ever need for the Literacy Hour, 2005. I had been asked to submit some 'poems for children' for consideration. It made me think - I hadn't intentionally written any with that audience in mind, but I looked through my work and read them in that light. Still unsure, I sent off about 3 or 4. I was surprised when I learned that the poem addressing my father's unexpected death was chosen. But, appreciated it may have been selected precisely because no child can be prepared for such a momentous event, so anything that touches on that subject is all the more valuable. 

The title of Red Hen's Group Exhibition came of out having the stairwell of a local community centre as our exhibition space - each expressing whatever 'Heaven' or Heavenly might mean in terms of art. 

Image-transfers applied to a roller-blind, made the work portable; appearing at another exhibition: the House of Dreams, that I organized at Rottingdean's Grange Gallery. I wanted the space to look as though visitors had stumbled into an artist's studio apartment, including a child's bed and toys in one corner, and a small indoor garden section at the other. The concept allowed for a broad range of arts & crafts that aren't normally seen in a gallery setting: beautiful hand-painted pillow-slips & lampshade ( Karen See), curtains (Diana Ward-Davies); knitted patchwork blanket & dream-catcher (mine); mosaics and fused glass pieces by local artists I'd chanced upon and wanted to include. A big inclusive group - and each unique. One visitor returned to bring me a quote they'd found about the value of handmade items that are imbued with love in the making.

                                       

I really hadn't had my father for long enough, and in the time he was alive, didn't get to see him regularly as he worked in London, while we had a bed & breakfast in Hove. When we did see him, it was always an adventure - trips to castles, and free entry to Butlins at Bognor Regis, as he had served Billy Butlin at the Savoy and was invited to come as a guest. Cherished memories. What I like is that he was an impetus for artwork that appeared in several exhibitions (including Greenbelt Christian Arts Festival, Shed Gallery) - as though giving me a helping hand to establish myself as an artist, as any proud father would.