The photo of the dead pigeon in my phone was the perfect subject of my first painting using oil. When I see dead birds on the ground I want to paint them – they are as important and beautiful as flying birds – and then I think, “Not another dead bird.” I also think the same when I see trees, “Don’t paint another tree. At least not this week.”
Below are previous illustrations of dead birds.
My mum is always a portrait subject for me, a muse, too, but she cancelled my next portrait of her for the Darling Portrait Prize, so here are a some of her in paint and ink.
Click on the link and see my portrait of her for the Blake Art Prize for the Casula Powerhouse Arts Centre.
These are my paintings of Balls Head and the Coal Loader site in Waverton, Sydney since August 2021 (out of lockdown). I entered ‘Above the Coal Loader’ for the North Sydney Art Prize 2022, but was inspired by my visit to the site prior to painting or entering the prize that I painted more.
All are in oil and on varying canvas types.
Oil and ink on corrugated cardboard, 42cm x 42.5cm.
I feel my heartbeat hard in my chest. There’s
heat in my skin as I hear the waves crash in the
distance. I know its place. I know the relation of
the horizon to where we are, where we have been,
where I am surrounded by lined wallpaper and
pages and paints and frames. I could burn any
second. I prayed for gratitude, and I stated what I
wanted so bad. I knew the end of the sentence –
period. I’d never heard that from myself before. As
the clock chimes in another room – another kind of
distance – and as much colour as we’ve put into this
year, when colour has been drained out of us, too, I
see one scene fade into another. The fading of life,
back there – not so far away – to fade into life here
that brisks into action there – not too far ahead –
because life dances, seems to move in circles; “I
know this place,” “I’ve been here before,” “We’ve
met,” “What’s your name?” “Who are you?”
“Where do you come from?” “I know you.” “Déjà vu.”
My heart beats hard in my chest, and my skin burns,
while my eyes feel the weight of a room with shells
on top of the wallpaper. And now we are at a blank,
even the waves have faded.
A portrait of Hendrietta’s private life – my mother. Acrylic on canvas, 41×51.
martbasa 