At the Edge
Moving along the shore, sure-footed as I’m preoccupied with what is moving through my mind, when suddenly a wave explodes against the rocks, displacing mussels and debris from it, the spray drifts, carried by the wind. It travels over me, falling against its desire to drift further and cascade towards the tidal pool. I'm completely mesmerized as if a spell has been cast, suspending me in what feels like ecstatic time, opening the conflict that had become overcrowded by its own convictions, exposing its vulnerabilities.
The sun is rising. There's a chill in the air. The northerly winds are blowing, howling really, as it whistles through the gaps of rocks that lean up against one another. At least the rain has passed and has allowed me to bring my materials to the shore edge. I found a nook and it’s providing a bit of shelter from the wind to the right of me, mussels below my feet shatter while deciding on where to sit, removing wet kelp and avoiding the bird shit. There's an urgency that permeates as I begin. I unpack the few materials I carry, always light, no unnecessary tools, just what I need to commune with the inbetween. A couple brushes, liquid charcoal, water and paper, which varies depending on what I have available, mostly a heavy weight paper, say 300-600gsm, hot pressed to be specific, I’m not a fan of the textured bumpy paper. It interrupts the subtlety of tone more than I would otherwise prefer when I work at this scale. The charcoal is placed onto a square ink grinding block, which has somehow survived my meandering without cracking. Purchased years ago when I was exploring Japanese art, grabbed first because it was there, now I don't go anywhere without it. It has a beautiful surface for diluting pigment, enough space to load my brushes and its size complements how I move through the shore. Placing the mixing block beside me, with the hope it doesn't fall while I'm in process, a loss of transmission would frustrate me.
I’ve found there’s no one way when laying in the pigment on paper, only that once I start there’s no turning back, like drinking water after not having had any for some time. I spray the pigment block with water, to activate the charcoal, load my brush and begin to establish shapes and dragging tonal structures around the paper, varying the weight applied to the brush. The air is wet, I'm fumbling a bit as my hands are cold. But I begin to warm up as the process deepens, the brush dancing across the paper surface, simultaneously extracting pigment with an old and abused rag, pulling out the light, revealing shapes and tonality that modulates. By now I'm in a conversation, as if the unfolding events around me are guides. Developing the composition feels like cherry picking an apple. Some feel and look right but don't always taste that way and I'm not the only one picking.
I'm done. Let's move on.
SHORE — 05
2026
Charcoal on paper
Paper size: 267 × 210 mm
Frame & Mount: Suggested
I’ve returned to my car, an old VW caddy, just about recovered from the catacombs of a desperate car sales dealership, hoping to give it one more go at an adventure before its ultimate demise. No complaints tho, I've put the machine through some serious shit, the terrain I love being in must be having a laugh, when I lay those tires to the gravel’s chaos. Usually I walk from the house onto the trails that lead to the rocks. But I was unsure of what the weather was going to do. So I decided to take the car, in case the rain squall decided to emerge, a planned exit for the work created. Turning up the heat, I began looking through the three paintings. I'm intrigued by some of the marks. There’s a subtlety in tonality and the register the compositions ended up in is surprising, I was particularly drawn to the edges of the dense shapes emerging from the light fields. The speckling from the moisture in the air seems to have added to the composition's effects. Interesting… I muse over how much of that was the brush lifting from the surface, migrating, leaving residue from where it once came, or something else.
Slightly perplexed and pleased, signaled through my seemingly confident gesture as I started the car, hustling to put it into reverse. Time to go, I need to get back and attend to the rest of the day. Note to self, dry shoes by the fire as the rest of the week is much the same.
On Practice is a series of writing on process, place, and the making of work. Get new entries in On Practice, plus occasional notes from the studio, sent monthly. Sign up
