One afternoon, you become more than usual lost in the art. You wander into a gallery tucked away at the end of a long hallway. Hanging on the room’s beige walls, is an odd collection of paintings with no clear linking theme, style, painter. You turn to go, but instead, find yourself inside a painting looking out at the gallery.
Weave a tale about your experience inside the creativity of the artist’s mind. What is the subject/style of the painting? How does it feel being on the inside looking out? What surrounds you, interacts with you, finds/discovers you?
It was not the dust and age of the painting that attracted me but the subject matter.
I was once one of those kids playing cricket in and on any space we could find.
The hot blazing summer taking toll of our energy and our resilience to play all day.
What I loved about this image was the painter’s depiction of a period that wasn’t so long ago, at least I recall it. A time when such games were played with great attention to detail and fiercely competitive.
It was like wandering back through my childhood and observing Rick, Pete and Craig along with Kate and little Jenny who insisted on being included even though we boys saw them as extra fielders and never true participants in a game we thought in those days the domain of us boys.
So I’m sitting on the hill to the right watching intently as games of street cricket were as intense as any played anywhere.
I remember this artist as a man who depicted life as it was in a time before the visual world we know now took over.
I once had an argument with a friend over the value of his work as art. She argued it wasn’t art but rather a picture as the artist didn’t give any interpretation but rather painted it as it was. My argument was he had the talent to paint it and record a way of life that is long forgotten now.
To me it is art as he tells me a story and I like story as a way of reaching out to an audience and reminding them that once things were not as they are now.
I sat there for a long time watching and observing the enjoyment the kids were getting from the game only to be interrupted by the shrill sound of a mother’s voice calling them to dinner.
To me it was a moment, a time to treasure, and as I suddenly found myself back in the gallery looking back at the painting and the many others consigned to this dark corner of the gallery I was pleased I’d had the experience I did to once again remember a childhood that had its own form of magic.
Artist Darcy Doyle