want of trying. Yet I saw things in that abyss that should never be spoken of except in warning. So those paintings will never be created.
Late in 2019 I finally found time to sit down at the easel, following a monumental blow that added insult to injury following my existing travails. Though I very rarely paint with emotion, as I have a particularly intellectual approach to my work, now, the only thing I could do was paint where I was, as I was. It was a point in time that had to be acknowledged before doing anything else.
So Hineni was born. In Hebrew, Hineni (which I borrowed from Leonard Cohen’s swansong which I have had on repeat since my father passed), means “Here I am,” or, “I am ready,” in the sense of standing before the greater creative power and saying “what do you want of me?” And that is exactly where I was, so that is what I painted.
The advent of COVID-19 and full lockdown followed on quite quickly a few weeks later, and I was grateful for the time, because Hineni opened a floodgate. A lover of challenges, I set myself a large, immensely complex painting, reflecting, once again, where I found myself in the moment as guardian of my father’s legacy. And thus, Ecce Femina (pictured above) was born.
Ecce Femina (reflecting the Biblical “Ecce homo” took
In light of the events of the past couple of years it has been very difficult to return to the easel – partly because of the immense workload that I found myself with directly following my father’s passing, and partly, unsurprisingly, because I feared where the artistic process would take me. Though the experiences of recent months have been rich in images, the quality of their darkness is such that I do not want to bring them into the world, which is dark enough already.
There is, in the Kabbalistic tradition, a school of thought that speaks of the source of human suffering and the evils of the world. These are thought to originate with the Qlipphoth – the shards, or shells, of broken attempts to create the universe. It is the Kabbalist’s task to attempt to rectify the pain of the world by diving into the depths of the abyss where these shards lie, and bringing them out into the light.
During my father’s illness I found myself in that abyss more than once, and every small success on his route to recovery was, in a sense, the healing of one of those small, broken things. Alas, the effort failed, but not for
just over 2 months to complete during lockdown, and was thoroughly cathartic. It was springtime, and every day as I sat in my studio, I gradually watched Nature emerge from the sleep of winter, and as the painting progressed, I could not help but begin to emerge alongside Nature. Suddenly the garden needed tending, things needed planting and caring for… I began to live again, just a little.
I completed Ecce Femina in late May 2020 and found myself in an entirely new place. It was satisfying to see that I had not grown technically rusty despite my long pause, and that I could execute the challenge I set myself to a level that satisfied me.
Neither of these paintings will ever be put up for sale, for reasons that should be obvious. I may ritually burn them one day, or gift them to a bereavement charity. Nevertheless, they got me back in the studio and a new series – which does draw on some compositional elements seen here, but less on the emotional content – has begun to emerge. More on that as it does so.
For those who enjoy my explanations of the symbolism, here are the write-ups for each painting. Due to my experience as a scholar, I live with a morbid terror that meanings will be ascribed to my work that I never intended, as is too often the case with hapless authors and artists who have long since died. So here are the actual intentions of this artist, for what they’re worth.
Hineni
The title is the key to the work. “Hineni” means “I am here, present and conscious of the moment,” in Hebrew. Some may recognise it as the refrain of one of Leonard Cohen’s last, and most haunting songs, “You want it darker,” which serves as the soundtrack for this painting.
I don’t believe the heart needs any explanation. It is mine, it is me, and this is what it looks like. It, and everything it carries, and everything bleeding out of it, have been shut in a box since my world began imploding when my father became ill, because I had to function as a soldier on the front line. Grieving and giving in to emotion is a luxury in situations such as those we experienced, and one that I could not possibly allow to cloud my judgement when faced with immense responsibility, as I was and am. That comes at a price, however.
The figure behind the box needs no introduction. Part of the body is stripped of flesh because it has bled out in the efforts to maintain life. And failed; but bare bones are still beautiful in their starkness. Plus, my right SI joint and hip have been in constant pain since early in the story, due to heavy lifting (literally). The tattooed clock on the other hip shows the time when hope died in the small hours of September 20th 2018… a moment indelibly branded on and in me. The moment that put holes in the heart that cannot close.
The box lid holds other parts of the narrative… ways out, ways through, ways blocked. The hint that this is a narrative being written comes on the right-hand lid that is also a book. That way is now blocked. Deeper in the box is a stairway guarded by Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead who weighs the human heart against a feather. If it is found heavier, their heart and soul are eaten by a crocodile. If lighter, their spirit proceeds into the eternal afterlife; the heart is lighter as shown here.
On the other lid and in the hands, my only tools, as the stairway of Anubis is not yet mine. Paintbrushes, a feather to write with, and acorns as a symbol of rebirth and the effort needed for it to occur. My great oak fell, but left me plenty of acorns. The feather is that of a jay I found in my garden, also full of actual oak trees, so these also stand for my place of sanctuary, the place I hide my box.
A scrap of tape still stuck to the lid reads “FRAGILE”. The threads holding the arteries aloft and the nails pinning them are the people for whom I soldiered on, or who literally kept me standing and moving, through all of this. Five threads, five people: my mother, my partner, my godfather, and my musketeers. I did not always soldier on willingly, and in those moments the support became a sense of restriction… also reflected here.
Finally, a handful of marbles on top of the box stand for childhood, childlikeness, and something that is constantly changing (the way they refract light), and always in motion, never still, like a rolling stone, can go in any direction. I have stared darkness in the face for a long time, now I’m flicking marbles into the darkness, watching where they will roll and refract light, so I can follow them and find my way through it…
