Artiste Peintre


It was about transparent skin.

Translucent like a ghost organism from the deep depths.

This clear wrap enclosing the vital organs: the heart, opaque rust red, the lungs – huge and grey-cast. The spleen and the stomach, churning away, visible.

It was about the intestines, moving independently.

At some point, one broke through the membrane, and as it slid out, groping, it, and the others that followed, morphed into tendrills

And then it became clear. She had become an artist.

Pink and pulsing – grotesque in her lack of shame.

Innards hanging out and passive in the ebb and flow of the judgement tide.

Confinement. Or – The Lockdown ballad!

IMG_20200428_173706_381(sing to the tune of “Nothing Compares to U” by the late, great and mighty Prince!)


It’s been 7 hours and 38 days

Since I had to stay indoors.

Arrived in UK in time for lockdown –

And I have to stay indoors.

For all that time, I can do whatever I want – I can wear whatever I choose.

I can eat my dinner in front of a Netflix film –

But nothing, I said nothing can take away these blues.

Cos I want to go out, want to go out – and see people……

We have a garden and the sun is out.

And a daily circuit walk.

Nothing can stop Nature from taking over – and listen baby, even loo roll is availlable!

I can smile into every screen I see –

But it only reminds me of flu.

I went to the doctor and guess what he told me – guess what he told me?

He said:

Girl you’d better wash your hands no matter what you do.

And he’s no fool.

All the paintings that I made once – all mouldering away in the studio….

I know that in the grand scheme of things it’s not much – but it matters to me…..

Cos I gotta get out, want to get out – and hug people……..


Harbour yellow

For Toni Morrison – who used the word well.

The sun crests the pines dark in silhouette – and limns the rocks under the clear water of the bay.

Full face mask affords a vertiginous panorama of fish shoals feeding on weed, surfing the undertow – busy in unselfconscious certainty in the flickering light.

Floating supine above, the woman revels in the silent coolness of the other world.



A sudden downward rush of thrusting water and energy to her left panics a thrashing scramble for the shore – from where, aeons later, feet on solid rock – she looks back.

It is a cormorant. Diving and bobbing up with full beak in a patch of silver, illuminated.

The sun strengthens.

She is no longer welcome here.