Peace Piece

All images are my copyright.  Do not use without permission or payment.

The original is in my Etsy shop.

A painting on canvas. I made this painting in response to the beautiful piece of music by Bill Evans.

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Sometimes I weep

For a love I once had

Or a kindness from my dear one

For the love of my children

The look in his eye

His closed sweet smile

Her beautiful voice

The sound of jazz piano,  by Bill Evans,

or played by my mother.


Born from the belly of a pianist,  it was the first sound I ever heard.

No wonder I love it so.

Then the sound of the accordion played rousingly

Like my father in his folk days.

He used to listen to recordings of steam trains.

We laughed, but he didn’t mind.  Daddy, my daddy.


Looking back on happy memories

Magic memories

Of a London Summer in Camberwell

Followed by two more.  Complete joy

We listened to soul music, Prince, Stevie Wonder

and lay in bed doing dance moves with our hands

Laughing til we cried

and loving til we slept.

We used to say ‘I’ll miss you when I’m asleep.’

We slept so deeply.

We slept through the hurricane of ’87

and awoke to post-apocalyptic Brixton

Trees lying across Coldharbour Lane

Windows and roofs smashed


We loved each other so much

But he went to India,

and I to France.

Funny how, we have never seen each other since

He returned from India and turned to religion


And I, resolutely to America


L.A. memories are bathed in bright light.

I worked hard, played hard,

married, left and ran away

Onto the beach

He destroyed all his paintings once

And shredded his books

I hope he’s alright now.

He was a child of Hollywood and Vietnam

And all the damage fallout.


Sometimes I remember


Tree of Life Detail















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Dutch Boy painting by me


Inspired by a Dutch master but my interpretation, painted many years ago.

And a quote by the wonderful Toko-Pa:


“For all the times someone has asked you how you are, and you felt pressured to say ‘I am well’ when well wasn’t your whole truth, I offer you this wish: that this finds you not just well, but all the things that being human asks of us. And to remind you that your being alive, in all its magnificent and complicated colors, is more than enough for love. Rather than endlessly seeking to get well, or yearning for ‘how things used to be’ or ‘may be one day again,’ we must be willing to walk with our pain. Or at least be willing to be willing to say, “This too is welcome. This too belongs.”
by Toko-pa Turner, Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home (

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Nubian Queen and her King

All art works on this blog are my copyright and cannot be used without my permission or payment.


“Oh Great God, swift one. Who comes to him who calls. Watch my sister for me, the woman born in the same womb as me. Do for her as I have done for you. Spontaneous miracles that cannot be denied. Elevate her children and make them prosper, even as you did for me.”

-From Taharqa’s prayer to Amun, at his temple in Kawa-

Link below is a wonderful illustrated site about the Kingdom of Kush, or ancient Nubia.


All works on this blog are my copyright and cannot be used without my permission or payment.


This painting ‘Nubian Queen’ is available in my Etsy shop:

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Secret Spaces

When I was a child, I used to have a recurring dream, wherein I was in a huge house, an old stone building and there was a secret door that only I knew about. I would enter the door and a whole new space opened up to me, and it was mine alone. There was something so enchanting, mysterious and secret about this labyrinthine special space, with doors and rooms and corridors where i could explore or escape from everyone and just hide.

Well today, I found a place like this, decades later. I am teaching English part-time in an independent school.  In an ancient abbey.  Sometimes all the classrooms are being used and today was one of those days,  and I had to ask my line manager where I could take my two Chinese students. It’s the end of half term and i had brought in one of my favourite films, Paris Texas, for them to watch on my laptop as a treat. She suggested I used this old classroom in the eaves. She found the keys and led me up through a network of stairwells and doors to the old classroom. I loved it. Now used as a dumping ground for piles of pillows used by the female boarders; there were old telephones, folders, pots of pens, rickety chairs and tables. It was perfect. I found my classroom and a secret place very similar to my childhood dreams.

There is so much more to this ancient abbey.

There is something about me that needs to hide and retreat frequently. It feels sensual and exciting. I couldn’t resist taking a few photos of the secret classroom.


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Autumn. An original painting in my etsy shop. All works are my copyright.

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The Seed 2

All works are my copyright.

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The Green Night

An original acrylic painting on canvas on heavyweight paper in my etsy shop. All works are my copyright.

Sometimes I get a song I play over and over while painting.  Although during this painting I wanted to echo the feeling I get while looking at paintings by Leonora Carrington and also the beautiful work of my dear friend Emma Turpin, I was listening to ‘Visions of Johanna’ by Bob Dylan while painting this, and the lyrics fascinate me:

Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re tryin’ to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we’re all doin’ our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind
In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman’s bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the “D” train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it’s him or them that’s insane
Louise, she’s all right, she’s just near
She’s delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna’s not here
The ghost of ‘lectricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place
Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He’s sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I’m in the hall
How can I explain?
It’s so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn
Inside the museums, infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, “Jeez, I can’t find my knees”
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel
The peddler now speaks to the countess who’s pretending to care for him
Sayin’, “Name me someone that’s not a parasite and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him”
But like Louise always says
“Ya can’t look at much, can ya man?”
As she, herself, prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev’rything’s been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Visions of Johanna lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Audiam, Inc
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Words and images

Words are powerful.  In an age of social media, blogging and the internet in general,  words are used constantly.   They are used as weapons, and as healing salve.  Words are encoded in us, it is my feeling.  Meaning, I cannot express this with accuracy but with an inner knowing, that our being is encoded with some kind of alphabet.  When I rub my eyes, I see all kinds of alphabets, signs, symbols; small hieroglyphics.  I feel that when we use words, and knowing or not knowing, their power goes out into the ether, and the collective consciousness or unconsciousness and creates a kind off accelerationism and creates more of what is contained in the meaning of the words.  When the words are used, in printed, published matter, whether in book form, blog form or the ubiquitous form of social media, the words take their place in the minds of the reader, and the power of the reader’s consciousness is beamed out into the cosmos and increases the intent exponentially.  When we see acceleration in events, perhaps this form of using words should be considered.  I am saying, use words carefully.  Use words and actions to create a new paradigm and tear down the old paradigms; not through destruction, but through construction.  Construction of new paradigms begins when the old outworn patriarchal systems fall away through disempowerment.  It is vital we use words to disempower the systems that oppress us.

When creating images, create them with the same thoughts in mind.  Use images to create a new paradigm.  Whether it is to create a feeling a peace in an otherwise challenging world, or to illustrate a powerful message of hope in action.

Within my art practice, I use words as under-painting.  The intent is thus contained within the image and thereby further empowers and encodes it.  The painting is used as a kind of vehicle in the acceleration of form.  Taking the form of the painting and asking it to manifest in ‘reality’.  Creativity is powerful and it is a rebellious act in a world of neo-liberal, patriarchal values, which only wants to see us working to conform and uphold the status quo.  The sacred feminine is needed right now, for women and men.  I have a son and a daughter.  I create images of the sacred feminine archetypes, to, in my own  way create a new paradigm for both my children and of course for myself.  Creativity is power.


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England.. Land of austerity, Brexit, ‘ Get a Grip’ campaigns, where we are told to send our children to school unwell to keep up attendance numbers.

Land ruled by the Nasty party, selling off our NHS, destroying our libraries, dismantling our hard-won social schemes. Land of fragmented families, lack of social cohesion, where gang culture is following in the U.S.’ footsteps, where young people have fewer youth clubs, because public spending has been so dramatically cut.

England i never really loved you. Where bullies from the Bullingdon club have formed our governments and failing newspapers owned by billionaires control the minds of the masses. Where TV shows are about people baking cakes or even of people watching telly. Wtf? Wtf England?

Land of traffic jams and wind screen wipers; two layers of cloud sometimes.

Pubs are nice and so are the people. The self- depreciation, the humour, the belly laughs, the irreverence, the adorable neurotics, the ability to laugh at ourselves. The music.

My Dad.. he was English and the best kind of Englishman. A gentleman and a socialist, a musician and architect who rebuilt classic cars, loved real ale and was vulnerable yet strong. The handsomest man in the world.

English eccentricity; yep that still abounds. Women are strong here and don’t take bullshit. They are proud to walk alone and don’t need a chaperone.

Multiculturalism still thrives. Long may it thrive.

Random thoughts on a country which is supposed to be my home.

Ambivalent about that one.

England. I can never really love a country so easily persuaded to vote so stupidly for something about which you know fuck all…

Brexit. Don’t even get me started….


Written in mavaise humeur 😉

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