On my lunch break- I went to see Arthur. I found him still blighted by gawping passers-by, in a park no longer as I left it- rich with the onset of Spring. Behind Arthur, amongst the limbs and trunks of trees waterloo bridge extends like another arm, from the thinning slightly discoloured leaves. Along its length a procession of worker ants move. In the months of May and June, unable to sleep beyond 6am I inevitably found myself sitting upon the bench opposite Arthur, whiling away the hour before work, watching people pass.
When Arthur, was not this Arthur but another Arthur, one with legs, a body, not made of bronze and possibly- slightly more lively, lived, I don’t know. What he did, this other Arthur, to warrant the existence of this Arthur, suspended up six-seven, oh twenty feet high in the air on a plinth with at its foot a bedraggled young filly, sparsely clothed from the waist down, back exposed and face buried in the crook of her raised elbow , sorrowing, I don’t know. He might not even have been a Arthur. Anyway, I got to my position most mornings, occasionally another would be in the seat closest to Arthur reading a newspaper, a few feet further to Arthur’s left I would take the next bench and look on, admiring his proud-on some days distaining- front. Arthur appeared to not only not know this girl weeping, but consider her being there very demeaning indeed. If this sculptured addition, belies what the other Arthur who was more than a bust had got up to, then Arthur seemed keen to distance himself from this other Arthur.
Every night, in the shadows of the park at a hour when the thames becomes audible and the neighbouring road almost dead, I pictured Arthur frenziedly attempting to wrench the base of his bust from the plinth and escape, hopping through flower beds and out the gates in search of a plinth worthy of himself. And since, if he were able to do as such, then why not also the sorrowing girl? To her advantage, legs and arms would be at her disposal and thus render Arthur’s attempts at escape futile. Carried underarm like a rugby ball- he would be returned to his summit and the sorrowing woman back to her mourning, before another day, and another deluge of commutes and gawpers
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A space specifically used to upload and display Vor's sketchbook drawings and, very infrequent short pieces of text. In a context free from his misguided attempts at bigger grand pieces that have the misfortune to be viewed in white rooms in remote parts of east london, albeit once in awhile. To little or no insterest.
Links to things and people I appreciate.
A note>
The posts that shall appear here from now on, will consist predominantly of drawings done on my drawing tablet culled exclusively from memory. Those specfic to a experience- or more appropiately: a constant self awareness- and those provoked by a literary source. On occasions when I am have the luxuary of a string of days unabused by working obligations I might post somekind of text.
The drawings here are not presentative of my ambitious with regards to the act of drawing, for this work visit www.trevor-simmons.co.uk. What this work is presentative of, which those found on the site lack in general is a connection with my everyday.
I've discovered fairly recently it isn't much of a stretch to draw from memory whatever moment a exterior view of myself in a situation, from the same day or sometime prior.
The drawings here are not presentative of my ambitious with regards to the act of drawing, for this work visit www.trevor-simmons.co.uk. What this work is presentative of, which those found on the site lack in general is a connection with my everyday.
I've discovered fairly recently it isn't much of a stretch to draw from memory whatever moment a exterior view of myself in a situation, from the same day or sometime prior.
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