His paintings are the only colour in a washed out landscape and he speaks of a richness that is indiscernible to other eyes. The only one not trying to convince himself and others of rightness, content with his illusions. The truth is, there is none beyond what you create, invested in conviction that may not be warranted. Only the unfolding over which our constant watch and worry is wasted.
The relief when pretence is dropped, when ordinariness is okay. The heaviness of denial and holding back to release and the lightness of not knowing; projection to presence or appearance as appearance. The dissolution of what one hoped for to the humour of not getting what you thought you wanted. And family, that container of both grand illusion and a unique groundedness; pain and it's momentary relief.
Frames so tightly crafted and still, putting into relief the untidiness of human disruption and restlessness. And nature, ordinarily wild and without shape, here steadies the eye in much the same way. But still a background of indifference, sometimes piercing our silence or silently infecting our mood with illogical pressures.
A group of islands. Untethered, regrouped, then dissolved, our meetings.
a film by Joanna Hogg