angela’s images

what we image can be so. most of us consider a creator of some kind, whom we try to emulate in some small way - so by definition we are creative.     

Much has been made of the making of art.  Debating ‘what is art’ is an art in itself. Personally, I have always aligned it to truth and beauty, and considered it a matter of necessary expression. It is informed by all that passes my way in mind or matter.   I don’t think it is important if the fantasy is not a truth in actuality - I think the Greeks called it alithea, a truth in fiction.

Making art has been a part of my life since childhood.  Undoubtedly, somewhere in a container of antiques to be shipped from England, is  an old oak table beneath which I once sat, concealed by a green chenille cloth,  and the underside of which I systematically embellished with pencil drawings suggested by the grain of the untreated wood.  It didn’t matter much because this Sistine Chapel wasn’t seen by our guests.  Now, the raw sides of the cutlery drawers were another  matter.   A search for the soup ladle introduced a veritable parade of crowned isosceles triangles - my kings and queens!

As  mother  and  teacher,  I awaited  the day when I could devote the same delicious time to my work.  I wasn’t impatient.  My children made art  with  me,  and  were  never  surprised when the odd passer-by, at sunset on an  English  beach, would ask where I  kept my hat so they could toss a  coin.   “Oh no!’  they would say, she isn’t making sand castles  for  money, she’s just an artist.  Enough said?