Off the top of my head - I would like to explore

• mystery - mystery of land? Of interiority?

• earth - as a metaphor for the past and/or subconscious.

• Divination and ‘occult’ practices - in line with the above.

Note: a huge inspiration was artist Solange Pessoa.

In line with these thoughts, in a break, I started exploring the idea of making paint with the earth of the different homes I have had throughout my life. As symbols of secret keepers.

I emailed the woman that leads this course to see if i could take her course or if she could direct me towards appropriate sources for the art of pigment making.

Emilio, Benedicte and I read each other’s poems and then crested the above composition by taking turns on each paper.

This exercise emphasised the following:

1. Thinking through making (not overthinking the poem, the words, etc)

2. The power of collaboration as a means of developing and exploring one’s own work.

Important to keep both in mind as I delve into new project.

1. Gather Soil: Collect soil or clay with the desired color from natural sources.

2. Clean and Sift: Remove debris (stones, roots) by sifting through a fine mesh or cloth.

3. Wash: Mix the soil with water, stir, and let it settle. Pour off the water to separate fine particles from heavier impurities.

4. Dry: Allow the cleaned, fine particles to dry completely.

5. Grind: Crush the dried material into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle or a grinder.

6. Mix with Binder: Combine the powdered pigment with a binder like oil, egg yolk (for tempera), or gum arabic (for watercolor) to create paint.

I am concerned about the plastics of this. I email the technical team to see if there are alternatives.

Main takeaway:

1. Thinking through making

2. Recontextualisation (i.e. seeing the subject through different lenses) will change its purpose, meaning, message.

To keep in mind when entering new project.

The final effect was spread out didn't create any colour and the medium merely functioned as glue. The type of earth is wrong.

Last term I discussed at length subjects that hold a kind of primal presence i.e. things that exist before language, that don’t need to explain themselves.

Collecting soil and charcoal from the ground felt like a way of collapsing the distance between the internal and external; between the act of seeing and the experience of being in the world. It wasn’t about symbolism, but about anchoring. About using matter that already belonged to the earth, and asking what happens when it’s folded into a mark. It was an intuitive gesture, but one that echoes the questions I’m still asking: What can a material hold? What does it mean to make something speak without it ever saying anything?

I must say, I really thrived working with oils. They were a genuine pleasure to use. While it’s not my first time using them, I’ve never fully committed to the medium before. For some reason, this time felt different, like I had finally unlocked their potential.

When I mentioned it to my mother, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Oils? Aren’t they too difficult?” I suppose that’s part of why I’ve avoided them. Even though my mother doesn’t paint, she somehow manages to influence my choice of materials all the same.

That said, I don’t think I’ll be going back, despite the toll it might take on my wallet.

What I ended up painting was somewhat inspired by the sticks I found in the woods, put together to make a hut. However, they’re painted in such a way that it feels like we’re only seeing a fragment of a larger structure. My intention was to create tension within the viewer because it’s unclear what is being depicted....is it a creature? Is it natural or mechanical? That ambiguity was the idea, to evoke mystery and invite interpretation.

I’ve been reflecting on this in relation to the upcoming essay, where I want to engage with ideas from the Decarbonising Practice lecture.

An article on Barnett Newman’s “The Sublime Is Now” resonated with me, especially his argument that modern art can evoke the sublime without relying on past conventions of beauty. Newman’s use of scale and simplicity to create overwhelming emotional intensity feels particularly relevant to my current work. I’m curious about why his ideas keep reappearing in my research and how they might inform my exploration of concealment and revelation within the ecological sublime.

I found these structures while on my walk which struck me in their beauty and feeling. Like small huts made of sticks, they seemed both delicate and purposeful, as though they had been carefully constructed yet abandoned to nature. This was inspiring to me...I tried to draw them, inspired by their mysterious presence. I enjoyed how they seemed to exist in a liminal space, neither entirely natural nor entirely human, embodying the themes of concealment and revelation that I explore in my work.

• prioritise flexibility and versatility in whatever system you evolve

• Apply layers of intervention - revisit, revise, extend…

• Develop a system of personal coding to suit your purposes

• Realise that your notes are a launchpad for writing

_

Actually take notes.

Focus on one method - it’s insane how many notebooks/chats are ongoing. No idea where anything is.

Perhaps think about noting immediate responses without worrying for them to be fully developed thoughts.

I found the work compelling, as Amy uses organza as a canvas in a way that resonates with my own approach last semester (i had picked Voile as a material). However, while I focused on layering, her work seems to emphasise the inherent qualities of the material itself; its delicate nature, fluidity, and susceptibility to tearing. I especially appreciated the contrast created by the canvas structure at the back, which established a striking dichotomy between hardness and softness.

I’ve been focused on creating shapes that feel like fragments of a larger, unseen structure, designed to evoke mystery, curiosity, and perhaps even frustration in the viewer. Kevin’s work seems to explore a similar approach, yet I didn’t experience the emotions I aim to elicit through my own pieces. This has left me uneasy, as I can’t help but wonder if these paintings are exposing a weakness in my conceptual framework.

I’ve been thinking about the lecture led by Wiebke, where we looked at how paintings tell a story and convey a sense of temporality. This painting feels so "even" that it nearly resembles a pattern. There’s no evolution or progression within it...could that be why it feels unsatisfying to me? It’s frustrating, but maybe this lack of narrative or movement is what I need to explore further.

J. Riley Stewart’s article highlights how mystery in images captivates viewers by engaging their imagination. Mystery balances familiarity and novelty, inviting curiosity without becoming unrelatable. Artists can evoke mystery through techniques like shadows, unique perspectives, or archaic processes, encouraging deeper emotional and intellectual engagement. This approach makes art more compelling and memorable.

Building on my experiments with soft pastels, I decided to pick up a paintbrush again because, ultimately, I love to paint. But this raised a question: should I treat soft pastels as a medium worthy of its own exploration, rather than just a preparatory tool for painting? That thought lingers, yet for this work, I turned to oil paints.

The idea of using acrylics (what Ive used thus far) feels completely foreign to me...almost incompatible with my process. Acrylics dry too quickly; they don’t allow for the fluid, evolving nature of thought and feeling that accompanies my painting. Oil, on the other hand, is slower, more demanding, more nuanced...qualities that, in many ways, mirror my own sensibilities. In this sense, oil is not just a material choice but a conceptual alignment; it accommodates uncertainty, revision, and the passage of time in ways that resonate deeply with my practice.

The composition emerged rapidly. So quickly that I didn’t even have time to document its evolution. What excited me most was the realization that oil paint could translate the same emotions and sensitivities I had been discovering through soft pastels. This was the first time I truly proved that to myself, and in doing so, I confirmed something essential: medium is not just a vehicle for expression, but an active participant in shaping meaning.

This has been an incredibly important week for me, a genuine turning point in my practice. Interestingly, this shift seemed to emerge from pure exhaustion and desperation. Over the weekend, I spent countless hours drawing, drawing, and drawing. I tried to paint, but nothing felt good to make. I felt stuck, disconnected from the work.

However, as I reflected on the feedback I received for my Unit 1 work, I began to see a thread running through my practice. I was told that my charcoal paintings were "particularly striking," a comment I’ve heard before. My soft pastel works, too, seem to elicit a strong reaction. Encouraged, I picked up some new soft pastels from Cass Art during a trip to town, determined to explore further. I began to work, over and over, letting the pastel work with me and allowing its blurred effect to unfold naturally. This effect, I realized, wasn’t something to fight but to embrace.

Similarly, I returned to grinding charcoal I found on the forest floor, letting the material sing on its own terms. Why had I been so focused on defining everything? Why had I resisted the softness, the blurred edges, and the imperfections? This week, something shifted within me. I moved into the practice with a new openness, letting the materials speak. The soft pastels blurred and smudged; the charcoal spread unevenly. And yet, this felt right. The materials, in their unpredictability, began to guide me.

This week has taught me the importance of stepping back and listening—to myself, to my work, and to the materials I use. By surrendering control and working with the medium rather than imposing my will upon it, I’ve found something new, something genuine. It feels as though my practice is finally beginning to sing.

Edmund Burke, in his Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, emphasizes the importance of obscurity in evoking the sublime. He argues that when something is not fully revealed, it stirs the imagination and heightens the emotional impact. Mystery, therefore, becomes a key element in creating the sublime, as it leaves space for the mind to fill in gaps with its own interpretations, amplifying the sense of wonder and terror.

Martin Heidegger also touches on the role of concealment in his concept of aletheia, or truth as unconcealment. He suggests that what is concealed, what remains mysterious, can be just as significant as what is revealed, particularly in our experience of being. This idea resonates with the sublime, where the unknown becomes a profound and transformative force.

In these philosophical frameworks, mystery is not simply the absence of clarity but a powerful mechanism that deepens our engagement with the sublime, inviting us to confront the limits of our perception and understanding.

This approach broke from the traditional emphasis on realism and instead evoked a visceral emotional response in the viewer. His innovative technique paved the way for Impressionism and modern art, transforming how artists could use abstraction to express the sublime and the ephemeral.

What’s particularly interesting about this work is my use of charcoal to define the image. I then manipulated it with oil paint to create a more unified surface, something I hadn’t tried before. Using an oil stick might have been an alternative, but I’m working with what I have, and charcoal was at my disposal. It turned out to be a fascinating material in this context. It allows me to smudge the lines while still preserving their original marks. It’s an incredibly intuitive medium, and I became so absorbed in making lines that I didn’t want to stop.

I consider this painting successful for several reasons:

1. It works propositionally. This is especially important because the canvas is square, and I find that achieving the right proportions on a square surface is unexpectedly complex...for reasons I can’t quite explain (some kind of black magic, perhaps).

2. The figure appears organic but remains unidentifiable.

3. The figure draws the viewer in. Is it an entrance? Is it simply a shadow?

Each of these elements feels significant in the development of my ideas, particularly in how I navigate the balance between control and intuition, material constraints and discovery, and the interplay between presence and ambiguity.

how much structure does a painting need to keep the viewer inside it?

Using soft pastels, I let the marks emerge spontaneously, but I kept questioning whether they were enough.

Without an anchor (something for the brain to latch onto) the work risked feeling like pure gesture rather than an invitation into ambiguity. Through making, I realized that I don’t want my work to be just abstraction; I need that balance between dissolution and recognition. Even when pushing things to the edge, there has to be a threshold, a point of entry. This way of thinking has stayed with me...how much can I take away before a painting stops feeling like a space of tension and just becomes surface?

Weeks 19 and 20 have felt strange...quiet, as everyone has been occupied with tutorials, and for me, solitary. I spent most of my time closed off at home, painting, grappling with my thoughts, and striving to articulate a coherent visual language.

Despite my efforts, Monday and Tuesday were particularly frustrating. No matter how much I painted, I couldn't achieve the outcome I was searching for.

The issue seems to lie in the subject itself. My intention has always been to present a subject that resists immediate recognition, encouraging the viewer’s interpretative instincts and desires. However, in Term 1, I moved away from this by working with large areas of black. These black forms retained "edges" (enough to pull the viewer in and make them question what they were seeing): it was crucial that they remained distinct.

I never wanted them to dissolve into mere abstract gestures, which could too easily be dismissed by viewers familiar with abstraction. Instead, the black had to hold its presence as something more defined, something that demands engagement rather than easy categorization.

That night, lying awake, I wondered what if I could capture the movement of oil on paper? Could I preserve its ephemeral patterns, the way it disperses, shifts, and forms uncanny shapes in water? The thought compelled me to experiment. I started playing with materials, eventually developing a small recipe: water, a bit of Zest it, and a drop of oil color. The results were unexpectedly compelling. The oil moved in unpredictable ways, forming marks that felt organic, almost like traces of a hidden language. It wasn’t just about the material reaction, it was about the act itself, the process of watching something unfold, as if nature were divining its own meaning.

Tenebrism isn’t just about light and dark; it’s about what is revealed and what remains obscured. I see a strong parallel between this historical use of shadow and my own interest in ambiguity, concealment, and perception. The darkness in my paintings isn’t empty but charged with potential (hopefully) inviting the viewer into an image that resists immediate comprehension.

His assertion that modern art was an attempt to create a new vocabulary, free from the weight of mythological and authoritarian imagery, mirrors my desire to work beyond fixed narratives and allow ambiguity to persist.

Like Motherwell, I recognise that painting is inherently an act of selection...an abstraction that emphasises certain elements while allowing others to recede. His discussion of black as a vital color, not simply a tone but a substance with its own depth and weight, aligns with my own engagement with black. Furthermore, his fascination with primordial imagery, from Altamira to Stonehenge, speaks to my own interest in ancient methodologies and the echoes of the past within contemporary work.

His acknowledgment of the difficulty of invention within a fully mapped modernist landscape also reflects my own concerns...how does one speak through painting when the language has already been constructed? Like Motherwell, I see the task not as one of innovation for its own sake but of refinement, deepening what is already there, finding a way to infuse the known with mystery.

Letting go of the charcoal felt like a quiet but important decision, a way of refining my focus as I move into Realise. Painting, not just as a medium but as a mode of thinking, is where I want to be. That clarity feels grounding.

(Oprah Winfrey - 'whispers')

This is relatively interesting - the idea that we might know something on a subconscious level.

He writes that perception is never total: we do not grasp the world, we enter into relation with it. This idea mirrors my own work, where forms often suggest meaning but refuse to name it, hovering at the edge of recognition. I’m interested in this tension...where something feels present, significant, but cannot be fully explained.

For Merleau-Ponty, the visible is always entangled with the invisible. In that space of entanglement (between clarity and obscurity) is where my paintings live.

His reverence for shadow as a site where meaning lingers aligns with my approach to black forms as portals, objects that both obstruct and invite interpretation.

Tanizaki’s sensitivity to the unseen also speaks to my inquiry into the unknown as a theme. His aesthetics reinforce my belief that what is concealed often holds the greatest power.

I was struck by how they suggest symbols without being symbolic. It made me think about how powerful it is to hold that space, where something feels like it should be readable, but isn’t. That tension creates a kind of attention I’m really drawn to in my own work.

This piece satisfies both the need for structure and the need for dissolution, holding them in balance.

I’m also becoming increasingly proficient with this methodology of painting (a combination of soft pastel, oil, and the deliberate use of a large, heavy paintbrush (visible in the image).

The weight of this brush isn’t incidental; it’s essential to achieving the effect I’m after. The physicality of the tool allows me to manipulate the surface in a way that feels intuitive yet controlled.

This painting, unlike the previous one, was a slow and demanding process. I worked on it extensively, reworking areas repeatedly. At one point, I became fixated on the way the image resembled a pillow, not because I take issue with painting a pillow, but because I do not want my forms to resolve into recognizable objects. I want them to remain as suggestions, hovering between presence and ambiguity. To counter this, I focused on dissolving certain sections, creating moments where the object seems to emerge and disappear, revealing itself while simultaneously retreating. I am not sure I fully achieved this—the form still reads as a pillow—but the piece has received a lot of positive feedback, so I am not inclined to discard it.

In this painting, I also revisited some of my earlier methodologies around auras, using points of light from behind the form to imbue it with a sense of significance or even divinity. This technique subtly signals to the viewer that there is value in the object, drawing them into a space of contemplation. It suggests that meaning is present but not explicitly defined, inviting interpretation through the act of looking itself.

I think what excites me most about Borremans is how he fabricates meaning through distortion and ambiguity. While he operates within figuration, I want to achieve something similar through abstraction. I want to evoke that same sense of a ritualized, unknowable world, but without the tether of the human form. His work shows that even in figuration, what is left unsaid, obscured, or uncertain is often what resonates the most. My challenge is translating that effect into abstraction, creating spaces where presence, concealment, and transformation work within form itself rather than through recognizable figures. There is something incredibly exciting in that pursuit, and his work has only sharpened my sense of what I am trying to do.

Reflecting on this perspective, I recognise the importance of intentionality in my use of ambiguity. While I aim to reclaim mystery and embrace the obscured, I must ensure that my work remains accessible and engages a diverse audience, rather than perpetuating exclusivity. This awareness prompts me to balance the enigmatic aspects of my art with elements that invite inclusive dialogue, resisting the commodification of ambiguity and fostering genuine connections that challenge dominant cultural narratives.

Through essays on various artists and mediums, the publication highlights ambiguity's potential to disrupt conventional narratives and foster critical reflection.

Engaging with this discourse has implications for my practice. It reinforces the idea that embracing ambiguity is not merely an aesthetic choice but a deliberate strategy to provoke thought and resist passive consumption. By integrating ambiguous elements, I aim to create spaces where viewers are invited to navigate uncertainty, encouraging active interpretation and personal meaning-making. This approach challenges the tendency toward definitive readings, instead fostering a participatory experience that reflects the complexity and multiplicity

This made me reflect on my own work: if I’m resisting purely gestural abstraction, then what is the energy or subject I am trying to capture? How does something abstract hold weight beyond the aesthetic? Looking at Twombly through this lens made me think differently about my own impulses maybe abstraction isn’t just about dissolution but about distilling something essential.

I’m drawn to how tenebrist paintings are filled with symbols that require deciphering, creating a tension between what is perceptible and what is just out of reach. This aligns with my own approach, where objects and forms hover between recognition and mystery, where meaning is suggested but never fixed. In a contemporary landscape where everything is over-explained, hyper-visible, and instantly retrievable, I find myself thinking about mystery as a form of resistance. Like tenebrism, my work doesn’t hand over its meaning immediately; instead, it asks the viewer to linger in a space of uncertainty. I am interested in how the act of looking itself can be active rather than passive . By exploring darkness, ambiguity, and partial revelation, I’m thinking about how painting can reclaim the power of the unknown in a time when so little is allowed to remain mysterious.

Rather than relying solely on ambiguity to generate interpretation, could the suggestion of an object create a more complex dialogue between form, perception, and recognition?

I made two drawings; one of a chair, one of a cube. The chair felt like a particularly strong symbol, possibly because of its inherent associations with presence, absence, and use. It also brought to mind Joseph Kosuth’s One and Three Chairs, where a chair is presented as an object, an image, and a definition forcing the viewer to consider which representation carries the most ‘truth.’ In my case, I’m interested in what happens when an object is only suggested rather than fully depicted. does it still function as a stable reference, or does it dissolve into something more abstract?

The cube on the other hand, carries a different kind of ambiguity. It’s loaded with suggestions of space, containment, and orientation.

These questions bring me back to my ongoing concern with perception, concealment, and instability. how much do we infer from the suggestion of an object alone?

This feels like an important moment in my practice, where I’m questioning whether abstraction needs a foothold in the suggestion of something functional to hold space for deeper engagement.

The sculpture was the most materially ambitious piece from Artefact as I've never worked with sculpture before. Despite its symbolic alignment with my themes (subsoil, subconscious, unknowability) it didn’t feel like mine. There was a disconnect between the idea and the making.

In contrast, the drawings and paintings from NYP offered something more immediate, more felt. I was really pursuing not form for its own sake, but presence, a surface that feels like it’s holding something back, inviting yet withholding.

Coming into Investigate, I decide to move away from sculpture. This isn't a rejection, but a narrowing. I wanted to go deeper rather than wide. I’m focusing now on painting and drawing, especially through processes that evoke ambiguity, estrangement, and the edge of recognition.

I created a circle of sorts (in an attempt to reproduce the 'portals' from last semester) and then, changing my mind, tried to erase it and ended up with this...

For some reason I ended up destroying this piece. What a shame. Looking back, I think its very powerful. why did I do that?

I am still attached to the idea of needing to have 'object' in my work - never quite able to let of it completely.

Erasure becomes central in the technique process.

Now if we think that our whole lives are built on lying- they are strange buildings- we should try and write as our dreams teach us; shamelessly, fearlessly, and by facing what is inside every human being-sheer violence, disgust, terror, shit, invention, poetry.

In our dreams we are criminals; we kill and we kill with a lot of enjoyment. But we are also the happiest people on earth; we make love as we never make love in life.

Helene Cixous

Fiction and its Phantoms: A Reading of Freud's Das Unheimliche

I've seen Bacon's pieces a lot throughout the years, why has it struck me so much this time around?

Anyway (apart from finding out he voted conservative which made me sad) there was this bit in his interview which struck me.

I'm often told that my work is too dark and that it will never sell. Why not use more colours etc. It's a common comment. Honestly, Ive never felt dark in myself when painting nor do I feel like what I'm trying to say is Dark. I think the feelings are of excitement, joy. Mystery is joy.

I am reminded of the quote from Helene Cixous from the week before - being afraid of shadow seems...maybe cultural?

I enjoyed how Bacon here says that all things can be dark - it depends how you look at them.

Stefana McClure’s subtitle-based pieces stuck with me maybe because it reminded me that sometimes the doing is more important than the result.

Repetition as a way of staying with something. Not trying to resolve it, just returning to it. I feel like that’s what I’m doing in the studio lately too, circling, layering.

I got my head around the capture studio, photography and even Photoshop which was HOURS of painful work. I am very proud of how good I've become with photoshop and even InDesign!

Overall these are topics which fascinate me because I too am dealing with themes and topics which call upon the 'gut' or that which escapes 'logic' and 'language'.

the key lesson of today is to pull back, take a birds-eye view of your collections, allow yourself to feel that which speak the loudest.

I think what bothered me was the feeling that I was covering something up, rather than letting the form dissolve from within. Though honestly, that’s just conjecture.

This was a hard week. I wasn’t happy with anything I was making. It’s a reminder of how much my mental state shows up in the work, even when I think I’m pushing through.

I stand around, fascinated by the layers of objects and signifiers in front of me. I take a photo, unsure of what I’ll do with it, but something about it holds me.

I need to take a break for a few days.