The Calvinist Clerk


Through works, Salvation, the credo. Hence, following yesterday’s post, more work. I queried a few galleries in Montreal and London, proposing my work for representation; raced through Twitter, Instagram, FB, and poured myself a tea, quite emptied and exhausted after a day’s painting and this last session as my own secretary and clerk.

But instead of dying in bed with Flora or Florence du Mal, I started staring at a new panel, unprimed, a different approach, one I had not used in awhile ie instead of starting with an arbitrary Vision, or vision, or an equally arbitrary plan, I waited for the blank panel to swirl and swarm; lo and behold:

16 Chapel Rd, the party.

16 Chapel Rd, the Party, acrylic on wood,  106 x 96 cm.

This, too, is a summation of past time, people, places.

Now the question is: what’s next?

When I first started painting, a person once asked me if my work was Abstract. No, my reply.

I do not do abstract because I do not have the lexicon.

Oh, I have studied art history, but did not read reviews nor specialized mags. On a handful of occasions, I was asked to write a note of description for as many oeuvres, and if forced to, I could wear a guise and play-write a critique, or be, more to the purpose, my own PR officer, but my work was characterised by narrative, and hastily described as Figurative Narrations & Modern Mythologies.

The title included a large number of early works, but I had the need to step out of bounds and paint other pleasures.

I assumed a new identity painting bright geometric Abstracts as Seymour Snowe. I could run with Snowe, to answer the question: what next?

As Snowe, I am thinking huge colorful children’s lunchboxes that are soft, warm, and rubbery, or of hard plastic, boxes you can inhabit and hide inside.

Also, Urban Air Suits, spacesuit-like outfits for surviving the 21st Century Metropolis, and its deadly germs, viruses – Ebola anyone? -radiation – how else do we power our mobile devices, homes and offices? – and related airborne earth- and man-derived toxic wastes. The suits would be brightly-colored – pink, orange, yellow, highly visible and happy!

But for some persons and purposes, you might want to be less visibile, undistiguishable from pure dark night, hence more like Batgirl or Batman, of course.

And in this world, you don’t shake hands, or kiss cheek-ciao-ciao-cheek.


And water is strictly bottled at home. Food is hermetically sealed and not exposed to the elements – impregnated with interbreeding viral pollutants that food so readily absorbs.

Intimate relations would be restricted to intimate relations. They, too, needed to be certified healthly on a regular basis, and only after a rigorous and  all-cleansing germkilling scrubwash could the acts commence.

Books, alas, would be banished, paper being absorbant, and so reading would be on our mobile devices, as would most everything else.

No more suburbs. We would all live and work in one huge building, combo mall, office building, post-industrial park with no or little need to commute, hence huge savings in time and energy resulting in increased efficiency and productivity.

We are all connected into this one System, one big bright System we feed and are ourselves replenished.

And all is well. I can see it all. And it’s not even new, original. Another utopia, dystopia, we already inhabit – except for the suits. Wanna order, what’s your size?

But for the piece, the oeuvres, we have to sharpen the edges, and round or flatten others, augment contrasts, and delete differences altogether.

These are the measures, parameters, prescriptions wherein we rise and fall, from dawn to dusk, day after day, until we are deleted.

Happily, we don’t know when the Big Server will black us out, or the AngelGeek will pull your plug, or your hearty batteries will just die, so what’s next, eh?

Seymour’s off to think about how to make and pay his Macropolis; as for me, I think I’ll have a scrubwash.

P.S. Seymour’s previous work can be seen at:

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