A mad mess of human treasures and leavings holds the softest fluff of a magpie nest. Myth has it that magpies are thieves and tricksters, stealing bright and shiny baubles and secreting them in their nests. Bound up with rubbish and sticks these baubles are robbed of meaning and context. Does is matter anymore, what forgotten people wore these rings, consumed food from these bags and wrappers? Our greed and aspiration is rendered absurd in the face of such memento mori.
A strand of Christmas lights reminds us of our rites and rituals, the marking of un-markable time with our celebrations, the way in which, in the light of our various mythologies, we take it all for granted and don’t question our uses and abuses of the world. The problem is always out there. It’s never me, propelled by my animal needs, with my overlay of false logic, my glossy desires.
There is so much need in this painting. The raw drive to survive in each hugely gaping mouth, the fledglings’ entire bodies given over to that pink, outrageously wide-open demand for sustenance. We are no different, ensconced in fantasy, chasing comfort, compelled to survive however we can, our mouths ever open for more.
Perhaps an artist is a bit like a magpie, robbing from here and there, weaving together and re-presenting bits of the world. Perhaps a painting can function a bit like a nest, offering a beautiful cosiness, a reassuring unchangingness to return to, a place that could hold us in the mind’s eye. In the face of all the having and wanting, perhaps a painting can be both prompt and resting place for our flights of imagination.