Here's my latest picture, entitled "Toy Universe - No. 3". The third piece of the series.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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It's available as a print in a variety of formats.
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here are some perspective views and close-ups…
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Here's my latest picture, entitled "Toy Universe - No. 2". The second piece of the series.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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It's available as a one-off original, in the form of a 7.33 foot wide canvas print.
The print will be framed over a solid hardwood block and heat-sealed for long-lasting protection against almost any wear and tear.
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here are some perspective views and close-ups…
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Here's my latest picture, entitled "Toy Universe - No. 1". It's my first purely abstract piece for a couple of months.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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It's available as a one-off original, in the form of a 7.33 foot wide canvas print.
The print will be framed over a solid hardwood block and heat-sealed for long-lasting protection against almost any wear and tear.
***
here are some perspective views and close-ups…
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CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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"Green Man and the Artist" by Matt Brown
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Pricing & Formats:
10.7 ft by 4.9 ft canvas print: hand-finished with clear acrylic paint, for added texture and protection - For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the 10ft Pictures page.
This piece is also available in a number of different formats and sizes. For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the Pricing & Format page.
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About:
Green Man and the Artist is my interpretation of the ancient mythical figure, the Green Man – someone who has arisen and persisted in scores of cultures around the world:
Watchful, at the edge of the forest, the Green Man approaches the stream clutching his basket of chestnuts, acorns and twigs. Though the stream is shallow, he is unable to cross, as it signifies the boundary of the woods, and the edge of his domain. Across the bridge, in the distance, lies the beginnings of civilisation, where the artist and the architect live…
For centuries, the Green Man has fascinated and shaped our cultures. In paintings, thresholds and cloisters you may spot his otherworldly face poking out, with leaves for hair. Sometimes, foliage may grow from his mouth, nostrils or eyes. There are few more mysterious than he. He is numinous – of Mysterium tremendum et fascinans – of "fearful and fascinating mystery". The stuff from which deities and demons are born.
When depicted with antlers or horns, some have seen him as the precursor to the Devil. Though many have linked him with Osiris or Jesus. Even Robin Hood and Peter Pan are said to have evolved from this archetypal figure.
Whatever his real identity, he is old, and he forms a permanent part of our id – our deep, dark subconscious. A primeval part of us that ebbs and flows with the seasons.
Each year, as the leaves fall, the Green Man battles to keep the forest alive. Eventually, without fail, he will be defeated and killed by the Jack Frost of winter, and all that is green will wither away.
At the very peak of winter, though, when all hope is gone, and the world is darkness and cold, a figure walks softly, leaving a gift for each child as a sign that hope lives.
Finally, preceded with a stirring of buds and snowdrops, the Green Man resurrects. With him comes the light and warmth of spring, new life, heralded by a chorus of birds. And so the cycle begins again.
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Most fascinating to me is the connection between the Green Man and the artist. The author William Anderson writes:
"He is the voice of inspiration to the aspirant and committed artist. He can come as a white light or the gleam on a blade of grass, but more often as an inner mood. The sign of his presence is the ability to work or experience with tireless enthusiasm beyond one's normal capacities. In this there may be a link across cultures, …one reason for the enthusiasm of the medieval sculptors for the Green Man may be that he was the source of inspiration."
And so there he stands, observing the bridge, where the artist has just crossed. What does he think as the figure steps back into civilisation after a foray into the forest? The artist is reinvigorated and revitalised. He's inspired to begin again and create anew. But does the Green Man see him as thief or proponent? Is his inspiration a kind gift or an ungrateful exploit?
After all, it's the artist who'll enjoy the praise and recompense of his work, not the Green Man. The Green Man must always remain apart from civilisation, confined to the real, darker forest, not the romantic version seen by the artist.
Whatever his view of the painter, or architect, or sculptor, the Green Man must continue his unending struggle against the felling, fire, disease, storms and cold that threatens his realm. And so he will reach into his basket and throw acorns and chestnuts across the water to the bank on the other side, in the hopes that, one day, his forest may reach beyond the stream.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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"Riddle at the Old Temple" by Matt Brown
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Pricing & Formats:
10.7 ft by 4.9 ft canvas print: hand-finished with clear acrylic paint, for added texture and protection - For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the 10ft Pictures page.
This piece is also available in a number of different formats and sizes. For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the Pricing & Format page.
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About:
The young monk ponders upon a Buddhist riddle – or công án – as he crouches next to the ruined temple.
In Vietnamese Buddhism, a công án is a statement intended to baffle rational thought, or defy logic. For example "Two hands clap and there is a sound; what is the sound of one hand?".
It is his hope that if he meditates upon these questions long enough, the monk may reach a special state of awareness that lies beyond reason. A state of insight, or awakening.
So, in search of enlightenment, he has decided to climb high into the dense, mountainous forests to seek out one of the many crumbling temples lying scattered across the region. Here, it is deathly quite. Not a bird nor insect calls. Beside the stone ledge, there is a pool so black and so still, he wonders whether it isn't made of water but rather of nothingness. After dropping a stone and watching it fade away into apparent non-existence, he decides it must be the latter.
What will be the fate of the temple, thinks the monk. Will it be swallowed by the forest, or dissolved by the pool? And how many more centuries will this tug of war take? He grabs a stick.
Far above, in the forest canopy, the sunlight fights to get in. Here and there, it succeeds, and hazy shafts illuminate the moss-encrusted slabs of stone. There are no hard edges here any more. Just echoes of carvings, and whispers of steps. Whomever made them has long since surrendered the battle and slipped away into the dark distance.
Somewhere behind the monk, the silence is finally broken with the sound of crashing foliage and snapping branches. A tree has fallen. The ripple of leaves that follows sounds like a sigh of relief.
"When a tree falls in a lonely forest, and no animal or human is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" The monk pokes the stick into the shaft of light and thinks upon this công án…
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This was the moment I was picturing as "Riddle at the Old Temple" began to take shape. It has particular significance to me because of the way I now create my pictures, and the principle I now work by. Which is as follows:
By inserting a single, identifiable object into my image, the eye is encouraged to see an otherwise abstract picture as a figurative one.
In the past, my works were entirely abstract. I liked how one day a picture could evoke leaves on a pond, and on another I'd see it as a group of planets in space. But lately, I thought it'd be fun to take this idea of seeing patterns in abstraction one step further, by giving my abstract pictures a definite frame of reference – a figurative anchor. And by doing so I've discovered a new world of creative fun.
I often compare my technique to playing jazz. I take an idea and riff on it. I improvise. Where once, I would improvise upon just form and structure, now I begin to develop a theme and a melody too. Once it was free-form and ambiguous with no particular destination. Now there's a centre of gravity around which my improvisations revolve. A context. You could say I start with a noise and end with a melody.
Once the melody is there, I'll start to light the shapes in a particular way, and colour them correctly. I'll give the piece a sense of depth. I'll bring out the details that need focus, and let others fade into the background. But at this point, the elements, the shapes, the forms are still abstract.
By the time the identifiable figure or object is finally placed into the scene, he/she (or it) has already been sitting in position for some time – in my mind's eye at least.
Depending upon what things may have been floating around in my subconscious, there's a case for arguing that the monk was there from the very beginning, helping to shape the picture. Perhaps…
There's a Japanese Zen word mu, which means "negative" or "null" or "no thing". It means neither yes nor no, and at the same time both yes and no. It is often used to answer công án questions that seem to defy a straightforward answer, such as: "is this an abstract picture?"
I haven't solved this puzzle yet. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Perhaps the picture ceased to be abstract the moment the monk entered the scene. Which leads me to the central riddle of this picture:
Though it is ruined and ancient, did the temple exist before the young monk? The answer - Mu.
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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"The Dragon of Nineveh" by Matt Brown
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Pricing & Formats:
10.7 ft by 4.9 ft canvas print: hand-finished with clear acrylic paint, for added texture and protection - For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the 10ft Pictures page.
This piece is also available in a number of different formats and sizes. For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the Pricing & Format page.
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About:
The Dragon of Nineveh descends from its furnace, drowsy and aflame. With luck, the cool air of the subterranean gardens will rouse the creature from its stupor before it collides with the ground. If so, it will either fly deeper into the network of caverns to explore those places people cannot go, or it will leave through the gaping entrance and away, over gleaming Nineveh and beyond the Tigris.
Should the dragon fail to return, the furnaces can only smoulder on their own for so long. After some months, the basalt will darken. The red, molten sulphur will yellow and crystallise, and the cavern will resound with great cracks, like thunder, as the walls contract with cold.
When the fires finally go out, the first thing people will know of it, will be when the great Archimedean screws stop turning. Then, far above in the towers and halls, the springs will cease to spout, and later, the heated floors of the senate will chill. Finally, the upturned lake that irrigates the surrounding farmlands will condense and seep back down into the water-table, deep under the desert. Nineveh will eventually fall.
What I like about this image, is the notion that the fate of a civilisation may already be set - unfurling without its people's knowledge. On the outside – through the cavern's entrance - Nineveh seems as powerful as ever, and its citizens continue to enjoy its green terraces. They can recognise the greatness of its design, but few can fully grasp the workings of its foundation. Quietly, its vital signs will reach their peek, followed by their imperceptible decline, until finally, each breath becomes fainter and fainter.
But perhaps this is not the fate of Nineveh. After all, the dragon may yet return. Perhaps it has merely gone for a roam or a prowl. Perhaps it has gone in search of a mate and will reappear with a brood of healthy offspring.
But still, there's the worry that the Ninevehians have placed too high a burden upon the dragon and its furnace. What if the heat that has been harnessed and leached away has made conditions so cold and uncomfortable that it decides to find a home elsewhere? Maybe Babylon, or Egypt.
But there's another alternative – because back in the days of Nineveh, dragons were things to be feared. Even though the founders and the architects and the scientific philosophers understood the link between dwindling dragon numbers and subterranean cooling, popular consensus saw dragons as the natural enemies of human kind.
And so it was that the Assyrian hero named Merodach set out and slew the dragon Tiamat, to the joy of the Assyrian people. And later, lesser heroes slew lesser dragons. And perhaps consequently, by 650 BC technicians maintaining the Archemedean screws began to experience more and more unusual mechanical difficulties.
In 633 BC, Nineveh was attacked by the Medes. In 625 BC, Medes was joined by the Babylonians and Susianians, as they attacked again. Nineveh finally fell in 612 BC, when its forces were unable to withstand the continued onslaught, and was mercilessly razed to the ground.
When the provinces were parcelled up between the victors, there was no mention made of any dragons. Perhaps there had never been any. But in Europe, one hundred years later, as the Roman Republic began to enjoy more influence in the world, talk of strange, flying serpents began to pop up with greater frequency, in folk-tales shared beside the fire.
Whether its dynamo is subterranean or sub-prime, a civilisation can founder, it seems, at any random moment. Even though the fundamentals may seem sound, on closer inspection, historians will discover that there were grave problems lurking at its core. Which begs the question - where does our dragon lie?
CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE…
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"A Fire in the Forest" by Matt Brown
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Pricing & Formats:
10.7 ft by 4.9 ft canvas print: hand-finished with clear acrylic paint, for added texture and protection - For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the 10ft Pictures page.
This piece is also available in a number of different formats and sizes. For more details, and information on pricing, please refer to the Pricing & Format page.
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About:
A Fire in the Forest is a picture about the destructive forces of nature. It echoes a Vietnamese folk tale called "The Ancient Tree", a story about a little white bird.
"… Suddenly the bird felt anxious. The ancient forest, far away, was burning. Faster and faster still, the bird flew. The flames licked the sky. The fire spread near the great tree. The bird fanned the fire with its wings, hoping to put it out, but the flames burned more fiercely.
So the bird sped to the spring, dipped its wings in the water, and rushed back to shake the water over the forest. The drops sizzled. It was not enough, not enough. The bird's entire body soaked in water was not enough to extinguish the fire. …"
The ancient tree represents all that the bird holds most dear. It is its home, its community, a source of food, its livelihood - perhaps in its branches await the bird's hatchlings. So, naturally, it will do anything it can to save it. But, as it is just a bird, how can it hope to fully understand the nature of fire?
Nature, life, even society, can be mighty, and it can be complex. The wider world infringes upon our best plans, exerts pressure from all corners and sometimes upon those things we hold most dear. It can often seem as overwhelming as a forest fire. And even if most of our troubles are more abstract or prosaic than that of the bird's, they massage the very same fight of flight reflexes.
Protecting the ancient tree, for me, is being able to continue creating art, and creating the best artwork I can. Staying true to my principles, not giving up, not selling out. This is never easy in any climate.
The bold lines in the picture are a defiant gesture to the impish faces in the fire. For our hero - the crisp, white bird in mid flight - it is the moment of reckoning. Is it sleeking into the night? Or is it heading for the spring in order to meet it's foes head on?
"… In that moment, the bird felt the fullness of its existence. Loneliness and emptiness vanished, and the image of the monk, the image of the sun behind the mountain peak, and the image of the rushing water falling endlessly through a thousand lifetimes took their place. The cry of the bird had become the rush of water, and without fear, the bird plunged into the forest fire like a majestic waterfall. …"
