Location Sketches, Nicosia

I have always loved drawing Nicosia from rooftops, and when I lived there I spent many exciting hours seeking out rooftops which would give me a panoramic view of this beautiful city, with its minarets, assorted church spires, and tiled rooves. Many flats there have flat rooves, and I wandered the streets seeking out buildings that might have the potential for a great view. I often entered unfamiliar buildings, climbed the narrow stairs to the top, and checked out the view. Then I would sit on the roof, amongst washing and pots of plants, and make my drawings or watercolours. All around I could hear the traffic, and voices below on the streets, and I loved being a silent observer. I always liked to find new viewpoints, and this quest was not without hazards. The closer you ventured towards the Green Line dividing the city, the more suspicious you might look if you were seen drawing from a rooftop. One time I asked to draw from the Delphi Hotel, which was not particularly near the Green Line, and the Manager was waiting to see my drawing as soon I came down from the roof. I never knew exactly what he thought I could see and draw from there, but he was extremely relieved when he saw the vagueness of my drawing, saying 'It's modern art, isn't it?'

I never ceased to be enthralled by the endless shades of gold and yellow walls, red tiled rooftops, the ever-changing blue of the distant Kyrenia mountains, and the swaying palms and Cypress trees. It's a theme that still inspires me, though now I can sit in the 6th floor cafe, in the Shacola Tower, and draw or paint from there . Now no one cares what I'm painting, except perhaps tourists.

Living on the Green Line, Nicosia

At the time I lived in Nicosia, from 1984 to 1998, the memories of the Turkish Invasion of 1974 were still fresh in people's minds. We were always aware of scuffles and tensions along the Green Line, the line that divided the Turkish-Cypriot northern third of the island from the Greek Cypriot southern two-thirds. I lived not far from the Green Line that ran through Nicosia, and I was inspired to write a novel about life in an unstable country from an artist's perspective. Here is an excerpt from my novel:

'At four in the morning we heard a man chanting a Turkish prayer from one of the mosques in the other side of Nicosia. The hauntingly beautiful melody sent a delicious shudder through my warm, naked body as I lay next to Tom. Drowsily, I thought about the Green Line, and the many people hidden from us beyond it. Hearing the same prayers, breathing the same fragrant night air.

From the Guest House you could see the flags that marked the Green Line. It was only since I moved there that I had become truly aware of its presence. The long street ended abruptly, cut by blue and white striped barricades and an unyielding check-point. I lingered nearby, squinted to try to see the derelict yellow villas and walls of broken windows trapped in the buffer zone beyond the check-point. I glanced in disbelief at the young soldiers standing there with their guns tucked casually under their arms............ Is this real? It looks like a scene from a film! Surely these angry young men were partying at some nightclub last night?

Sometimes, when I wandered along the section of old Nicosia that lined the partition, I looked at houses on the other side and imagined figures moving behind the curtains. Were they also looking at me, wondering about life on this side of the wall?

Deserted houses merged seamlessly and silently into the partition. Then it continued its determined path behind and between crumbling buildings, and meandered along the top of ancient, stone walls, mutating into barbed wire and sandbags. Its uncompromising form glared at me, taunting: 'On my other side, not very far away from where you stand, you could see...'"

Now the Greek Cypriot side of Cyprus is in the EU, and attitudes have changed along with the interest in MTV, and the internet. I often wonder what changes another 10 years will bring. In my opinion artists have a lot more freedom than they did when I lived there. I used to paint on the streets and get chided by Tom's friends!

Why bother Painting?

I read several art blogs recently that pondered the question of why anyone would want to bother painting? Why, when it doesn't help the world in any visible way? What real meaning does it add? I think that it's hard sometimes for people to understand what an artist's work is 'about', as art is not a universal language, except in certain traditional forms. It's even harder to understand why, in a materialistic world, anyone would be driven to follow a vision or ideas with no sure financial gain.

On a personal level, painting helped me to survive after the sudden death of my partner. It gave me a focus, underlined the ongoing potential of life and creative ideas, and opened up new meanings. It reiterated the eternal artistic questions as to why THIS light, this colour, and this mark might be valuable in the life of the mind, and the world of feeling. These continuing struggles are very real to most artists, and preoccupy them daily. I commented on a recent blog post by an artist called Albert Sughi, on Absolutearts, who described the inner conflicts that are the companions to most artists in their studios. This is my comment:

I find that as an artist you can never know in advance how a painting might work out, and this uncertainty is part of the creativity and wonder of it all! For me, ideas emerge through the act of painting, and some of my worst paintings have suddenly triggered off a new way of working and wider ideas. It's like casting out a net over and over. The great thing about a painting is that it's never really ruined - you can keep going back to it, or change it into something else. It was encouraging to read your article, and to know that other artists have these concerns. As to why we bother to paint at all - a question I read in a previous article - I believe that meaning evolves and is not a static quality, and painting puts you in touch with evolving meanings.

I would like to add that I believe that for artists, and many people, Art enhances their view of the world, or at the very least adds a spark of brightness.

Paintings of the Turkish Baths, Nicosia.

Here are a few further examples of my series of 'Women in the Turkish Baths.' The lilac one is called 'Fiona in Blue Jeans in the Turkish Baths.' It is a mixture of oil and acrylic on canvas, 95cm by 54cm.

The next one is called 'Blue Baths.' (66cm by 46cm.)

First time of exhibiting the 'Baths' works in London.

In December I will be showing a couple of my 'Women in the Turkish Baths' paintings at a gallery in Covent Garden - more as soon as I have the exact details. I'm currently finishing a largish oil, my latest in the series, and hope to show two paintings. It will be the first time I've shown any of these works in London, as mostly I have shown landscapes, (most recently at the Llewellyn Alexander gallery, in June.)

Women in the Turkish Baths

One of the highlights of living in Nicosia between 1984 and 1998 was discovering the ancient Turkish Baths in old Nicosia. No one was able to tell me exactly how old this building was, but it must have been at least 400 years old. Inside was a decorative but shabby changing area, and then you walked, wrapped in your towel, along a corridor, dodging a naked light bulb, and entered the heated chambers. There was the main chamber, with a raised hexagonal plinth which you could lie on for massages, and several arched doorways into smaller chambers. These contained small concrete basins. As you sat there in the steam you could hear water dripping from a rusting tap.

What I also loved was that the ceiling of each chamber was domed, and decorated with tiny pieces of glass. Shafts of light came down through the glass and painted the figures with rainbow colours. From the outside the building was a conglomerate of four small domes and one larger, central dome.

Womens' days were Wednesdays and Fridays, but it was always funny how men would open the door to the rest area and say they hadn't seen the signs!

I used to go into the rest area and the heated chambers with my watercolours or pencils, and paint or draw the women as they undressed, reclined in the heat, or dried their hair and chatted. None of the women ever protested against my presence as I drew them, and here I was able to find the most natural and unselfconscious poses. It occupied me for 5 years, and I made many watercolours and drawings. I have used some of these as the basis for my compositions, though now I work also from memory. I close my eyes and I feel I am there, squinting in the steam, trying to make marks on damp paper onto which water drips at intervals, and all the time sweat trickles down my back and runs into my eyes. I hope this sense of the physicality of being in the Baths entered my paintings. It was a place I loved to be, as it felt cut off from the outside world, and I want my paintings to convey the atmosphere created by groups of women relaxing and chatting about their lives.

My June Exhibitions

June was a very busy month! I took part in a group show at the Brick Lane Gallery from June 17th to June 22nd, and also in the 'Not the Royal Academy,' at the Llewellyn Alexander Gallery. The 'biggie' was my solo show here in Tunbridge Wells, from June 12th to June 25th. It was my first solo show in several years and I was quite nervous. 18 paintings were on show and I received a very favourable response. Below are some photos from my solo show, with me in front of some of them.