Throughout this process I have been drawn to and inspired by literature; mainly poetry and journals such as:
Now on the Eve of the Exposition, I have written my own poetic crow-shaped statement, which like the work, can be read in different ways and is open to interpretation. It is printed on pulped fiction paper ( Mills and Boon) , made in collaboration with artist Alexis Reeves
Frida Kahlo’s autobiographical work has been an important key during research of narrative artwork. Her painting of The dream, the bed (1940), I found particularly mesmeric as the artist is also the viewer and death is not a taboo subject as in our culture but is celebrated in Mexico ( Day of the Dead). The vines and flowers I felt alluded to new life, creation and growth. This made me reflect on the Yew tree symbol of our ancient culture that I had infused my painting with, except mine I felt was a marker for time.
This portrait was painted by Frida Kahlo after the death of her father and she continued to work on it for over a decade. The inscription commemorates him fighting against Hitler and also suffering from epilepsy. Kahlo painted him in sepia which reflects his role as a photographer and could be read as his artistic influence upon her. This I found interesting because I had created a partner painting for ‘Crow Mother’, using a sepia photograph of my father and the idea of the battle, both internal and external with addiction that he struggled with and ultimately lost nearly fifty years ago. In some ways, I felt that he was the original wild and damaged creature in ‘Crow Mother’ that mum was nursing. There was a link. Again across time.
In the process of creating this work I used the only photograph I’d had of him as a child which was a small sepia profile shot of him looking to the left. I always wondered what the unknown side of his face looked like. As a response to this question, I decided to flip the picture and enlarge it in the digital print studio, Salford. I then used it as a source for this painting. That way, as an artist (and a daughter), I finally had ‘the full picture’; both known and unknown, yet no face is symmetrical.
The Crow helmet that I am still working on links back to the description in the book ‘Crow’ by Boria Sax , of Celtic Warrior, Valerius Corvus, ‘Valerius the Crow’ (p56). The idea of the crow being present at, and a symbol of battle (be it addiction or otherwise) inspired me to develop the crow helmet idea. The family name and my art name – Kilty came originally from Caoilte, an Irish warrior from the fianna (war band) of Fionn Mac Cumhaill. This name has changed over time and was anglicized when my family fled the potato famine. Family history has us believe we are descended from Irish giants and warriors. This is a story of our ancestral origins passed down orally through time and infusing our present.
My three paintings now evolved into a crow family triptych: Crow Mother, Crow Father and Crow Daughter.
Alongside the pulp paintings at Salford, I have been working on a canvas that I’ve lately come to call ‘Crow daughter’. Inspired by a dream I had several years ago which I recorded in a journal. In the dream, I was taken up by a huge murder of crows that carried me across a kind of surreal, seething landscape where faces surged out of the earth towards me. The feeling accompanying the dream was one of complete protection by the unlikely feathered allies and a new perspective. The end of the dream had a strange announcement that I had seventeen years left.
Following the Crow Mother portrait based on a childhood memory of Mum nursing a crow when I was younger and releasing it back to the wild, I felt that this was a natural autobiographical development and had the urge to create Crow Daughter as part of this body of work. Where mum protected, nursed and nurtured the crow; this was like a reversal where I was being held, carried, protected by the crows and shown a different dream perspective that seemed to embody the changing landscape and passage of time on Earth.
I struggled with the idea of perspective as I was essentially the experiencer of the dream. I decided to change the perspective to that of standing outside of myself as a viewer to reflect time and distance between me and the dream, to give the viewer more range and opportunity for perception of key elements such as the changing face in the Earth and myself carried by crows across the dream landscape. I had no preconceived idea of how this work would evolve and allowed it to develop intuitively. Having attended life drawing classes at Salford School of Art and Media, during which we explored colour theory and discussed classical techniques with the ‘life painting’ tutor; Chris Clements (as painting has been the focus this semester), technically, I would now describe this as a high key painting.
After a recent visit with my brother to an ancient yew tree in Beltingham, Northumberland. We discussed time, symbolism, death and the idea of life continuing regardless of process, or as part of the process. The images and experience of this great and venerable tree and connection to the moment in time where we contemplated something ancient in a place ( churchyard) that marks the passage of human time and where time seems to stop impacted us both. This idea I used in the tree of teardrops above. In some sense I felt I was creating an essence of time.
Does time exist? Is time relative? This was becoming a nonlinear work.
Over the period of this book the Yew tree at Beltingham was growing, regardless of the seething changes of humanity. Although in itself finite, it seemed to embody something of the eternal as it was over a thousand years old and stood on hallowed ground. Manuel de Landa in the above philosophical work, recommended by Jake Chapman, states that “technology won’t be viewed as evolving in a straight line.” (p.73,) I felt this related to how I was beginning to view my creative process too. Time was emerging as a theme.