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| RTomens, 2021 |
He's back! Who? The Marching Man, of course. He's a recurring figure in my art. Also known as The Walking Man, although the original figure is a soldier so 'marching' is, in that sense, more appropriate. He is, of course, everyman. This morning he almost escaped since I was working outside. Carried on a gust of wind, thankfully he only got as far as a pot, where his progress was halted by the plant stems. He actually landed upright, which struck me as funny, so I photographed him.
Art is often called a form of escapism and I suppose it is. For a while I'm only in the world I'm creating, be it in the form of typed letters, collage or drawing. During this time, all worries cease to exist. Not that I'm a great worrier, although the result of the Chinese virus has tested my resolve to the max (yes and everyone else's, I know).
Recently, I've felt a strong urge to escape (you too?), not just from the confines imposed by the government, but the city, even the country. Leaving London is not an easy decision to make, for obvious reasons. Under normal circumstances, we have so much to see and do here, whereas once in the country, or a smaller town, there are limitations. Trouble is, lockdown's effects are heightened in the city. The shop/café/pub closures are many and amplify the situation. Whereas in a village, I doubt things are much quieter than normal.
I grew up in a Buckinghamshire village. Until I got well into my teens village life seemed fine. We had a disco in the hall regularly. Some nights there wasn't even a fight. I say that today as a positive, looking back through peace-loving, much older eyes. But back then fights were good entertainment. We always avoided getting into trouble, mostly thanks to protection from older lads. The main threat came from boys from nearby villages. It was all very territorial, very tribal. Fights between lads from the same village never happened.
Well, the 'outsider' in me grew as I aged. The village could no longer supply what I needed so I left for Aylesbury, the nearest large town, where I discovered that fighting was an equally popular pastime. Ironically, it was when I moved to London in the late-80s that I saw less fighting. Meanwhile, my poor old Mum was under the impression that my life was constantly in danger, bless her. Little did she know that whilst still in 'the nest' I encountered violence on a regular basis and the chances of me being a victim were far greater.
It's strange to think that the soldier in the photograph I used as a cut-out would have seen a great deal of violence. It was not my intention to talk of such things but now I come around, back to 'war', wondering if he was killed in action or survived World War II. Stranger still, he could never have imagined that one day his image would live on.
TTFN
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