Archive for 2015

The Artist Within

The Rich Boy by Jane E Porter
As young children we were innocent, untarnished; our lives lay ahead of us, unknown and undetermined.  When we look back at our childhood, could we have imagined what we would become; a writer, musician, artist?  Could anyone have predicted what the future would hold for us?  Life and our destiny are continually evolving; as every new person we meet or opportunity presents itself, we have the power to alter our destination.  As adults we make decisions every day, as children most of our decisions were made for us.  We didn't get to decide where we were to live or which school we would attend.  We were told which God to believe in and trained to follow the family etiquette.  We were educated to determine right from wrong and versed in what’s good and what's not.  Our parents and teachers decided what we were good at and where we were lacking.  But at what point do we stop listening?  When do we stop accepting what they said?  When does the voice of the artist emerge?

Image:  The Rich Boy, Homage to F. Scott Fitzgerald by Jane E Porter

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Mother's Little Helper

Still Life by Jane E Porter
Mother's Little Helper 2015
'Surely everyone is aware of the divine pleasures which attend a wintry fireside; candles at four o'clock, warm hearthrugs, tea, a fair tea-maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in ample draperies to the floor, whilst the wind and rain are raging audibly without.'

Thomas de Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium Eater

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Edie Sedgwick - The Queen of The Factory


Portrait Painting by Jane E Porter
Edie Sedgwick, oil on board 110 x 120 cm

This is the last painting from the series, The Tortured Soul Creates Art.

Warhol's Woman Detail by Jane E Porter
detail
Edie Sedgwick was an American actress, socialite, model and heiress, best known as one of Andy Warhol's superstars. Despite Edie’s prosperous upbringing, her childhood was plagued with trauma. Her brother Minty was an alcoholic by age 15, committing suicide in 1964, the day before his 26th birthday. Her brother Bobby, also suffering from mental health problems, was institutionalized after a nervous breakdown in early 1950 while attending Harvard. He crashed his motorcycle into a bus on New Year's Eve 1964 and died two weeks later.  Edie was also institutionalised at the age of 19 because of an ongoing eating disorder.

After turning 21 in 1964, Eddie left Cambridge for New York, moving into her invalid grandmother's 14-room Park Avenue apartment, spending her nights at top clubs and discotheques. In 1965, she met Andy Warhol.

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She Walks In Beauty

Thorns of The Snow, oil
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

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The Past and The Perished

The Past and The Perished, oil

Porphyria's Lover

The rain set early in to-night,
       The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
       And did its worst to vex the lake:
       I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
       She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
       Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
       Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
       And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
       And, last, she sat down by my side
       And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
       And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
       And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
       And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
       Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
       From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
       And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
       Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
       For love of her, and all in vain:
       So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
       Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
       Made my heart swell, and still it grew
       While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
       Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
       In one long yellow string I wound
       Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
       I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
       I warily oped her lids: again
       Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
       About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
       I propped her head up as before,
       Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
       The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
       That all it scorned at once is fled,
       And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
       Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
       And all night long we have not stirred,
       And yet God has not said a word!

Robert Browning, 1836

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The Last Summer

The Last Summer (digital media)


It was late August, the hottest summer recorded since 1910. The children were still young, their effortless joy and laughter upstaging the blistering demands of the humidity. I watched as they played, chasing each other, rolling around with that, exhaustible enthusiasm, only children seem to possess. It wouldn’t be long now. They were growing dissatisfied with diluted explanations, quizzical faces revealing their scepticism. Truth always finds its way to the surface; the nagging heaviness in my heart, a persistent oppressor. This would be the last summer. God forgive me.


Jane E Porter 2015



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Centuries of Secrets


As the sun sets over the withering pavilion, faint from the brier’s entwine, the muffled hum of champagne-drenched laughter seeps its way through crumbling stone.  An uninvited breeze bears a sweet, pungent aroma, reminiscent of warm sugar caramelising on the stove.  From silent rooms, murmurs of hysteria chill the air, opposing the haze of a narcotic heaven.  Forbidden love affairs whisper through the hallways and seek shelter in the sullen mist that cloaks the grounds; a safe haven for their weakness.  The practice of the craft, white and black, ritual and ceremony, poetic and depraved, their memoirs etched into the fabric in which they were performed.  Births of those intended and those that were not, their lives and deaths, the shadows of their existence still creep through the halls of the upper east wing.

And in the darkest hours, the mortal cries of creative madness eagerly tap on the attic window.

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Charity Auction Paintings 2013

The Adelphi, Aberdeen
digital media, wax and oils on board

Union Street, Aberdeen
digital media, wax and oils on board


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