If you’ve looked through this site you can probably guess, how I spend the majority of my time. I hear there is a whole universe outside my backdoor, but as I only leave my studio to get cups of tea and then take the subsequent pees, I wouldn’t know about it.

I love to get out of the house and explore the local woodlands and coast. I’m in somewhat of a privileged position where I live as I seem to have the majority of the surrounding countryside to myself. There are signs at every access point to the woods telling people to keep out. I can’t take them literally though. They are just signs right? In my two years living out this way, I’ve not met a sole out there off the road. I think most of the other local ramblers are better at reading the signs than me, either that or we are all riding from each other.

Bubble Insulated Solar Greenhouses

In the recent few years besides my digital art undertakings, I've embarked on a number of sustainable building technology projects. One of which is the only one of its kind in Europe and its built in the back of my garden. It's a liquid bubble insulated solar greenhouse and I've had it running now for a couple of years. Since developing the concept into a working building I've designed the next generation of greenhouse. When realised this will allow me to conduct more accurate testing on the technology and get a better handle on the thermodynamics of liquid bubble insulation and the other dynamic liquid systems that are used to control the interior conditions of the building. I've even thought about combining the two disciplines of art and eco technology to create a living structure/installation that i believe would demonstrate the radical visual, structural and functional aspects of this project in a single green art/technology statement.

Some Autobiographical Self-Indulgence

Zen And The Art Of Flunking Art School, Dumpster Diving, Geometry And Bubbles In That Order

Chapter 1 - On Being Rejected From Art School - Twice

I find it perversely gratifying now 15years or so on, that I have been rejected from art school on two separate occasions. Not because I have proved myself as a great artist and proved those who rejected me to be bad judges, far from it. I just like the way that this history helps to confirm me as a bit of an artistic odd ball.

The first occasion of getting rejected from art school, was hardly surprising looking back. I was trying to cheat the higher education system and jump the art foundation year that’s mandatory in the UK before advancing onto a college or university art course. I understand now that it wasn’t the act of cheating itself that let me down, but it was the maturity of my work that was found lacking. There is a big jump between the work expected at A-level and University. My work, whilst thought accomplished by A-level standards, was still very puerile and unsophisticated by the standards set by The Goldsmiths Collage and boy did they enjoy telling me. They probably thought, “who the hell is this cocky little shit with his screaming foetuses “.

Pubescent Angst Painting. 1992

The second time I failed to gain entry into Art School was more unexpected and a much bigger bomb shell, but before we get to the details of that I must tell you what happened during the intervening year. After this first episode at the Gold Smith’s College I had no option but to embark on an art foundation year at the local Lowestoft college. Arrogantly I had failed to enrol with the other students thinking I would be missing out this year. So as humbly as I could I had to go to the establishment, which at the time I thought was the arse hole of high education, and beg for a place if there were any left.

As it happens the experience of learning art in this small town college turned out to be quite a fruitful education, all be it an abridged one. The lectures were very good and readily saw me as the conceited and stubborn yet dedicated individual I was. They were swift to place what I believed to be my artistic achievements into context and revealed to my limitations. Although he may not know it, a lecture called Bob Hosey opened up my narrow artistic eye and introduced me a new universe of artistic language and thought. I say, he may not known, because at the moment this artistic realisation occurred I quit the course.

I’ve never been able to concentrate in a classroom environment. As soon as I figured what I needed to do in order to produce a portfolio that would gain me a place at university, I no longer saw any value in staying and took up my experimentations on my own initiative. Fortunately my parent supported my decision and I turned a spare bedroom at home into a studio. What probably reassured my parents of this bold move was the commitment and discipline I demonstrated in producing my work. In 8 months I produced a shed full of work only leaving my studio to eat and sleep. I’ve had a few other periods like this since, but in some ways, as I had no other responsibilities, my emersion into my art was as complete as I have every experienced.

So armed with my huge and varied portfolio I arrived at my selected University for the second time and had what I felt was a perfect interview with the panel all being very praising and commending in their appraisal. Having been highly gratified with this response and feeling that all my hours of work had paid off I started to make plans for my move to Sheffield University whilst I waited for my letter of acceptance. However, as the title of this chapter would indicate, when the letter came it wasn’t what I expected.

In a complete emotional state I phoned the university to find out where I had failed. After some persistence I got to speak to one of the panel who sat on the interview. This lecturer clearly remembered me and to compound my confusion proceeded by continuing to compliment my work. Beside myself with and reeling from the absurdity of what I was hearing I had to push him into giving me a categorical reason as to not admitting me. This is what he said. “despite having an obvious amazing talent, your work is boundless and lacks direction.” Hang on a minute I thought. Am I, at the age of 19 supposed to have a distinct artistic direction? Isn’t this why I would want to go to art school? To find my feet as an artist and find out where I stand within the great wide ocean of contemporary art?

To this day I’m still unsure what the reasoning was that led to my failure to gain entry to not even a particularly highly regarded art school. As it turns out, a few month later I got an unconditional offer during another interview to take a place at the City & Guild Of London Art School, and so its just as well things didn’t work out for me at Sheffield.

Between the time I received my blow from Sheffield and the time I got a result in London I channelled my disappointment into constructive undertakings I am now quite proud of. My initially reaction was to go on a 300 mile walk up the spine of England on a route called the Pennine Way. I’d been talking about doing this with a mate for a while and figured an intensive communion with the great outdoors should bring things into perspective.

As it turned out nothing much was resolved by the hike and when I returned my second instinct was to paint a picture that was the summation of everything I have learnt to that date. Like the long distance trek this done nothing to secure my gateway out of Lowestoft and into higher education but it would be something I would later be proud of.

I feel this picture reveals my artistic ambition and determination of that time. Having had my ability brought into question, my instinct was to lock myself away and confirm my resolve and potential to myself through the act of creation. Over the last 10 years I faced many other rejections of my art, but after this first ground shaker, there is not much that shakes my confidence.

My wife doesn’t like this picture as she says I look arrogant, and I guess I do. I kid myself that this is how my confidence probably manifested itself at that age. I tend to feel that my character is more displayed in the picture as a whole than in the actual features of my face. It’s a bit twisted and vulgar don’t you think?

Chapter 2 - Zen And The Art Of Dumpster Diving

Since quitting Art School in London in 95, before completing my first year, i’ve worked pretty consistently on my Root2Art body of work. I didn’t call it that back then. The name Root2Art came from a file name i liked when i first started using a computer around 2000. Not that this matters in this story. So I quit art school, because I larked around to much when stuck in a studio with others. I effectively quit to work more intensely. The school I went to was one of the last remaining ‘old school’ colleges. So there was lots of life drawing and the like. I’d turn up with my compass and ruler and would think, ‘what the bejesus am I doing here? For me however, the broken bits of art school I did get, were essential, in that it exposed me to a context and gave me a comprehensive understanding of what I didn’t want to attempt to reinvent. The internet is probably as good a place to receive this kind of foundation today.

Asides from working to create my own unique artistic voice over the last eleven years, I’d say I done a few other things that are worth a mentioning and actually might be more interesting to the reader. In 97 I got up one morning from the floor of my bed-sit and decided to go and live in the States in a Zen Buddhist Monastery. I’d been developing a practice of Zen Meditation since leaving art school, in an attempt to grabble with a bit of existential disorder. By the summer of 97 I’d developed a quite rigorous and austere practice of meditating in a full lotus for five hours a day. As a direct result of this mind training I genuinely felt pretty impervious to all adversity. However, nothing particularly testing was happening to me, so I decided to put my calmness to the test. I should add, this process, was quite genuine and the effort I made at the time, to transform my mind from being pretty fucked up to being pretty sane, was beyond any effort I could imagine summoning today.

So in August 97, I got up and decided to bury my art for an undetermined period and fly to the States to attain ‘enlightenment’. It took me a few weeks to raise the cash for the flight, which I done by selling some old work for peanuts. When I landed in Toronto, I had 20$ to my name. I deliberately spent this in the first day just to limit my options. When your options are limited, it’s easier to live and work instinctively and not get caught up weighing the pro and cons of every possibility. That’s my take anyway. Living on the road, with no money, in the States is actually quite easy; if you are prepare to rough it. I read somewhere before I made the transatlantic journey, that the US as a nation wasted a third of its food. The US also had some of the best Zen teachers in the world. It was the natural choice for a Zen Bum. I’d already picked up this persona in limited experiments hitching about in the UK, stealing food from supermarket dumpsters.

By September 97, I’d become the Ray Mears of the Interstate. I’d say the estimate of a third of food wasted was conservative. I ate a lot of cold junk food from the bins of truck stops, but I never went hungry. Being a veggie for a year previous to this, I didn’t take a crap for a few weeks either. My body simply could digest my new found taste fro salty fatty meat products. In truth I tried to avoid them, but it was either that or cold French fries which had the consistency of earwax. It strikes me now that this life style of sleeping on concrete under bridges and porches and dumpster diving could have formed the basis of a number of anthropological studies. Those readers who have seen the superb ‘Super Size Me’ may get where I’m coming from. We see in this documentary what one month of eating shit can do to a healthy body. As it turned out, greasy dumpsters and service station bins became my larder for nearly half a year.

During my Journey in the Sates I hitch hiked and freight train hoped about 12000 miles. Most of this without a penny to my name. Occasionally, people I met gave me some cash, but I usually would end up giving it to a pan handler. Not because I was being particularly generous, but I generally felt it interfered with what I was doing. In the end, what I was doing there, was not what I had first intended. I never got to see a Zen teacher, although I did continue to meditate every morning and night. There are limited entertainment facilities under most interstate bridges, so there were often few desirable options. In this journey, meditation was what made living as a bum fairly easy, but meditating living like a bum was really bloody hard. Living in this way, maintaining a sense of self-worth and purpose, I needed to have a daily structure and adhere to it with discipline and diligence. Being a dedicated artist, who works in isolation is little different.

Chapter 3 and the rest will come in good time