Journal
Lichen Portraits 2019
Believe it or not, there are people who have never noticed lichens. This is almost as fascinating as the lichens themselves. Lichens fly under the radar, blending into the background of life. Painting ‘portraits’ of these creatures feels like making the unseen, seen. This is essentially the work of an artist, whatever the subject.
I began painting lichens in 2017 and it has developed into an ongoing project. Wherever I go, I fall a little in love with lichens that I meet. Interestingly, they are usually a combination of fungi and bacteria, producing their own nutrients through photosynthesis. They don’t have roots and can grow in the most extreme of environments, on surfaces, ranging from granite rock to bark, from which they hang. They are simultaneously adaptable and particular. They thrive as pioneers in rapidly changing environments and are also some of the oldest creatures on earth. They are effective indicators of environmental health, particularly of air pollution.
The paintings are not intended as botanical studies, but as translations into paint, with allowances for favouritism and obsession. There is something primal about this life form. A friend said they made her think of the beginnings of life; another said that perhaps it is the fractal patterns that we find absorbing. Whatever it is, my viewers also develop personal attachments to these strange organisms, and the fact that they are obscure combinations of fungus and bacteria fades away. Perhaps it is the naming process that helps. This is the fun part. Somehow, each one has the right title and it is a matter of exploring my own mind until I find the one that fits. The successful titles are usually tongue-in-cheek with a hint of something more.
Karin Daymond
2019
Kalahari
All the cliched descriptions one hears about the Kalahari are true. It is harsh land, where the distribution of the plants and the colour of the soil are the only signs that there may be, or may have been, water there.
It took me months to process what I had seen and felt. My tried and trusted methods of painting didn’t work; it was as if the light came from above and somehow, from the ground. I reassessed every colour and brush mark.
The white paper that is the start of the printmaking process suited this bleached and tentative landscape. Collaborating with Mark also worked; he is so tuned in to the surface of the print, seeing with me, the things that may go unnoticed, picking up on the tentative and helping to find a way to say it with ink. What fun it was to pick up on chance marks and develop them into thorn bushes, or pebbles and to build up layers of thousands of carefully curated dots (really like doing that!) into something that radiates heat and gives a sense of vast space.
Karin Daymond
2019
View the Kalahari lithographs here
A Sense of Place II
A Sense of Place - Mapungubwe
Artist's statement
Recently, I have wrapped myself in a light cocoon and been focussing on my own sense of place. Three very different landscapes feature in this exhibition of paintings and drawings.
Mapungubwe and the Kgalagadi are both trans-frontier parks, established precariously where bordering countries meet. These are extreme environments. The Kgalagadi is rugged, with an incongruent delicacy that is elusive during painting. The strong white light seems to dissolve the rocky ground and the vegetation. Painting the Kalahari challenged my familiar work processes; I struggled to make marks that were satisfyingly crisp, and eventually achieved some sense of place by building up a lattice of fine marks.
Mapungubwe seems closer to the sun than most places. Sun baked rocks punctuate the landscape, scoured by water courses that are now mostly dry. The red rocks are left to fend for themselves as the elements cause onion-skin weathering and the rocks exfoliate in layers when they heat up and cool down. Sitting in the twilight on the warm rocks anchored me to something deep under the surface of the earth.
Lichens have their own sense of place but of course it is a secretive world to which we are not always privy. They are found in almost every place on earth, but grow in specific niches, not because they want to grow there, but because nothing else can. They creep into landscapes incognito. Painting these curious creatures feels a bit like exposing them and so I call them ‘lichen portraits’ to reinstate some of their dignity. I would go as far as to say that I feel a kind of remorse in painting them and then sending them out into the world where they can’t fly under the radar any more. It’s silly, but lichens are my folly!
And then I am home, in the lush escarpment of Mpumalanga, sitting on my veranda and looking at the landscape that has been my anchor for twenty years. I know this place so intimately that I almost feel it instead of seeing it. This is dangerous territory when it comes to observational painting, because what you think you know may overwhelm what you see. Although my goal was not photographic realism, I wanted each of the twelve paintings (one for each month of the year) to be true to that exact place and the season. This was an interesting process because the location of my veranda stays constant, and yet each painting evokes a different feeling; intense observation coming full circle in the distillation of the marks and colours into something specific, yet familiar.
Playfully, and with great joy, working on this exhibition has resulted in my current mantra: the more specific a landscape painting, the more universal the interpretation and meaning.
Karin Daymond
2019
A Sense of Place
A Sense of Place - home paintings
Artist's statement
Recently, I have wrapped myself in a light cocoon and been focussing on my own sense of place. Three very different landscapes feature in this exhibition of paintings and drawings.
Mapungubwe and the Kgalagadi are both trans-frontier parks, established precariously where bordering countries meet. These are extreme environments. The Kgalagadi is rugged, with an incongruent delicacy that is elusive during painting. The strong white light seems to dissolve the rocky ground and the vegetation. Painting the Kalahari challenged my familiar work processes; I struggled to make marks that were satisfyingly crisp, and eventually achieved some sense of place by building up a lattice of fine marks.
Mapungubwe seems closer to the sun than most places. Sun baked rocks punctuate the landscape, scoured by water courses that are now mostly dry. The red rocks are left to fend for themselves as the elements cause onion-skin weathering and the rocks exfoliate in layers when they heat up and cool down. Sitting in the twilight on the warm rocks anchored me to something deep under the surface of the earth.
Lichens have their own sense of place but of course it is a secretive world to which we are not always privy. They are found in almost every place on earth, but grow in specific niches, not because they want to grow there, but because nothing else can. They creep into landscapes incognito. Painting these curious creatures feels a bit like exposing them and so I call them ‘lichen portraits’ to reinstate some of their dignity. I would go as far as to say that I feel a kind of remorse in painting them and then sending them out into the world where they can’t fly under the radar any more. It’s silly, but lichens are my folly!
And then I am home, in the lush escarpment of Mpumalanga, sitting on my veranda and looking at the landscape that has been my anchor for twenty years. I know this place so intimately that I almost feel it instead of seeing it. This is dangerous territory when it comes to observational painting, because what you think you know may overwhelm what you see. Although my goal was not photographic realism, I wanted each of the twelve paintings (one for each month of the year) to be true to that exact place and the season. This was an interesting process because the location of my veranda stays constant, and yet each painting evokes a different feeling; intense observation coming full circle in the distillation of the marks and colours into something specific, yet familiar.
Playfully, and with great joy, working on this exhibition has resulted in my current mantra: the more specific a landscape painting, the more universal the interpretation and meaning.
Karin Daymond
2019
Scatterlings
The seed of the Scatterlings paintings grew from a conversation with a Zimbabwean man, Leslie. He spoke in vivid detail about his experiences as a migrant worker, and his relationship with home. He has been home annually for ten years, yet the phrase he kept using was “I have a home”.
Leslie’s references to home were concrete and practical. He spoke of drought and exchange rates, school shoes and roads. In 2010, when life on a subsistence farm became unsustainable, he went into the forest and harvested Mukwa trees (known in South Africa as Kiaat) and made bowls from the wood. He travelled to Cape Town to try to sell them, but his passport and the bowls were stolen. To make the paintings, I needed a vehicle for this idea, something that took the concept beyond border posts and identity documents. The flying seeds are about transcending borders, whatever they may be.
Pterocarpus Angolensis, the distinctive tree that produces these entrancing “wing fruit” (from the Latin) is native to Southern Africa. It is under threat because the prized hardwood is durable, easy to polish and resistant to termites. Interestingly, it is used to make the Mbira because it produces a rich, resonant sound.
Scatterlings I has a warm sky, dry seeds and a sliver of distant forest. In Scatterlings II, the seeds are green and there is the promise of rain, a different season and a different feeling but with the same sense of these beings floating in vast space. They move with the wind and are weightless, yet solid. Deliberately, the paintings do not have a single focus because I want the viewer to consider each seed individually, even though in ‘real’ life they are identical.
Karin Daymond
2019
Yes, my Mom is an artist
Notes from my delightfully sarcastic offspring, on growing up with an artist mother…
- Complementary colours were old hat before I was five
- One eye squint and fingers measuring the view means it’s going to be a long trip
- Seeing distant smoke and driving towards it to study the veld fire
- Artwork taking seating precedence in the car
- Not knowing what to say when asked “are you an artist like your mother?”
- My first playdate and I come home to report that it was fun, but I don’t know where their studio is
- Fighting my way down the passage through a forest of paintings
- What do you mean I can’t doodle in class?
- Aprons behind the kitchen door, more paint than food on them
- Strange music
- Can I eat this, or is Mom painting it?
- “All fruit looks like vaginas”
- Please go fetch the cerulean blue plate
- Knowing no one in your family will ever play rugby
- Suddenly, during play season, she’s the most popular mother at school, makes up for her absences when she paints the backdrop
- Squinting at me like I’m a painting
- Is that painting of me; am I sleeping or dead?
- Gallery finger food, Saturday lunch
- No Prestik, but kneadable erasers work too
- Living in a house that’s purple, but only we can tell that it’s not brown
- Never any HB pencils, only 8B or 2H
- Graceful, last-minute and relentlessly aesthetic approach to everything, including science projects
- Home time and she is photographing the lichens on the trees in the school parking
Respect and thanks
“Yes, you can go down to the lake, but just don’t get between a crocodile and the water” said our parents. We took the advice seriously and crept onto the white beaches of Lake Bhangazi. The sounds and smells were overwhelming, a mixture of Knysna loeries and hippo poo. We were spoilt and thought this paradise was ours alone, best kept wild and unpopulated (except for us, of course). Reaching adulthood as South Africa reached democracy, I felt a growing awareness that guiding this wild and wonderful place into the future would take sensitivity and respect. For twenty years, Andrew Zaloumis has been doing this at Isimangaliso, until yesterday, and the sudden announcement of his departure.
I have lost count of how many times I have visited. Trawling through my archive of work, even I was surprised by what a huge source of inspiration this magical place has been. I have seen and felt it grow as plantations were removed, wild life introduced, water sources carefully managed. More than that though, it always seemed as if there was a sincere acknowledgement of the interdependence of human and conservation needs. It is now a World Heritage Site, simultaneously accessible and protected. The battles behind the scenes must have been titanic. Respect and thanks, Andrew Zaloumis.
You can see more artwork here
Far from home
Wales is not everyone’s dream destination; it’s a bit too soggy for that. It does have a wonderful coastal path that goes from one end of the country to the other (1400km). This path is treacherous in parts, definitely not adhering to health and safety standards that are so prevalent in this nanny state. We bumped into Bob, who was slip-sliding his way along the path and his only concession to health and safety was his neon green reflector jacket. Bob made us guess his age (he was born when Winston Churchill first became Prime Minister was our clue). We asked where he was headed and he said Mwnft, or something like that. The language is also a bit odd, with a strng lck f vwls (strange lack of vowels).
We stayed in a restored stable https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/14098945?s=UYwfGb5B The farm is owned by a young couple who have possibly watched too many episodes of Grand Designs and hoped to restore the farm while commuting from the city and raising several children. The challenges are numerous and fortunately not mine. I could relate to the pioneering spirit of their venture, the underfloor heating and dream bathroom, the windows looking on to the four fields and the wild sea; my kind of place.
The plan was to walk on the coastal path to Fishguard, a tiny fishing harbour. It was actually raining when we set off, so I (being African) thought we should retreat to the underfloor heating and half metre thick walls. My sister (being anglicised) felt it was a lovely day. We crossed the four fields of the farm, waded through grass (again, a mixture of Viridian Green and Lemon Yellow) and clambered over lichen encrusted walls. As we got closer to the glassy, Paynes Grey sea, we froze. I knew that sound, a primal explosion of bubbles and wailing that echoed in the caves below…hippos! Peering gingerly over the edge of the cliff we spied the giant Atlantic Seals and their snow white babies (they looked like squirming maggots from up there).
Bravely, we stuck to the plan, stopping for sustenance at a formerly grand seaside hotel that is a blend of the Durban Country Club and something out of Dirty Dancing. We ate cream, with scones and tea, surrounded by content elderly people and a disapproving barman who doubled as the waiter during the day. Next stop was Fishguard, where we hung around the town square hoping to work out which bus to take. Because she spent too long living in London, anglicised sister was nervous to ask the bus drivers. Plucking up the courage, we hopped onto a bus. The bus driver was strong looking, with lots of piercings and she scowled at us. We explained our plight, gesturing in the general direction of where we had come from. She broke into a broad smile and said “Oh that will be near Buv nd Juff’s (Bev and Jeff) place”, take a seat”.
I couldn’t have felt further from home and more at home all at once.
Brown is good
I just returned from the hardware store. (Needed some MDF board cut to size- works for tiny paintings, as long as it is well primed with gesso) Remember, home is in a medium-sized town where the emphasis is on agricultural and service industries, so it is not a given that a lefty-leaning female artist will always be completely understood. Over the years, visits to panel beaters, tyre shops, car garages, hardware stores have been fraught with ‘isms… paternalism, sexism, racism to name a few. These days, things are a bit better, perhaps because savvy businesses have cottoned on to the spending power of women, but I still have a residual nagging feeling.
Today was refreshing. As I scanned the counters for a friendly looking assistant, a blushing young man in khaki and boots caught my eye. I explained what I wanted, trying not to be too overbearing and leaving the planning of the cutting list to him and the computer software. He apologised sweetly for the estimated three day wait for the cutting- three days! Still, I maintained my composure, trying to pass for an average customer. Eventually I couldn’t help myself and produced my sample that I had brought with me, just to check that we were talking about the same thickness of board. This little board I had lovingly prepared with gesso and then subsequent transparent layers of Ultramarine Blue and Dioxazine Violet. He looked a little uncomfortable when he saw it, and apologised again, saying that it was the same thickness but unfortunately they didn’t have it in purple. No problem, I said, brown is good. I left with a happy heart. (And he managed to get the board cut for me in ten minutes!)
On the way home, I had to pull off the road to stop and pick some of the most beautiful Kiaat seeds that I had ever seen. It must be the drought conditions. While I was taking pics, several passers-by also stared at the contorted tree, laden with angel-like seeds in glowing Lemon Yellow with a touch of Titanium White and Viridian Green, and asked me what I was looking at.
Keeping it real.
Podcast
WELCOME STRANGER
Artist’s statement
The small boat crossed the treacherous channel and left us on the tiny island off Sicily. It is an exquisite place; turquoise water that hurts the eyes and a shimmering fortress. I thought we were alone on the island. We walked on the baked path and the physical connection with Africa was evident. We found neatly arranged clothes, drying in the sun and left by refugees who had crossed from Africa to Europe. As we walked, I could smell fear. I knew instantly that people were hiding in the low vegetation. I raised my hand slightly in greeting and kept walking.
Back home, where my sense of belonging is strongest, I began to see landscapes as a refugee would experience them. The Kruger Park was no longer a pristine wilderness, but a place where animals hunt when you walk under the cover of night. I realised why some mountain ranges are called barriers. I painted myself in the landscape that welcomes me, lying there like a stone that cannot be moved, stitched into my surroundings with brush marks.
Migration is pervasive. Out of necessity, it often happens quietly. In these works, the refugees leave silent traces of their journey through water, sand and mountains. I asked myself what I would take if I had to leave, and I saw that African women take fabric. I scattered my collection of African fabrics on the floor and painted them as if lost at sea. Every cloth is regional and has meaning. With it around her, a woman can seem regal and even happy. She might even feel these things. These flashes of colour push back despair; they conceal and express at the same time.
‘Welcome Stranger’ is the translation of a message written on a Kanga cloth.
Karin Daymond
2014
