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

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

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, 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

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.