Conformity and Expectation: Naivety of a budding artist – Part 3

We sometimes went to stay with my cousins in Dublin. This meant catching the boat-train from Euston to Holyhead. It was tremendous. Hurrying along the platforms at 11 O’clock at night!

I loved the noise and the smell of hot oil, burning coal,  leather trunks, and several other things I could never put my finger on. All steam and smoke and atmosphere.

The trains were huge, and the roof was even higher; like a cathedral.

Joe Tymkow - 'Fairy Cathedral'

When we got to Holyhead we had to walk across a gangplank to get on the ferry. When I looked over the side I could see the dark black water a long, long way down; mesmerising and terrifying at the same time.

The crossing seemed to take all night. Mum would produce bowls, milk and cornflakes from nowhere. We would go up on deck and look for light-houses and listen to the sea-gulls following behind. It was always pitch-black, and windy.

In the morning we could see the land, it was Ireland! Another country, so exciting. And when we got to Dublin it was such a curious place. Just the same as London, but completely different. Strange accents, and funny money, and full of people living their lives.

My uncle Terry let me drive his car on the beach near Howth, well steer it anyway. My granddad fixed ambulances in his garage. He let me go down into the inspection-pit and look up underneath to see all the pipes and wires.

One day we walked along the Grand Canal. The water was crystal clear. There was a huge shoal of fish with golden scales and bright red fins; a bit like Roach but more coloured-in. Someone told me they were Rudd.

I never remember coming home.

I failed the eleven plus so I never went to glamour school. Someone built a new Comprehensive, right next to West Ham football ground. We were the first wave and the teachers could try things out on us. What a wonderful opportunity to be part of a social experiment.

West Ham won the World Cup in 1966, (Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters and Bobby Moore), and we were right next door.

It was a brand new school, they were still finishing it when we moved in. There was a play-ground, but no fences had been put up. Because we smashed five windows in the first week the headmaster banned all ball-games indefinitely, so we never played cricket, football, rugby, tennis; I might have been good at something but I never got the chance to find out.

Everything seemed to be made of plastic.

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About Joe

In June 2010 Joe graduated from UWE in Bristol with a degree in Fine Art. Although his artwork is primarily based around painting, Joe is equally experienced in photography and sculpture. These three disciplines result in artworks which have physical, tactile and aesthetic presence. Joe never feels intimidated by a blank canvas; he equates his work with that of exposed negatives - latent images awaiting development. The application and removal of paint, coupled with the interaction between differing mediums, produce a multitude of diverse qualities in his work. The varying processes that Joe adopts drive each work in a different direction. The resulting surface is as important as the work itself. Joe’s response to the way paint behaves and the use of multiple layering contribute to the richness found on and under the surface. Painting on a large scale gives him freedom of movement and allows these layers to come to life. His natural inquisitiveness and fondness for experimentation, combined with a logical approach to his work, produce artwork which is varied in nature. Joe says, ‘I am happiest when I am actually painting, when both myself and the surface of the canvas are physically animated; I spend the rest of my time literally watching paint dry’. As a result of the methods Joe uses his artworks tend to end in ‘abstracts by default’. Occasionally Joe produces figurative pieces and this year he had one of his paintings accepted for the Threadneedle prize, shown at the Mall Galleries in London.
This entry was posted in Art, childhood, family, fine art, London, Painting, Photography, poor. Bookmark the permalink.

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