Artwork Description

I have invented a few media - this is one of them.
I use bitumen as a top layer over a white board. Then I paint on and wipe off the sticky mess - it works kind of like watercolour, only you need to cut it with turps.

This is a painting of my extraordinary ex-partner, sinn.
It’s called The Gate Of Ashes because…
I have been so sick. I have had chronic neuropathic pain for the
Since 2008, so much so that I COULDN’T PAINT ANYMORE and it
drove me mad in a rippling, violent shock. A new madness. I
have worn and sworn enough madness.
This tore me from who I believed myself to be each day each
hour each moment endless a vast saga of pain. I was left with far
worse than nothing. I had become nothing.
It… broke me.
I treated Sinn badly, wrongly, I twist with chagrin well earned as
I try and find the will to lift my fingers to the cold keys. My eyes
to the screen. My scoured memory of what I have done, my
treacherous and selfish heart to its own fast account.
it took a long, long time for me to know her. Right now this
moment in the deep softness of the night – I am sitting hunch-
shouldered, hands quivering in staccato arhythmia – my face
cradled in the curling smoke from my cigarette, and my mind and
heart boiling and bursting, curled and twisted with shame.
knowing her, growing to learn who she is, what she is…
I know something of pain, as we all know its fingers in our
hearts and eyes and minds.
I have studied the history of the world for 30 years. I have never
read or met any person whose physical suffering exceeded this
extraordinary woman.
Such horror she has endured embraced, overcome, destroyed,
filled with her self and her strength and poured into her aching
soul to forge another of the hundreds and hundreds of scars
covering her sweet skin.
And to forge her.
She loved me well.
I did not deserve her.
I wish I could have made her believe me. When I told her that
she was beautiful; that she was strong,that I loved her, that I
loved her, that I loved her.
That she might believe me now when I write these words please
believe this liar
Sinn please I beg of you oh babe please.
I honour you in my memory. I owe you. I feel for you… more
respect than you would ever, perhaps, accept that I could
summon.
I ALWAYS DID.
I have no excuse for hurting you so. What could excuse such
coldness, such hypocrisy. I was so sick, but I… i accept that it
was not my illness but my cowardice that cut you a hundred
thousand wounds.
you have enough wounds. enough.
I will always love you. I will never forget that you nursed me
whilst you were in terrible pain – with a fever of 42 degrees C,
whilst your own treatment and illness tore through your body.
I know that you ALWAYS told me the truth.
I do not deserve to have you in my life. I could ask for no better,
tougher, more resolute, passionate or loyal friend than you.
I hope that you will believe me. I understand now. I am… so
sorry.
Please, please, oh please.
Live well. As you loved me so well.
Paul.

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Medium

Bitumen on board

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Unframed (requires framing)

This artwork is unframed and requires framing.

All art by Paul Robertson

Female nude drawn from the frontFemale nude leaning  forward drawn from the frontFemale nude drawn from the rearFemale standing nude side view.
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