How did you know I was here? You heard those whispers in the dark, you spoke to me with intensity and challenged excaliber to raise above the armies of my heart. It wasn’t enough to fight until many nights passed with clarity and home felt warmer. 

In light of the recent Gainsborough exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery, I looked back at one of my father’s essays on the subject. This one first published in 1980 goes into the historic feuds and repercussions of this work that was causing rifts within the art world and British society throughout the last century

The latest Edward Burne-Jones exhibition at the TATE reminded me of my father’s review of The Last Romantics exhibition in the 90s, at the start of the Pre-Raphaelite revival of which he was a leading voice.

Bely that jolly blue eyed mistress, she with reverence to the hero flickering on the screen with big brothers heavy arms sees that dark force in me and begins to push down on my chest to purge it out. Scour my guts out of the fish heads and dried out beef that lingered in there heavy wrenching mornings and evening see me sleeping in confusion.

A word, a single word, it lands on the heart of the boy like the omen of his life. It’s sound shudders through the blade, it rings through the metal heat powered up to the scolding time of a blazing clutch double gripped. Self reliance; defy the authorities of the day that comply until favorite chance and time of life delays.

Ruins of an ancient pilgrimage reverberate in fields of rusted sunflowers creaking up the air below my pedaling feet. Floating forward my tires move with slow cranks, the sound rings out across the field of fallen tribal warriors.

“The ensemble of actors, many of whom play multiple roles, all seem passionate & committed to the material. Hughes’ Quinn is a soft, introspective pleasure in the center of it all, embodying the fragility of the character perfectly while allowing the other actors to shine against the foil he provides them. Laurence Fuller (as Jason), Rebekah Brandes (as his girlfriend Miranda), Rex Lee (as his agent), & Greg Ainsworth as Quinn’s husband, are standouts in a cast that acquits itself admirably” LA Blade

Childish force of nature, my swirling body swims with salt drops dropping in pools of unexpected pleasure. Crashing water weeds washing their spirits with me. Together we cross over the top layer, before we get sucked under the other underneath pulled out to sea.

City nightmares constants frightful ticking moments of our dreams licking the pavement, snapping claws and jaws of giant chomping beasts, breaking down these rubble streets, clean and filthy all at once, powerful beasts that light up majesty, their wrong choices buried in the right ones.

Peter Fuller's controversial views on Andy Warhol were at the root of his argument on aesthetics, now that the second draft of my screenplay about my father Modern Art is complete, I've decided it's time to start posting his most significant works. The below televised debate caused a huge stir when he was able to take on a room full of intellectuals on the subject of Warhol's work and what it means for the world.

Iridescent demon dramas play  beast like games and pour city champagne over dusty draws that sparkle in my guts. Pushed back into the past,  where Romance  joined it's aweful tune to the trumpet tunnels of the sky. Baskets of fruit usher summertime and the deep unending questions I feel too small to answer, too big for the little things, too small for the cosmos.

Over the last four years I have seen a good many of Schnabel’s paintings, but I had not, until this exhibition, set eyes on one that manifested any painterly qualities at all. I was therefore pleasantly surprised to look at a picture like Alexander Pope, which indicates that Schnabel could conceivably learn to draw; or at Seed, which shows that, after all, he might have some decorative sensibility. Drawing and decorative sensibility are, you must understand, two of the necessary prerequisites for good painting.

Rebel artist, rebel against the father, rebel with the river, rebel bending time, bending lines bending all that’s mine, he makes what’s his and gives it back to the great unending shimmer. I’ll give to you if I freely choose, I’ll walk my limping gate, my rebel friend, I’ll be there in the end, rebel makes his own chewed up calamity in time, rebel’s wish they had more than just their solitude to offer, a sorry piece of meat wrapped flimsy round his wrist, he hides the true prize made valor, mist and sin.

Patrick Heron is having a major retrospective exhibition at TATE St Ives until September 30th 2018, in support of one of Britain's most accomplished painters I wanted to post my father Peter Fuller's essay discussing his work, their relationship and foreshadowing his longevity from 1981.

Dear M, 

Today I miss you deeply. Trying to gather my thoughts and myself. So much is happening, I’m hoping to rise again from the safety of a shell that I enclose myself within to finish my screenplay. At least that is what I tell myself and what has happened. It’s done now and all stripping back is happening in rewrites. I’m in the stage of reshaping the muddy mold of the first impression, knocking the rusty edges off and finding form beneath with finer rivets. Hope and faith guiding me further to some inevitable conclusion I'm not yet aware of.

The poet fights the ardor of his recompense, asking forgiveness for his follies in constant battle with the universe of the mind. Poetry’s unlimited potential reaches out across the universe of the mind its unlimited potential reaches out across the multitude of time, filtering only back to the passing minutes and seconds of reacting soundbites when limited consciousness is distracted by the comings and goings of it all.