New Textile Paintings by Adam Halls
Preview Saturday 16th September, 1-4pm with artist present and refreshments served
Exhibition 17th September – 7 October 2017
‘Adam Halls is tucked into the corner of a small hut, his studio. On his right hangs a work in progress, glistening in the cold day light. I look through the shed window at the full grass fields, beyond, to the valley and over the moor; this is Adams palette. I study the unfinished embroidery – the wavering layers of late summer yellows and muted greens: Adams colours in Adams place.’
Halls has the awakened eye of a poet. His embroideries speak of connectedness, within nature, as opposed to observing it. Adam was born on his great grandfathers farm on Bodmin moor. He points to a hill with a shadow of a neolithic stone circle. Adams roots are deep and he will continue to live his life in this raw and mysterious place.
It would be banausic to unpick the process of making these embroidered paintings. Stitching is slower and more reflective than drawing, the works take their time. Halls titles: Mine houses, Wash House Wall and Cornish Lime say enough.
Currently there is gallery focus on male artists who use textiles to create art. Grayson Perry, Chris Offilli, Nick Cave, Michael Brenand-Wood and Richard Tuttle are part of the new art establishment. Young male artists from Africa, Mexico, Poland and South America have no cultural hang ups about using fabric and thread. Historically, a woman’s craft, the use of embroidery in the contemporary art world, is thankfully, gender neutral.
From – The Bright Field
Too far for you to see
The moss and the mould on the cold chimneys,
The nettles growing through the cracked doors,
The houses stand empty at Nant-yr-Eira,
There are holes in the roofs that are thatched with sunlight,
And the fields are reverting to the bare moor.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Critique by Vera Marr