Panic on the streets of dudley

Last couple of weeks i've had the unstoppable feeling that its all going to shit.. I've sort of set myself on this tightrope; i have to be a painter, if i dont succeed as a painter i'm fucked - i have no back up plan. This is worrying, especially as i can't even get a simple job as a courier.. But, times are hard, jobwise, times are always hard otherwise. Hope things pick up soon though, can't paint without money.

 Anyway, found these two out recently, they're about 4 or 5 years old, did them on foundation course. Ones of my grandad, the others of me. And its made me think that maybe my painting skill has deteriorated since going to uni, as these are pretty good, and its been a while since i've done something as good.

This also is from college, the same year as the paintings, and its nothing like the stuff i do now. Maybe i've been conditioned by uni, or maybe thats an easy thing to say, a way of stopping myself looking at the truth.. maybe i just wasn't that good to begin with. And the good that i did produce, was a product of a specific time and place, influenced mainly by the people that surrounded me.

Sorry for the barrage of images, but these are the most recent ones, the ones that i think are better than the others, and i've done a lot. Looking at them now they don't seem too bad, but then why is nobody buying them? why have i got no leads? possibly because the right people aren't seeing them, which would be my fault.. Maybe i'm just having a moan, maybe this is one 'blog' to delete in the future.

There is this though;

 

This probably doesnt mean much to anybody else. Its a painting i havent seen in 15 years, if not more. It hung in what is now my dad's lounge, but back then it was his parents. And as a kid i remember seeing it all the time, being fascinated by it, much as i was fascinated by the deep dark cellar which had lemonade at the top, the outside toilet, the magnetic bluebottle, and the huge sideboard thing, most of those stuff have gone, burnt, rebuilt, or whatever. BUt the painting is there, leaning against a pigeon pen in the rain and the snow and all that, cracked, spoilt and irrepairable. And when i look at it i always associate it with my nan, who i never really knew, but she seemed nice; and there was a song, i dont know now how it went, something about 'holding hands', or something or other.