From Roger’s friend,
Graham.
Greetings from a cloudy Essex riverside, and welcome.
Life can be a bittersweet symphony, as the song by British indie
band, Verve, suggests. A shifting interplay of light and shade; smiles, tears,
triumph and tragedy. How the individual makes sense of it is, like art, a
studied interpretation.
Whether poet, artist, or none of the above, the human sees
beyond the innate existence or istigkeit
of their subject to reveal deeper truths. Capturing aspects of its meaning, its
purpose, or even its cultural symbolism. Though a painting or poem merely occupy a
veneer, their expositions delve deep. They’re so much more than just visual
facsimiles or mechanical recordings.
Although constrained in his early years by familial and societal
expectations, Roger, I think, blossomed in later life. He discovered his métier
and befriended his muses. He embraced his passion for poetry, daring to rise
above naysayers and the sniffy literati. (Just as any self-respecting Impressionist
would disregard the strictures of Académie.) In the period that I knew him, he lived a bold, liberated
and authentic life. ‘I’m past caring what people think about me’ he might say.
Or sometimes (after a vino or two) he was rather more forthright: ‘Ah boll*cks
to ‘em!’ he’d proclaim with a wry bardic grin.
I know Roger loved the paintings of British artist William
Turner (or J. M. W. Turner).
I sense that influence in his impressionistic
wordscapes. His mind’s eye conjuring glittering pools of reflection, rolling
pastures of rampant joy, and brooding skies of depression. Edges diffused, flowing and pulsing, in a vivid palette of words. A tree centre stage, feverishly worked into
a hazy summer meadow. Figurative renderings; intertwining in storms of passion,
making love, coalescing into a single entity. Fleeting beauty, captured in all its
fragile and poignant intensity. Grotesque demons of blind hatred and heartless
sanctimony exposed in their naked form; their monstrosity and absurdity revealed.
Intense outpourings of a soul in ecstasy or agony; becalmed or in the tumult of
a raging existential tempest. Unvarnished truths… swirling interplays… bold strokes.
Lines of time tracing the vigour of youth to the frailty of old age. A life
within and without; captured in all its delicate and gaudy hues.
Though Roger’s passions are now spent, his palette dry and
his mind’s eye sleeping, his impressions endure. Open to interpretation and
fresh perspectives. But most of all – to be enjoyed in that wondrous communion
between artwork and observer.
And like his wordscapes, Rog blazed brightly in life too. Illuminating darkness and filling days with colour. Always there for me when I needed sage
counsel, shelter, or reassurance. Likewise, I did my best to help him in his
times of need. More than that though, he was great fun to be around. We enjoyed
many uproarious days out*; consuming far too much ale and jokingly posturing
around town as a pair of swaggering Bohemians. I recall our hilarious drunken
antics involving spectacles falling into toilet pans, ales inadvertently slopped
over crotch areas, and trousers accidentally slipping to half-mast on tube platforms.
(Possibly not the sort of exposure an artist craves?) Plus a whole litany of
other indecorous displays. It’s a wonder we weren’t arrested! Ah, dear ‘ole Rogie
- feet of clay, but his head in the stars. It was a joy and a privilege…
I feel that Roger left this world slightly more picturesque
than he found it. His legacy; a gallery of living, breathing landscapes of the
imagination. I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems. (Please forgive this
self-indulgence, but I’m hopeful you’ll enjoy it.) It’s raw creative dynamism
still paints my daydreams.
Cheers, Gx
* Reference to the period prior to Roger’s nasty fall and subsequent mobility impairment.
* * * *
THE POET’S
SONG
I am a
Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace
I am a
Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in
a mist
of aspiration, inviting
inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a
classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality
See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for
all
that seek gold where the
rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our
secrets
once let fly - each to their
own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of
light
or ships in a cruel night
Senses,
falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams
Copyright R. N. Taber. From the collection: First Person Plural, 2002.
