Wiggledom and Quietude

It feels as though, in the light of our times of upheaval and change, I am more than ever receptive to the sensibility of quietude. I find myself slowing down, listening more carefully, becoming increasingly focused on making paintings that ache with feeling rather than shout for attention.

Recently, my husband and I began listening to the extraordinarily talented musician, songwriter and conductor Jacob Collier. His work is breathtaking, and his innovative approach is utterly contagious. I’m fascinated by his obsession with harmony, tension and release, overtones, and unpredictability—an unpredictability that is rooted in freedom. He refers to this freedom as “wiggledom.” I just love that word.

The way he makes sound, his improvisation, his willingness to wander, reminds me so much of mark-making in art. It is a language beyond spoken words, a subject that has long been at the foundation of my own work. That deep, wordless communication where feeling leads and logic follows.

For some time now, I’ve been painting flowers. They are not an easy subject. Their beauty is deceptive, each bloom is complex, layered, and demanding. I look to the British painter and educator Paul Foxton with great admiration. I often watch his videos, gently endeavoring to move forward step by step, one painting at a time.

A recent video of his on painting roses taught me a great deal. I loved how he encouraged us not to think of painting a rose petal by petal, but instead to focus on shapes, to think of them as little bowls. To imagine a striking colour deep within, surrounded by soft, translucent petals folding around it, until in the end only a hint of that colour shows through. That idea has stayed with me.

There is a certain magnetism in sound, in wiggledom, in sight, in feeling, an experiential quality that transcends language altogether. Enveloped in diffused light and exuding peacefulness, the works appear like quietly spoken benedictions. They are invitations to stillness, gestures toward something spiritual, something felt rather than explained.

This is where I find myself now, listening, looking, and painting my way toward quiet.

Marian Bosch

Oil on Linen, 31cmx27cm.