A Conversation with Alison Raimes

Paul Gates: Do the paintings in the Mindescape series have something in common for you? What I'm asking I suppose is, where do you think that imagery came from? Have you seen fractal or Mandelbrot images?

Alison: Everyone wants to know where an artist's images come from. Unfortunately, I may not be able to give you the answers that you want, because it is never as simple as the enquirer wants it to be. My work is an accumulation of several years of intensive enquiry into not only painting and its history, but equally the question of my perceptions of life and particularly the random universe. Many think my work has a cosmic quality, and others believe it originates from my love of the ocean.

Paul: Cosmic, that hit it. I know why your art made me think of large expanses of fathomlessness. They look somewhat like the images from some telescopes of clusters distant galaxies. I had a gut reaction a little like that chap that went through the tunnel in 2001, but I couldn't figure out why I was connecting this to your images. The images are provocative in that they allow your mind to make its own connections. They suggest some abstract object to me or something very distant. Do you think some of your paintings have a snapshot-like quality, rather like something in motion, caught in the light of a strobe? Like a frozen explosion . . . ?

Alison: Yes, indeed. I think all artists try to capture moments of some description—to make things stand still. However, I do try not to take directly from sources of imagery, particularly scientific. The accidental in art has become an important aspect of the twentieth century, as has the spontaneous. I try to draw on all this and at the same time to bring in an aspect of the deliberate. It is almost a personal attempt to bring order to chaos.

Paul: The fluorescent lines remind of bubble chamber traces where nature is frozen to the nth degree.

Alison: Even more so in real life. The surface textures cannot be experienced across the 'Net. The droplets and explosions are more intricate, and the underlying textures can be experienced only up close.

Paul: The scarily bright, overly lit foregrounds give you the impression that the light source is behind you or at your position and is bright. But because the background is dark, you reason that the light source can't be the sun, and this puts your mind into "Where the hell am I?" mode. Is it an object reflecting? There is texture, so perhaps it is a brightly coloured object, but hold on—parts of it appear gaseous . . . and liquid droplets! It's not representational, but it has texture and perspective, shadows are cast, and there are highlights, so it must be meant to be interpreted as an object . . . but an object under strange conditions? Some of the textures remind me of electron micrography of insects or plants. This is the normal seen under extraordinary conditions, or nature stopped so that it can be seen . . . .?

Alison: Maybe an organic quality to some of them—amorphous beings.

Paul: You must go from day to day with the same idea or vision in your mind. Is this vision completely different for each painting? Or do you say something else about the same "ideal" with each painting?

When you start, do you let the winds of chaos" [grin] drive your hands until something at some level in your mind yelps in recognition, and then you try and pull that shape out, getting closer and closer to something you can feel but can't quite see? I ask this because I think this is how I would paint. It sounds so interesting. Each painting is like a little investigation into the things in your mind that are recognized only as similar to things that are seen, not quite seen in themselves. And it would not surprise me if other people's minds flickered in recognition as well. What a thing art is!

Alison: I never start a painting with a distinct image in mind. I know what overall effect I am seeking and what materials I am going to use, but if I find that the "accidental" that is inevitable during the free-flowing process provides me with a new avenue, then I won't fight it. It is almost like giving the painting its own power over me—when in fact most paintings are under the control of the artist. This is difficult because everyone wants to be in control—and this is where the "lines" come in. They were my means of bringing order into chaos.

Paul: Ahh . . . . Your method is partly accidental, taking a chaotic situation and painting into this a form. I think this is fascinating. It mimics something we all do with the world. Painting our specific story or interpretation onto the uncertain chaos of the world around us, we all create order out of chaos all the time, but it is such an automatic part of ourselves that we barely notice the translation. Art is fascinating because it deals with this interpretation directly. An artist can show or allow us to see our own processes of ordering—or what we do to make sense of what we see. But you use your sense-making ability or (way of making order into chaos) to actually create the painting in the first place.

Because of the way you create the painting, there must be some ambiguity—a tension. This makes it effective for allowing others to interpret freely and spot how their own thoughts come. Also, any other painter would have created something else out of what you were given, so it is completely personal to you and a product of your mind's ability to create order—processes completely specific to you! This is probably all old hat in the art world, but to me it sounds like a great way to give art a drive and objective. As you may have spotted, I'm not very knowledgeable in matters artistic; I tend too make it up as I go along. However, I love staring at something I don't understand and not allowing myself the comfort of dismissing it. Somebody went to the bother of making this so; it is here for a reason. I felt that your paintings were quite immediately accessible for me and spiked my curiosity. The reason all that science came up is that that is where a lot of my brain sits. I am fascinated by the world—and different ways of making sense of what we see.

Art shows us the assumptions we make in a nonverbalizable way. They are not easily verbalized assumptions. Science attempts to eliminate assumptions in its world when they become verbalized and definable. Philosophy sits between the two, acting as a bridge, trying to turn the picture-like insights of art into the "languageable" insights of science. Perhaps? All these things deal with what we see and how we see it—what we can say about it and why.

Paul Gates and Alison Raimes met while participating in a philosophy news group. Since then, they have collaborated in writing Alison's exhibition catalogues.
Paul may be reached at gat09@dial.pipex.com.