Ritual We danced amid the ruins, ancient rituals and unremembered stories finding new purchase, but no purpose. Lost in rhythm and lost in time.

The Wasteland of Our Desires And so I wander through the wasteland of our desires, past monuments rusting quietly out or stories, the cracked tarmac vanishing beneath my feet. Truly we are the authors of our own disgrace.

Too late the prodigal son.. (In private collection) I see no prodigal son, too late to return through the unchecked growth and dampen the fires. All memory has fled, he will not end replete.

Thought flies free from memory In my nightmares thought flies free from memory, and ugly spectres rise, soaring over the ruin of abandonment. Cultural barbarism released unchecked. On all sides ascendant.

Expanding access to public drinking water and blue spaces are among the priority areas of focus set out in the plan

No Juliet Riven, no face at the empty window, a world torn apart by more than geography. Chained to a past we were desperate to escape. I see no future after the storm.

No Way Back The last of the factories tumble, and the fires we have lit too close for comfort. There’s no way back through the drained earth. There’s not much on the horizon either. We turn on each other like rats over scraps.

The Dead Telly Set Seduced by lies and easy answers we disappear into the virtual cocktail to rise like bubbles through an instagram feed. The land of always sunny.

Nightlife - in private collection Rising from the rubble a new set of stories, a different energy beats from the facade of industry, and life flocks anew. We drink wine and beer on the bridge, above clear waters that once powered a revolution.

Northern Powerhouse We scrabble for new heights, against a tide of entropy. Our strength is in our people. Tower blocks like capacitors, plugged in to power another growth. Drained, and discarded.

Looking Forward Looking Back The world I was born into has vanished for me now, still grieving for long lost certainties. All is under glass, redemption in the distance, but no route to that bright horizon - I brought you some flowers

Easy Terms Available The walls crash down, reverberations felt far from the point of impact. Dodgy geezers sell tanks on the side of the road to keep the soldiers fed. We asked for freedom and got 14 varieties of tomato ketchup.

Reflections on a memory - in private collection In the City I feel the same, the destruction too recent for the stories to have fled, memories raw and reinforced. I read history on the walls and the present on the cracked and broken pavement.

Discarded Gods Through woods I walk, pass discarded Gods tumbled into streams that pour from the cold ghosts of more recent endeavour, our marks slowly succumbing to more persistent forces.

A sense of ancient stories - in private collection Up North I feel history beneath my feet, walking the Peaks through tiny reminders that it is we who have shaped this land. Treading through the footprints of a myriad forgotten stories, raw and faintlycalling.

Post Industrial Party People - in private collection. In the abandoned warehouses and factories we danced, for what else could we do? Bass boom and flashing lights mimic the spark of the furnace and the crash of the hammers, we are now, not tomorrow.

Collateral Damage Up North the pits are closing, and there’s more than battered workboots left mouldering on broken windowsills, as life stops or flees South for work. Thriving towns left with no particular reason to be.

The threat of encroaching modernity With fire and fury we took wrecking balls to the foundations of our world, sweeping away the untold stories of a dozen generations. Facing the future, bright, shiny, but somehow insubstantial.

Lost Motion Down dusty paths I wandered, the remains of antediluvian beastslost in the scrapyards that draw me like the rusty wrecks on thecanal towpath - abandoned and decayed. Motionless as the worldgrows around them.

Domestic: The home front What marks the edge of your domain?The boundary cross which no intruder can stepDefended, barbed wire and machine gun postLest defences pierced you are revealed to yourselfThis is your cupYour plateYour chairYour ForkThese are your words

The Coal Guard (in private collection) Up North a daughter stands fierce, with her siblings, feet planted in the freshly delivered coal. Post war prosperity has yet to stretch this far, and she’ll stand there another 4 hours before her dad gets home. Theirs the only heated house in the village, he the only miner.

In the cold light of dawn It's been a while since I posted, so a quick update. The Benholm Mill exhibition went well, with four works finding their forever home, and a decent number of visitors leading to some interesting conversations both about my paintings, and about the history of the area. I've also had paintings in two other local shows, leading to more sales, and a commission.