Words that follow me around like wilful shadows, playfully darting about in the periphery of my mind’s eye. Until something better comes along I guess I will reluctantly tolerate them (even if “surrealism art” makes me grind my teeth). I won’t let them define me but I will let them rattle around in their container until they can somehow break free.

To me, labels like this are like subtle haunts. Lurking just at the perimeter of thought’s reach, within the range of off-stage prompts and directions, barely at the threshold of awareness. More like faded scar tissue than an emblazoned crest worn proudly, labels and brands are like familiar clichés. They convey a message in basic, familiar terms but may not be very accurate. Yet what is their impact? Does the label beget the art?

I often wonder about people whose work becomes bigger than themselves and if their “brand” then, in turn, informs their decisions. Or does the creator deny the influence of past success (or suppress it) to the point where the delusion is that we are not co-dependant of our previous creations. I don’t know, but sometimes I think about things like this.

Every once in a while I take on a project that just seems like an exercise in biting off more than I can chew. It’s a way of testing the walls of my container or maybe redefining the limits.

With the painting “The Empty Visual Discourse of a Reluctant Pop Surrealist” 42″ x 48″, oil on panel, 2019, I attempted one of the largest painting I’ve ever done while stuffing it with content relevant to the themes of consumerism and emptiness. Originally conceived as a “proposed” painting for an exhibit (which I was consequently rejected from) it continues a commentary so prevalent in my body of work that it could almost be regarded as an “exemplary” Stephen Gibb painting.

Starting with the underlying, hidden decay at the top, which is concealed by the artifice of the commercial world of marketing, advertising and product, the painting illustrates the “consumer” in a feeding frenzy, consuming the last drops of what is available to him. Like some kind of fantastical digestive tract we follow the course of the consumption into the hollow container below, where motifs of “emptiness” echo the nature of the unfulfilling consumer/marketer contract—the unsatisfying delivery of what was promised.

Just as a label promises a certain expectation it can often under-deliver. The final irony being that my painting under-delivered to the curator of the exhibit, and was thus rejected. Funny how life imitates art…

I’m an artist not a writer, so feast on the art and let me eat my words.