My memories of factories revolve around swarf in my shoes, the smell of suds oil imbedded in my skin, thin pay packets and the little man employed to make the hands of the clock slow down each afternoon. Andy Warhol’s Factory made Art! He had ‘superstars’ who couldn’t act and interminable movies of lights going on and off in tall buildings. His paintings looked great in magazines but actually were poorly executed planographic prints on coloured
grounds. It was tacky, tasteless stuff and I thought it marvellous. These canvases are
part journal, part sketchbook but mainly just the chase of pigment, beeswax and turpentine.
