The Still Life of Things
The Still Life of Things
I’ve taught still life as part of my Back to Basics Drawing and Painting course for over fifteen years. I always tell my students that while still life might seem a bit dry as a genre, the joy is, it doesn’t move. It is perfect when a student is trying to come to grips with value, composition, perspective, line, colour, all the elements and principles that work to make art.
I believe in working from life. I was taught at art college to only work from direct observation. My tutors were of that wonderful old school where drawing was a core, academic part of an artist’s training. I’m so grateful for it, I learned how to make measured drawings and to become completely immersed in a subject. Working from photographs was seen as a cardinal sin back then, and that’s something I still struggle to let go of. (Probably a whole other blog post in itself.)
I’ve returned to still life on and off throughout my art practice. Late in 2024, I was invited to have a solo show at The Churn Room in Dayboro, and I decided to focus on still life paintings. At the time, we’d put our house on the market and I was in the midst of packing up our eclectic possessions. The process made me think a lot about the nature of things , why I had so many, and why it felt impossible to part with some of them. Was I a secret hoarder? Or was it something else?
I realised that each piece held its own quiet narrative. Objects reminded me of people , of loved ones who are gone or far away. I could recall their homes, the moments we shared. I remembered who I was when I’d bought certain things, where I was, what season of life I was in.
Still life as a genre sometimes gets a bad rap. It’s not seen as particularly sexy, it’s quiet, domestic, a bit old-fashioned. But for me, it serves several beautiful purposes. The objects themselves are often overlooked, hidden away, and painting them brings them back into the light ,literally and metaphorically. Each object tells its own story.
Working from direct observation also pushes me technically. Still life demands rigour: composition, perspective, colour, space, value, and shape all have to line up. There aren’t many places to hide, and I love that. I have to really look, and figure out the challenges.
My first series, for the solo show, A Sense of Self, also incorporated architectural elements from our home. I’ve always loved Bonnard and Matisse, their use of colour, Matisse’s bold design, Bonnard’s shimmering light and I borrowed their “view through a window” device in this series. Our home, which would soon belong to another family, became part of the work itself. The window frames ( which I had either sanded or stained myself) the glimpses of the world beyond, offered both structure and metaphor. And of course, the brilliant Queensland light and our rural view were stars in their own right.
I also adore Cézanne; you can’t go wrong with a bowl of oranges. Giorgio Morandi’s quiet, meditative still lifes of simple vessels have always resonated deeply with me. The Dutch Masters’ work is technically astonishing, but I sometimes find it a bit gaudy. Please give me a slightly wonky Morandi bottle any day.
Selling a home and moving is chaotic and emotional. I realised that still life was the perfect subject for a time of upheaval, it’s static, grounded, patient. But it also revealed unexpected layers of meaning. Amongst the boxes, cleaning, and backbreaking labour, I found calm in this humble subject, a quiet, steady companion through change.
