I think I said all there was to say regarding this artist.
His work enthrals me, scares me, excites and exhilarates me.
It asks the questions but supplies no answers. It poses possibilities, endless maybes.
I suppose I am blogging this in the vain hope Alex may surface again like steam from a thoroughbreds back after the race. Has Alex run his race? I think not. I believe there is so much more to see. Such talent, especially these jaundiced days, is rare.
He told me once how he had met Mark. E. Smith of The Fall. Of how the two of them had rowed, if not argued then disagreed. It ended with Mark kicking the chair out from beneath Alex leaving him on his arse. Not particularly funny but still a good anecdote, one that rather underlines the ambiguity of the Irish artist.
Here, in small time only, a fraction of his talent again revealed, is more of the man who's work I so admire.
Again the perverse is examined. The unknown qualities of life that etch the outer membrane of existence. It is there, on the periphery, untouchable, a feeling that slips away as you try to think of it, a vision in the fog, mist on a window.
In an art world content to reside in the past, happy with the average, blissful in its own belief of cool, these works shiver the suspicions that something isn't quite right out there. In fact it knows it isn't just as it suggests it isn't out there at all...it is here, now, trembling in the shadows, about to reach out from under the bed and grab you by the ankles.
It is confusion. It is confession. It is conflagration in fiery sparks. Cinders left to cool in stark shades.
It is fear given amorphous beauty.
Here is an artist striving to unharness his inner self, his darkest, deepest paranoia's. The fact he cannot succeed only scores his card the highest marks. A true original in a bundle of bland.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.