Peter and a Paintbrush: Original Acrylic Paintings for Sale

These are some of my paintings. They are available to buy as prints at my online gallery on Photobox. There are prints and gift items available  to suit all.

If you would like, you can own them as compiled in my book, Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion.

With these  paintings I am continuing the journey I started with words. Each is naive, organic and dreamlike in aesthetic.  The kind of art I like. They look good in my house so I’m sure they might in yours.

ARTIST’S BIOGRAPHY:

Peter Buckley is a painter and writer from Leicester, England. His poetry has appeared in the online journals “Feathertale”, “Madelaine” and “The Orchid Room”. He has recently completed a post-graduate degree in Film Studies. He delights in strange music, long conversations, cute animals, adventure, magic and cappuccino.

These paintings are his latest endeavour, following his surrealist blog project, Peter and The Hare. He has now copy-and-pasted the title to bring you these works, in which he returns naively to a place where words, pictures and dreams combine, somehow.

PAINTING DESCRIPTIONS (Click on Titles)

…with the hare the buffalo and giraffe and remember we kissed at sunset. – Original Acrylic Painting on Canvas (10” x 8”/254mm x 203mm)

This is an original acrylic painting. It is painted on an unframed canvas.  It incorporates various animal figures drawn from imagination and memory. As a result, it has a naïve, innocent and dreamlike atmosphere. The red lips and warm colours lend a sense of romantic intrigue to a painting which is altogether highly mysterious.

The painting has calming, organic effect, assisted by the kind of deep and vivid tones of green that have been fascinating me of late. The paint takes its natural course down the side of the canvas, providing a revealing insight into the process of creation. This is not a print.

•Unique Original Artwork
•Width: 10 inches (approx.)
•Height: 8 inches (approx.)
•Media: Acrylic
•Surface: Canvas
•Vividly Presented with Green, Brown, Deep Red, and Subtle Yellow.
•Finished Professionally with Artist’s Gloss Spray Varnish
•Despatched Promptly and to a High Standard.

The King – Original Acrylic Painting on Canvas (16” x 12”) SOLD!

This is an original acrylic painting. It is painted on an unframed stretched canvas. It is predominately green and incorporates eye, leaf and crown motifs. I like it for its calming, organic effect that is counterbalanced subtly by the influence of a black pattern, suggestive of barbed wire.

To me, “The King” has a narrative aspect that speaks of ambition, and the burdens of power. As such, it might be ideally suited for display in the throne room, or office. It is a painting of an abstract inclination. The paint takes its natural course down the side of the canvas, providing a revealing insight into the process of creation. This is not a print.

•Unique Original Artwork
•Width: 16 inches (approx.)
•Height: 12 inches (approx.)
•Media: Acrylic
•Surface: Canvas
•Vividly Presented with Green, Cream, Black, Blue, Yellow and Red.
•Finished Professionally with Artist’s Gloss Spray Varnish
•Despatched Promptly and to a High Standard

Science Fiction 1 (Or, ”YOUR DAMNABLE FUTURE”) – Original Acrylic Painting on Box Canvas (8” x 10” Depth 1.5”)

This original acrylic painting predicts, with near complete inaccuracy, the very shape and texture of your red and grey future. It is painted on a box canvas.

It is painted with the only colours your evolved eyes will perceive.

You will not use touch screens, for you will exchange your fingers for someone else’s – an anonymous presence who will dress you in green LEDs and cling wrap.

There will be no geography, and a lot of poor and destitute cartographers will wander the land like vagabonds. Your top ten “Desert Island Discs” will play on a desert island. As you detect the feint whirring of a cassette tape, you will never be alone again.

This painting is a hope-filled vision of the certain doom that awaits us all. Sadly, it features no robots; but is the first in a proposed series of science fiction inspired paintings.

I made a conscious effort to create something alien, aesthetically pleasing but also potentially disconcerting. The painting is texturally eclectic, due to the energy and verve with which it was created. I “flicked” paint over the canvas, which is known to produce a highly kinetic effect. The deceptive simplicity of the painting’s colour scheme, and the extremity of the angles it employs, make for a striking and bold image.

This – spaceship, perhaps? – is a harbinger, or a sign…of what? Joking aside, I’m inclined to be optimistic about what the strange silver-blue artefact might mean to the inhabitants of my grey Earth.

The paint takes its natural course down the side of the canvas, providing a revealing insight into the process of creation. This is not a print.

•Unique Original Artwork
•Width: 8 inches (approx.)
•Height: 10 inches (approx.)
•Depth: 1.5 inches (approx.)
•Media: Acrylic
•Surface: Box Canvas
•Vividly Presented with a Texturally Eclectic Spectrum of Intense Greys, Reds and Greens.
•Finished Professionally with Artist’s Gloss Spray Varnish
•Despatched Promptly and to a High Standard.

See The Full Gallery Here!

Works change so check back often to see what’s new!

Get a Free Book of Hungarian Poetry if You’re Flying Lufthansa Today

get a book,
there’s nothing cleaner, freer or cheaper
than a perfect-bound book,
and you with your little ipod,

flicking through the pages,
as a squirrel wearing a tie

might read hungarian poetry,
as i think he might.

there’s goulash in your future,
by which i mean
many delights,

and what a shame i’m not hungarian,
what a shame you’re not on this flight.

Music: Ülök egy rózsaszínû kádban by Metro

Epilogue of the Rabbit’s Tongue

Picture: Miroslav Sasek

Some things warrant ignoring. Please be aware that what follows may be one such thing. In this long, rambling and tedious post, we concern ourselves with an event that never happened, like the moon landings, or the assisination of the Loch Ness Monster. However, it was my great pleasure to take this opporunity to thank some of the many people who have helped make Peter and The Hare who they are, the blog they are, when they are, if they are.

Thanks for listening.

P.S. Is your computer Y2K compliant?

(1902-1903)

all of which…the spirit suggests

FOUND POEMS AFTER READING THIS

I.

The Orchard is still white,
the President is seven.

It was absurd for a man
of his standing,
sitting down,

to be the subject of
such spite
behind green shutters.

Even George Douglas Brown
would gossip with Countesses,

before mixing a great cocktail

of his jealousy,
for the Provost.

II.

Anchored one end of
the great slaughter,

the Dinwiddie Colored Quartet
asked what precisely
a Dinwiddie was,

for they had never seen one.

III.

A doughy man from Saxony
avoids the sun
like Edison.

A grim mystic from Danzig,
sleeps the Empire
through his head.

He has an elaborate toothache,
and spits three times,
on his left.

They talk through an interpreter;
he says

his grandfather never existed.

IV.

Okay,
that’s quite enough of this nonsense.

But do read the article.

The Microcomputer

A new beige computer
in July.

Will anybody search the dictionary
for “Atari“?

It does not help with my homework,
as promised.

And instead exudes
twice it’s own weight
in mystery.

The game with the dragons
takes an age to begin.
We say “it’s loading”;

we expect it to “think”.

On the diskette,
the game that is less a game,
more a ritual,

misspelt on a label
by a market-stall owner.

A dragon is emerging from
the synthesised water.

The wizard is old and
his wrinkles show age.

We suddenly imagine
that the water is
an ocean;

like every usual ocean,
it will not quench our thirst.

We have all made and drank
uncommon elixirs.

The dragon is an omen
which,
in this story,
is a curse.

It appears to scroll across

mountains,
fields
and lakes,

and when the villagers hear its legend,
they have nightmares about a “virus.”

We have heard of “viruses” before.
The game does not begin.

The car can not go on the road,
and must collide
into the scenery.

Nothing will grow
on this tarmacadam.

On the road,
we can stare at
a screaming limb.

The head of a man,
with sampled voices,
gives us numbers –
we take one,
divide it.

The machine shows us bombs.

cartoon bombs on the desktop.

square-edged and round,
their little stalks,
like flowers.

The whole office disobeys me,
When the wizard appears.

He has many hands and
only two remain outside.

Dancing Man Wearing a Horse Mask Cooks Mushrooms.

Dear Google Searchers,

I don’t know if this is what you were looking for…

Dmitri and The Deer Girl (Were Once Young Arsonist Lovers)

DMITRI: Knock, Knock.
PETER: Pardon?
DMITRI: Knock, Knock.
PETER: oh…who’s there?
DMITRI: The everpresent wind, but besides that, Nikolai.
PETER: Nikolai who?
DMITRI: Nikolai, but he’s a good man.
PETER: …
DMITRI: You think that’s bad? it doesn’t work at all in Russian.

To My Readers and Friends,

If I may be so bold as to call you friends…Of course I am not expecting you to be. Even in death, I cannot escape loneliness.  The loneliness that has been with me since boyhood. Now I am a dog, and nothing has changed.

Yes, it is I, Dmitri, looking for a lamp and some kerosene. The Hare has gone to warmer climes momentarily. He is happy…dare I say…also momentarily.

Because I wish for my readers some joy, some inspiration, the kind of movement through space-time that only good literature and quality blogging can supply… I will tell you a story.

I met the Deer Girl on a hunting expedition in Krasnoyarsk. Any game is fair game, and I’m not usually that discriminating about whom I kill. God knows, my blood flows on the outside, and I am always thirsty. She was beautiful – predictably so, for Visions encountered in woodland.

Her body was more beautiful than a human’s, and I’ve seen many, loved many, and killed many more. That deer head was becoming of her, and not as unfortunate as it may seem.

Perhaps there was some frolicking, some foolish circular dances…or just some awkward silence. If a tree fell right then, we wouldn’t have heard it.

I took her back to my village, somewhat reluctantly, because I expected the reaction. She was demonised by the villagers. As a demon. Which she wasn’t. If she was, it was because she was sinking in the same tincan boat as I – there were incantations on our heads, and things happened as they did. Circumstances, as they say, outwit us all, and the fish always stinks at the head.

The youth of the village, lacking access to the latest methods of transportation, dreamwork and telepathy, would entertain themselves by setting fire to whatever piece of village real estate looked most objectionable.

One such building was said to house a witch, or rather, a woman whose prettiness was out of step with the ugly buzzard-faces of the villagers. She could be seen from a large diamond-shaped window, being propelled by mysterious forces (and a sophisticated pulley system) from one end of the room to the other, and back again. Sometimes, when the fruits were ripe and the moon was full, you could hear her scream…

 “THIS IS TEDIOUS!”

Fire is many things, but is rarely tedious. The art of arson can teach a man many things, not least, vitality of character and of libido. This is why I took the Deer Girl to extinguish the witch. “She’ll take to fire like a duck to water”, I said, “her Hare is red”.

We went to the Witch’s house. Though the usual band of sorry players walked with us (so much goodwill, so little style), we were one or, more specifically, two. The air was good, and would carry the fire wherever the Witch wished to travel. Some of us hoped that it would remove her from the village.

“How do we make fire?” said the Deer.

“Well”, I said, “I don’t believe any of us presently have access to a “Lighter”, and if we’re caught rubbing sticks together, we will look like fools. No, this pridicament demands that we relearn the lessons of our ancestors, prehistoric or otherwise.”

I produced from my pocket a hand-bound book full of incantations which I had just improvised that morning, over breakfast and a game of chess.

“Make fire, Dmitri!”, the boys all screamed.

“Ladies and Gentemen, I propose a toasting!” It wasn’t a good pun, but everyone was swept up in the heat of the moment.

“We must be careful, if anyone were to catch a glimpse of us they might take us for something we are not” said one of the more nervous wolves in the pack. 

“To the Witch! May she fly safely!”

I sniffed some indigo powder, and commenced the recitation of a stream of numbers, and some carefully chosen lines of verse:

после модернизма является22063 утомительной. Я очень хотел, хотя ирония. Если вы читаете это вы11072   тратить свое время. Это рассказ о магии. магии нет нич85952его,

“лошадь это где-то, стабильной является где-то в другом месте”

так что не беспокойтесь. Недавно моей мечты мне кошмары, в дневное время. 01101000 01100101 01101100  01110000 Есть здесь много призраков, которые хотели они считают реальной. Мне нравится этот автоматический перевод вещь.

I even spoke some pictures. For a novice magician, this is difficult. My sketching was poor, and may as well have been composed of huge ink blots on toilet roll. My fascination with fire started here, but it would be a long time until I could perfect the art.

The fire started its work.

“With any luck”, I explained, “The fire should singe the ropes that enslave her, freeing her from that demoniacal pulley system. She will no longer have to get up before she goes to bed, to go backwards and forwards eternally, as the curse demands”

“Or it could burn her to death…” said the Deer Girl.

“Now, now” I said, “There is no evidence that fire is capable of such a thing. I’ve seen the evidence, and I refuse to believe it.”

In a mess of antlers, hooves and feet, my love writhed and twisted. She became caught up in a kind of treelike whirlwind, spinning and dripping with blood, as the Witch – screaming and burning to her foundations – looked desperately for a drop of water, or the right counter-spell…

“Моя девочка – А по! Моя олени ребенка!”

The faces of some of the weaker boys shattered inward like glass eggs. One could faintly hear their mother’s voices singing lullabies.

“That is the last time I will love”, I thought, “But not the last time I will play with fire”.