Welcome to the pages of Scottish artist Douglas Thomson.
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Thomson’s art fits quite neatly into the history of traditional image making, that is to say – painting. The work he produces is diverse in its media and is based on long-established principles that date from a time when the first humans made representations in two or three dimensions; primitives attempting to make sense of the world around them, inhabited with familiarity and displaying the mysteries of nature.
This artistic mumbo-jumbo could leave the reader feeling uneasy and ignorant with the singular thoughts and observations conveyed by the writer who knows infinitely more about the cloud coo-coo land which he is describing; leading the reader into a quagmire of unfathomable, pseudo-intellectual, verbal mud which renders him on the verge of simple-mindedness. Of course, the cunning reader might use his prowess to see through this net of obsolescent concepts peppered with words that are elusive even in the finest of domestic dictionaries, and come to the conclusion that if these commentators had as much sense as they had confidence they’d all be effing geniuses.
Yes, it’s true that Thomson produces some sophisticated wall-hangings and there’s no doubt that he can move paint about the canvas with the cognitive skill that even a monkey couldn’t manage. But he is not a genius; on the contrary, this boy from Greenock is as comfortable as he is with the freezing fog that lies on the River Clyde – and as enigmatic. He would like his artwork to speak for itself.