Henry Silk’s Still Life
In 1930, basketmaker and artist Henry Silk sits alone in his sparsely furnished room in Rounton Rd in Bow surrounded by few personal possessions. He glances in the mirror and realises that he is no longer young. Yet the pair of medals from the Great War laid on the table remind him how lucky he is to be alive.
He wakes in the camp bed in the early morning and the empty green room is flooded with light as dawn rises over the rooftops of the East End and washing flaps on the line. Weaving baskets suits a contemplative nature and, when Henry returns from the kitchen with a cup of tea, he sits at the table with the pink cloth and studies the objects upon the surface in the morning sunlight.
The forms and colours of these familiar things fascinate him. His pipe, his purse and his pocket knife that he carried for years are as commonplace to him as his own hands. Each day, Henry paints a picture to catalogue his personal possessions, comprising the modest landscape of his existence. It is a whole life in a handful of paintings.
Henry Silk and his sister
You may also like to read about
Henry Silk, Basketmaker & Artist
So humbling to see the paintings of all his few personal possessions, which he was so familiar with…..this would be an impossible task to do now, with all our mountains of stuff.
“Reverie”. Henry Silk, his belongings, and his art-making process.
Here I am, an artist who loves to pile on and create layers and layers of visual compost. And yet
I so admire the deceptive simplicity of these paintings. They are intensely narrative. Timeless.
Enduring. Some of these belongings are so personal, I almost feel like I have to look
away. I am a guest in these rooms, and I have glanced over and seen the rumpled sheets.
Suddenly, I feel like it’s all too intimate. I’m an intruder.
A classic post, revealing a remarkable artist.