Light and Fire - Ali Sainsbury’s art experiments

I want to melt wax and paint with fire; I like the physicality of the process, the rush of applying the medium before it changes temperature and the interplay of adding and subtracting, translucence and accretion. The language of layers and contour. But it's too cold in my January She-shed - I could heat it but I need good ventilation. I could wear a hat and gloves but the wax would set too quickly. I'm going to be patient instead and hold out for milder times.  So here is Red Line (2) A wild and untamed wilderness painted whilst inwardly raging about Gaza. A clear red line which reaches beyond us. A line crossed. Truth exists. Reality cannot be re-written to suit the power-hungry. This isn't 1984. It was Gaza I was thinking about, raging about when the wax was hot, but now I see Greenland. A3 encaustic on wooden panel. (I thought I posted this a week or so ago, but it turns out I didn't when I walked away from the computer screen, cowering from yet another impending mi...

  31.12.25 I ’m not sure when, but something changed in me; I came to fundamentally believe that no-one wanted to hear my story, no-one would be interested in my perspective, my thoughts, my words, my music, my pictures.   So I stopped. I stopped writing. I stopped singing, I made pictures with no explanation. I almost stopped thinking. Who wants to listen to another middle aged woman from comfortable southern England in 2025? Comfortable job, comfortable relationship, comfortable house and comfortable shoes. What is left of the person I used to be? A few unsettling left-wing posts on social media from my sofa? Calling out a few racists after a glass of red wine? What riled me today? Israel thinking it can choose which AID agencies operate in Gaza. Another way of blocking help to suffering Palestinians. I’m just a ‘Prole,’ what would I truly understand about the situation? What are lies and what are truths? Am I being manipulated into thinking? Am I being manipulated into thin...

     If you were to ask me anytime over the last 20 or so years, what would be my ideal photographic safari moment? I would have described my utopian moment of a leopard walking towards the camera, perfectly lit by early/late light and making eye contact. I could obviously add to this: a lush green savanna backdrop and maybe a cub playfully alongside. Previsualisation - the grown-up word for fantasising! Imagine my complete astonishment when it only went and happened....almost. Leopard 👍 Light 👍 Eye contact 👍 Green backdrop 👍 Surely I couldn't screw this up?  Not the best reference photo for drawing either but a unique moment nonetheless, except that's not what I previsualised!  So why didn't I drop the iso further as the light was so good? What didn't I change the aperture to give a greater depth of field?  I was so excited that I just wanted to watch. Now I endeavour to always have my camera setting poised for the ideal encounter given the conditions,...

I flit; two weeks ago I was obsessed with showing movement using charcoal, getting lost in the tones between light and dark, line and smudge. Now it's the photorealism of coloured pencil on drafting film and using a blade to scrape tiny highlights. I'm waiting for the days to warm up so  can get back into the shed and smell the warm beeswax and resin again and chase all my encaustic dreams. I'm in danger of not having a unique thing - have I not found it yet? I feel like an amorphous shape-shifter making a buffet of art when I should be developing my signature dish. Maybe I'm still not brave enough to make the pictures in my head? Do I need to be able to confidently and competently express what I can see before I can draw what  I only see in my head? And it photorealism really art? What do I want to convey with a close up detailed drawing of a bird's head? The rich beautiful detail in the familiar, the overlooked ordinary; the way we put our heads down and strive fo...

 January 2025 and I feel small and mute against a backdrop of Trump's aggressively backward policies and what voice do I really have when social media is controlled by fascist white boys who are proudly flaunting their agendas. I am raging - Ever shouted inside so hard that everything inside and outside starts to crack? A silent scream, because what is the point of screaming out loud? No-one wants to hear me scream and it won't help. What will help? Anything within my power? So I pick up the charcoal and hide somewhere between black dust and white paper - a running zebra, slightly out of focus, a prey animal, one of millions crossing the savanna. I can't draw it, I can only feel it - a big sky hidden above the dust. Driven by hunger and fear, the illusion of freedom and I can see something there, a reluctance to be herded, an upward glace and a barely noticeable hesitation. Then I'm back - have a cup of tea, load the dishwasher, get ready for work because a human doing ...

So I carefully wrapped my pictures and they have left the premises. I've dropped them off at the bustling Bursledon village hall. I'm excited about meeting other local artists I've been following (on social media that is, I'm not that much of a stalker) There is a preview evening tomorrow night - I just have to hide socially inept Ali for the evening and re-install the version of myself that loves crowds and meeting people. They may need coaxing out with several glasses of wine.