Rose Arbuthnott

25th November - 1st December 2021

Rose Arbuthnott was born in Cheltenham. She was always going to be an artist as she was surrounded by craft making as a child, and the knack was there too. She always used a variety of mediums and drew and drew. This show is one of these incarnations.

 

She went on to study Art and Art History at Edinburgh University before receiving a scholarship to attend the Prince’s Drawing School in London where she was awarded second prize. Having completed her studies, Rose co-founded ‘The Owl Barn’ Artist Residency in Gloucestershire – a community to develop their creative practice and engage with local community groups. She has since undertaken an artist residency at The First Food in Mexico, travelled around Scotland painting, and went to Uganda to share art with refugees from the Congo.

 

She has exhibited with different galleries in London, had several solo shows including Tangled Roads and ‘he she or they’, and was long listed for the John Moore Prize, Tate, Liverpool.

This work is of an unusual place to settle for her; on the still life, originally as a catalyst for working colour and soon satisfying unto itself. She came to feel this body of work as poignant in its finished state and is pleased to share them with you in this show.

Find out more about Rose on her website, Facebook and Instagram.

Poem by Still Lives curator, Charlie Caldecott

Sitting in her kitchen bright

A shaft of light

A raft of colour

Making all around seem duller

 

The light hits the vase to the left of the stove

Making it easier for eyes to rove

Suddenly spirits lift

In our consciousness there is a shift

We have been stuck here for months and months and months

 

Things we never noticed before

The old scuff marks by the kitchen door

The scratches of movements on the parquet floor

The skids and slides on the bathroom lino

A splash of red by a favourite wino

 

An artist observes as a matter of course

Her eyes were always her best resource

Everything round her is lit up, her synapses fire

Nothing is missed

It all is recorded in a state of bliss

The genre lifted up by necessity

To record the domestic in all its serenity.