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Ian Fallace

I first saw Ian’s work on a visit to Bridewell
studio and Gallery in Liverpool (UK) a few
months ago and was immediately taken by
them.

The painterly abstractions seemed to be
so inviting and a feast for the eye and the
senses. In my opinion this is quality abstract
painting by an artist who really knows how to
turn the ‘power’ up on the visual expression.

My intention is to persuade Tubes to make a
full feature on Ian’s work that will go deeper
into this artists well of creativity.

Here is a extracts from Ian’s writing about
the painting above, which gives an insight
into the artists thoughts and sense of history
and place.

“...I had a small show recently in the Bridewell Gallery, which was initially supposed to be for
one day only but ended up lasting a week. I wasn’t certain even the day before that it would
happen, as I had injured my back and could barely walk.

One piece was shelved as it involved me walking to make it and I had to rely on others to
carry the paintings from the studio to the gallery. There were only three paintings and over the
whole week, footfall was in single digits, so why did I bother? I grew up in a village.

We moved there from a town in autumn 1975. Events were based around the church and
it’s various festivals or the village hall and it’s interest groups; Book club, Art club, flower
arrangers and growers of outsized vegetables. There were many pensioners living there, all
of whom had experienced life during the Second World War and some who had experience of
the first. WW1 began sixty-one years before we moved to the village. This meant that anyone
sixty-six and upwards would remember something about it and would have been affected by
it. Any male seventy-five and upwards may well have fought in it as boys lied about their age
to enlist and the authorities did very little to discourage this. Ninety-eight served. Fifteen didn’t
return.

Today the village has a population of seven hundred and I imagine that hasn’t changed very
much since 1914. The impact of this mechanised carnage was huge on this village and every
other village, town and city in the land. The memorial was in the middle of the village with
the names of those who served and died carved into stone. There were repetitions of family
names. One of my friends, had a representation of five of his family, another had four. What
had seemed like a great adventure to many volunteers soon became a nightmare and those
that returned were changed forever.

At secondary school we studied the war poets and as my knowledge of the subject grew, so
did my anger at the pointlessness of it all. It was always difficult to watch the survivors, Harry
Patch and the other centenarians break down before the cameras, remembering something
that happened eighty years before; men who lived long lives and suffered for their longevity.
Harry Patch, the last survivor who experienced the trenches, died in 2009 ages 111. So what
is the relevance of this back-story? Well, I felt that it was important for me personally, maybe
as some kind of exorcism, to mark the Centenary of the Armistice.