David Welham paintings

An original David Welham painting (2010) I purchased and have hanging in my hall:

Some other paintings by David Welham: http://weirdmonger.livejournal.com/140353.html

And his portrait of me: http://essexartist.blogspot.co.uk/2009/04/df-lewis-2009.html


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13 responses to “David Welham paintings

  1. (edit Feb 11 8.00 a.m gmt for clarity)

    What’s a story you might see behind the above painting?

    What I judge to be the most interesting or creative or imaginative or humorous answer to that question on this page below will receive a generous prize (two books from my publications of your choice (subject to availability) and signed by me). Answers can range from a one-liner to a fully plotted story. No time limit. Directly I judge the winner having emerged after due consideration, the competition will finish, and I will confirm the outcome below when that happens. If no entrants, no prize!

  2. Phillip Stecco

    Get off your ass and buy me a birthday present!

  3. Caroline Callaghan

    I think the little lad is saying “Ruddy parents. Can’t take them anywhere without them showing me up!”

  4. Caroline Callaghan

    Incidentally, Des, I think the little lad in the painting is actually you on a day trip to the seaside with your mum and dad. You’ve taken a trip back in your TARDIS and had a family portrait done.

  5. Paul Dracon

    The Ass was the Only Smart One

    They had been traveling for many days, but they were still only about fifty meters from the chasm — or rather, Obsidious A. Borgan, and Clytemnestra MacDougal on her favorite pack ass were, while Ronald Reagan the Midget IV trailed behind, still only 10 meters from the chasm while struggling to keep within 20 meters of his companions. Distance, like time, was very fluid in the context of cultural mediocrity.
    Of the four, the ass was the only smart one: his name was Herman, although nobody other than him knew it. Only he had the strength to climb back out of the chasm, since he had been born there. Therefore, he was not afraid of the chasm, and thus was invulnerable to it.
    Not so for his friends, sadly.
    “What type of mountains are these, ‘Tem?” Obsidious asked. Ever since he had started walking on the Miniature Mountains he had stood a good Roman foot taller than ‘Tem, even on her pack ass. Which was rather bizarre, really, since her pack-ass was packin’. “Answer me that, and I’ll consider loosening my grip on your leash ankle, my dear.”
    “Oh! How silly,” she said, as she noticed the condition of her ankles for the first time. “I do have tiny ropes about them, don’t I? Not strong enough to restrain them, or weak enough to — well, to accomplish anything, I gather. Hmmm.”
    “What about the mountains?”
    “Oh, I haven’t the foggiest. Navigating this terrain is a great enough strain on me ol’ noggin as is without bothering about your situation.”
    Her situation was indeed grim: her favorite pack ass, secretly named Herman, was about to stumble into a vast grassy field that was littered with coal deposits. Tiny Tim would have been overjoyed to discover such a landscape; she most certainly was not.
    “It really is strange, isn’t it?” shouted Ronald Reagan the Midget IV, the newly elected President of the Falklands Lonely Hearts and Bridge Club. “Traveling for centuries toward nowhere, and we haven’t any thousand island dressing.”
    “What’s he pissing about?” Obsidious asked. “Nevermind: don’t tell me.”
    “Something about how his trouser whiskers need a proper shaving, I reckon,” she said, and dug her deadly invisible spurs into the not-really-a-mule’s ribs. He faked a moan of pain and continued walking. “Giddyup!” she shouted, bucking her hips with the intensity unique to the demonically possessed.
    “Why are we going nowhere?” asked Ronald Reagan the Midget IV, even though he knew the answer damned well.
    “The chasm was better, and red, and pure,” mumbled Herman in mule speak, although nobody understood him.
    “Make me some sandwiches when we arrive, doll,” said Clytemnestra McDougal, peddling air with her all-too-short legs. “And do leave the Miniature Mountains some fungal cream.”
    “Oh shut up, twit,” said Obsidious A. Borgan.
    And the buildings far behind them had never existed.

  6. The ‘Second Coming’ was proving to be a dull affair.

  7. This painting features the infamous transvestite murderer, Karl “Ice Dolly” Roark, who drowned 13 men between 1933 and 1935. He would lurk around the nearby docks, posing as a prostitute, before luring his victims down to their watery graves on the moonlit beach.

    In this early morning image, Roark is enjoying his last request of a donkey ride along his beloved sands before an appointment with the hangman that very afternoon. The moustachioed gentleman is in fact a prison guard – a Yorkshireman by the name of Fred Hawksworth – who exchanged his uniform for casual attire on this occasion to avoid attracting the attention and possible ire of locals. Despite the fact that Roark was sedated with morphine, Fred still kept a leash securely attached to his left ankle. As a further precaution, Roark’s shoes had been removed to make any escape attempt across the shingle a tricky and painful affair.

    In the background is Billy Bruce, the brother of one of Roark’s victims, who was pretending to paddle in the shallows as the prison party passed by. Here we see him holding a stout length of driftwood behind his back and waiting for his chance. Not to bludgeon the Ice Dolly, but to incapacitate his sturdy guard and capture Roark for himself, denying him the mercy of a swift execution.

    The vengeful Billy planned to rush Roark to his murdered brother’s house, and keep him prisoner in the flooded cellar. There he had already constructed a makeshift ducking stool, where he intended to keep Roark in a state of perpetual near-drowning.

    Billy successfully rendered the guard unconscious with a blow to the head, but was then overpowered by Roark, despite his would-be victim’s narcotic stupor. Roark immediately dragged Billy back to town on bleeding feet and delivered him to the stunned authorities. He told them to make haste to the injured man on the beach before handing himself in, never tempted to seize what had clearly been his last ever opportunity to escape.

    Fred Hawksworth had unfortunately died from a fracture to his skull by the time a medical team arrived on the beach.

    For his honesty and final act of redemption, Roark’s sentence was commuted from death to life imprisonment.

    Billy Bunce was sent to the gallows in his place.

  8. The Donkey Derby of the Giants.

  9. This competition is still open.

  10. Pingback: ‘Weirdmonger’ reprise | The Nemonicon

  11. A new David Welham I have proudly purchased;

  12. Pingback: Ade Hodges paintings | DF LEWIS:

  13. The above competition was never won as a result of lack of interest by a reasonable quorum of entrants, my decision always being final. The replacement competition currently here: http://weirdmonger.wordpress.com/the-authors-three-remaining-available-copies-of-the-weirdmonger-book/

    Thanks to those who did enter. And any above can claim a free signed Last Balcony or Weirdtongue from me as a consolation.

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