There’s something hauntingly beautiful about an artist returning to the place that first shaped them, isn’t there? It’s not just about nostalgia—it’s about confronting the past while carrying its echoes forward. Val McLoughlin’s journey back to Ballina after decades abroad feels like a masterclass in how distance can sharpen creativity. I’ve always believed that artists need to leave their comfort zones to truly understand their roots. When you return, you’re not just coming back to a town; you’re revisiting a version of yourself that you thought you’d outgrown. And yet, here’s Val, decades later, painting the River Moy as if he’s trying to reconcile two timelines: the boy who grew up there and the man who’s spent a lifetime elsewhere. What makes this particularly fascinating is how his work now feels like a conversation between memory and the present, a dialogue that’s impossible to ignore when you see his exhibitions.
Let’s talk about the paradox of ‘principally’—how Val describes his focus on abstraction, yet his practice defies categorization. He’s not just a painter; he’s a alchemist of mediums, blending oils, watercolors, and printmaking with the precision of someone who’s spent a lifetime mastering the language of art. But what really strikes me is how his poetry weaves through his visual work. I mean, can you imagine a world where a poet’s sensibility informs every brushstroke? It’s not just metaphor—it’s a literal merging of forms. This isn’t some avant-garde gimmick; it’s a testament to how deeply interconnected creative disciplines can be. The Ox Mountain Poets aren’t just a footnote in his bio—they’re the heartbeat of his art. And yet, how many artists today separate their writing from their painting? Val’s refusal to compartmentalize is both radical and refreshingly human.
Now, let’s dissect those two exhibitions: Quarters and Out of Ink. If I had to pick one word to describe them, it would be ‘duality.’ Quarters is all about slow, deliberate layers—those river studies from the Moy, made over years, each one a meditation on time and weather. It’s the kind of work that demands you sit with it, let the details unfold. But Out of Ink? That’s a different beast entirely. It’s fast, furious, and full of the raw energy of calligraphy. The contrast isn’t just aesthetic—it’s philosophical. One is about accumulation, the other about release. And yet, they’re tied together by the same undercurrent: a need to capture something intangible. What this really suggests is that Val’s work isn’t about finding a single truth, but about exploring the tension between what can be held and what slips away. It’s a theme that feels especially urgent in an age where everything is documented instantly, yet nothing feels truly preserved.
Here’s something I find endlessly intriguing: the idea of home as both a physical place and a conceptual space. Val’s River Moy drawings aren’t just about geography—they’re about the act of returning, again and again, to a place that’s changed but still feels familiar. It’s like the river itself is a character in his story, a witness to his evolution. I’ve often wondered if artists who return to their roots are haunted by the idea of ‘what if’—what if they’d never left? But Val’s work doesn’t dwell on regret. Instead, it’s a celebration of the friction between past and present. The Moy isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a collaborator. And that’s the genius of it. How many artists can take a single location and make it feel like a living, breathing entity?
Let’s not forget the community aspect. Founding a life drawing class in Ballina wasn’t just a personal project—it was a commitment to keeping the arts alive in a small town. In an era where cultural hubs are increasingly concentrated in cities, Val’s dedication to Ballina is quietly revolutionary. It’s not about grand gestures; it’s about showing up, week after week, to create a space where people can explore their creativity. And yet, how often do we overlook the importance of local art scenes? They’re the bedrock of cultural identity, yet they’re constantly under threat. Val’s work reminds us that art isn’t just for galleries—it’s for the people who live in the places that shape it.
As I walk through these exhibitions, I’m struck by how deeply personal they are. There’s no pretense here—just the raw, unfiltered act of creation. Val’s work doesn’t ask you to decode it; it invites you to feel it. And that’s the truest form of artistry, isn’t it? To create something that speaks directly to the soul, without the need for explanation. In a world that’s increasingly obsessed with spectacle, this kind of quiet, introspective work is a breath of fresh air. It’s a reminder that art doesn’t have to shout to be powerful. Sometimes, the most profound messages are the ones that linger in the spaces between the strokes.
