The Rose Bush

Distraction, Display, and the Performance of Leisure

The Rose Bush, the second painting in Agony in the Garden: Series 1, places a nude Black man within the spectacle of the Royal Ascot — a world of fascinators, champagne flutes, and finely tailored distractions. Among the hats, heels, and ceremony of tradition, he stands alone in his undress — calm, composed, unmistakably present.

The crowd around him is animated, performative. Yet they do not notice him. Or choose not to.

There are questions here — about race, about visibility, about inclusion — but I don’t claim the authority to answer them. What I can speak to is what drew me to this composition: the contrast between the exposed and the adorned; the solitary and the collective; and the profound tension between stillness and spectacle.

This painting, like the event it draws upon, is full of surface. Gloss. Ritual. Joy, perhaps — but not intimacy.

Leisure as a Mask

Unlike The Hawthorn Tree, which explored the in-between of aspiration and routine, The Rose Bush turns toward what lies on the other side: the places we go when we’re no longer working. The traditions we inherit, or adopt, to remind ourselves we’re above the grind. It’s about pastimes, but also what those pastimes obscure.

In the centre stands a body that cannot be costumed, cannot be distracted. He is not a part of the scene. He interrupts it. And yet he doesn’t demand attention. He simply waits — not uncomfortable, not defiant. Just there.

To me, this is a painting about class performance — about how we mask our fears of meaninglessness with ceremony, noise, and curated elegance. In that sense, the man is not alien to the scene. He is its quiet truth.

Painting the Illusion

Formally, The Rose Bush continues the material experiment of the series — oil and beeswax, layered and worked to create a surface that holds both polish and grit. I leaned into deep reds and heavy cream tones here — colours often associated with decadence, but which, in this case, begin to curdle under scrutiny.

There is beauty in the crowd — in the fabrics, the movements, the shared gestures — but that beauty feels brittle. As if one strong wind could shatter the whole thing.

The painting’s title references both the opulence and the thorn: the flowering facade and the danger beneath it.

Being Looked At vs Being Seen

In a setting built for display, The Rose Bush asks what it means to be looked at — and whether that’s the same as being seen. The nude figure in the centre is not participating in the spectacle, but neither is he removed from it. He is both witness and symbol. His stillness feels like a challenge, but not an accusation. More like a question left unanswered.

Who gets to rest? Who gets to play? What are we escaping from — and what do we fail to notice in our flight?