Written by Wes Glover.

When I look at the paintings of British painter Danny Fox — his bald working-class men in colorful overalls, their bloodshot eyes casting an ominous indifference, his recurring motif of horses, majestic thoroughbreds painted in hefty brushstrokes which he has said symbolizes ‘mankind’s desire to conquer and control’ — I am reminded of the near-death experience of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

In 1849, Dostoyevsky was arrested alongside a group of revolutionaries opposing Tsarist rule. The members were to be executed, shot by a firing squad in threes. Dostoyevsky was in the second grouping, and as he watched the guns point at the first three, waiting for his turn, at the last second a court order was given to suspend the execution.

Fox’s canvases seem haunted by the presence of death, looming over these farmers like the sword of Damocles. The violence depicted in his compositions (a noose tied around a forlorn labourer; two floating heads juxtaposed by pale vampiric men coolly drinking out of a chalice) is never gratuitous; Terror is balanced by impulsive splashes of vibrant yellows, by the ingenuous play of folklore, mythology, and poetry. Fox, who is self-taught, sacrifices social commentary and obeys his formalism until the images seem to take on a life of their own — blood-red ears, faceless men, flying dolphins, mad equestrians — a cosmic vision of violence and freedom.

For eight days in December 2021, Fox and the British photographer Kingsley Ifill travelled across the length of the British Isles. They set off near Dover, Kent and made it as far as the Isle of Skye, Scotland. They returned by way of the West Midlands and visited other locations on route. The two had no plan for the journey other than to document the cross section of rural and urban life that makes up Britain today. The result was Holy Island, a book composed of a series of fifty collaborative works on paper which bring together photography by Ifill and paintings by Fox. I spoke with Danny about ‘Holy Island’ and his upcoming group exhibition Bathers:

Are you still based in Cornwall? Have things in Cornwall changed a lot since growing up there? 

During Covid I set up a base camp here, I built a studio. I spend a-lot of time here now. The town has changed so much almost it’s unrecognisable in some ways but in other ways it will never change. 

I saw that you have a group exhibition coming up in June that draws from the rich tradition of bathing scenes in the history of painting. It seems a lighter and more ethereal subject than what I have seen from you. Did you draw on any artists for Bathers? Did you change your approach to painting at all? 

Well, bathers are a classic theme in painting, so I don’t think it’s much of a diversion for me, much like horses or seated figures. I’ve always enjoyed the genre, especially Picasso and Cezanne, so I’m elated to be showing my painting alongside those but also Peter Doig and Henry Taylor, who in my opinion are the current equivalents in terms of quality. Since spending more time back here in Cornwall I’ve considered bathers as a subject a lot, not far from my studio there is a 1930s art deco lido, behind which people swim in the sea from battery rocks, the whole scene is very reminiscent of classic bather’s paintings.

Some of your paintings remind me of the kinds of stories the Russian writer Dostoyevsky wrote – farmers and working-class folk haunted by the spectre of poverty and industry. Are these existential themes something you consciously plan? 

Coincidentally, I recently used a photograph of Tolstoy as figure reference for a painting called ‘What Became Of Hannah Kettlewell?’ I don’t know how related those two writers are but google says they are somewhat. Sometimes paintings are too jumbled up with references to explain them in a straightforward way. I think, at some point making that painting I wondered how close some great artists came to never making great art and how often that fate has hung in the balance of love and a relationship. Recently, I found myself having to make difficult decisions in a relationship and I have taken some solace in reading Wikipedia pages of famous people I admire, in particular the ‘personal life’ section that details long lists of disastrous marriages. Ultimately, I take reassurance in the fact that despite personal tragedies, heartbreak, grief, incarceration - whatever - artists keep making art. I’m mostly concerned with the painting itself, as a picture, the story of it comes later, sometimes. One doesn’t always know when they are haunted although its obvious to others around them, or the audience.

How did Holy Island come about?

It was the final chapter in a trilogy of collaborative projects we worked on together. The concept was born out of a necessity for balance with the other chapters, the Hollywood nudes of ‘eye for a sty’ and the alcohol-soaked lockdown isolation of ‘Haze.’ By this point we had learnt how to work side by side efficiently and it was a smooth operation. We treated it like a military mission and were disciplined in our approach. I think it’s our best work together.  

You guys did the trip in eight days. That is quick to travel the British Isles. Did you do sketches first and then go on to paint after the trip was over? Did any of Ifill’s photographs inform your work and vice versa?

I made some sketches at the beginning when I felt full of hope and hadn’t worked out what I was going to do yet. By the end I was just looking, watching it flash by. Kingsley dropped me at Cardiff station on the way back and a few days later there was a stack of prints in the post, which I worked directly on to, so the photographs very much informed the paintings. 

The most striking feature of the book is perhaps that it features almost no human figures, yet these are rural landscapes and villages where people live and breathe. What was it like seeing the outskirts of England firsthand? Do you feel a strong attachment to country?

Again, the lack of people was about creating a balance with the other work which was very figure heavy. Also, we were often struck at how little people we actually saw on the trip. Admittedly the travel was sandwiched between a lockdown and Christmas, so I think a lot of people were hiding out, but it was very noticeable to us how desolate the country seemed. Towns of closed shops with makeshift signs bearing varying explanations and apologies repeated themselves the entire way. The general feeling was that people were struggling but also that some other struggle that had gone on for a long time was finally over.

The paintings were painted using nail varnish. I don't think I have ever seen a painting done in nail varnish. It's incredible. I absolutely love the one of the reflections in the puddle. Had you ever done that before? 

Essentially, it’s just enamel paint which is the first paint I used as a kid, before I discovered oils and acrylics. Alfred Wallis used household enamel paints. I used it because to me it reflected our journey through closed down towns where the only shops that were open were corner shops or pharmacies, where you could always buy nail polish and other essential items.