Who knows why some images appeal
like these flowers
picked from the grass outside my Studio
last year ago
There is thick plastic resting on the window ledge
flakes of gesso and old paint, bits of plaster from the days
when I pressed flowers into clay and made prints. It feels
There is something in this softness
something that I have taken into new work
Mixing a tiny amount of this light yellow into turquoise paint
creates a colour
that always feels like a deep breath
like a wide, quiet beach
and bare feet
taken in a big shed
on a piece of land
that has watched a family
born and grow and return to dust
Artists have lived here, makers and dreamers. Rough hands who have worked the land.
This still life has been thrown together at the end of long days
it makes my heart hurt
these walls do talk
they absorb stories from ones so far back we barely remember them
and the stories become paintings
really how can words ever say
what these old corrugated walls hold
This old armchair sits in a shed. It rocks quietly, maybe, when the heavy door is shut.
I took photos when I went back. I was careful not to fall in the Well. There were timbers over the top and it might not be that safe.
The chair was heavy. With dust. With someone still there.
There is a wood stove in the corner, drums and white buckets. Gas bottles, they're everywhere.
Stories like lead. They sink.
They take you deep
There are footprints in the dust