A Right Dyke

Dry stane dykes are a prominent feature of the Scottish landscape.  This one was at the edge of a farm shop car park.

Have a closer look

Lichen is a measure of the purity of the air; clearly, here, the air is clear and good, despite being relatvely close to Edinburgh.  I love the textures of a dry stane dyke, and would have loved to have learned how to do it.  That's not likely to happen now, of course.   

I've had a thing about walls, and stone in general, for many years.  I find them fascinating.  The softness of these Scottish dykes contrast beautifully with the flint walls of Norfolk, which I find, have a much harder texture, and are more angular        .

To me, though, they share more than they contrast.  There are miniature stories in each wall; the marks on each individual stone, and the way they interact together.  Gorgeous.

Working With Pain.

I have a lot to do today.  I need to make up packs of textile and transfer paints for the local gallery, and to sell on my upcoming website.  And I need to put together a set of samples for the new class I'm offering at the gallery, on working with fabric paint.

Today is also the day I hit a wall of pain.  It happens, every so often.  Usually, what happens is that I knock my head against that wall until I weep copiously and then go to sleep.  The definition of madness,of course, is doing the same thing time and time again, but expecting a different outcome.  Today, I want and need a different outcome.

So, in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for my second cup of the day, I asked myself, what does the pain look like?  And in my head, I saw a wasteland of stones, pebbles, rocks.  Surely, I thought, nothing creative could be done there; it's barren.

And then I looked harder.  Each stone is beautiful in its own right.  Could make the beginnings of a piece of work, all by itself.  Combined, they are overwhelming, but beautiful.  Lonely, but beautiful.  Sad, but beautiful.  And surely, they will be the basis of some interesting work.

:
Pain.  You can lie down underneath it, or you can ask it what it has to give you.  You might be surprised.

Hunstanton...

is inspiration all by itself. Just going to the beach and looking at these cliffs brings all sorts of ideas to mind. Is erosion the opposite of scarring? I don't know, but I'll be thinking about it over the next wee while. It seems likely that it is. Scarring is a sign of healing; erosion eats away at things until they are no more. And yet both are natural occurrences; how can what is natural be wrong?

Moira and I spent last Thursday at Hunstanton, collecting shells and shingle, stones and seaweed, all to be used in some art project or other. I think you can see from the image why it is I keep returning there...hoping for good enough weather to go back to do some painting next week. I've never done any plein air painting; hopefully this time, there won't be a large school trip. The one last Thursday discussed what it was I was doing on that rock over there, and took photographs of me for the record (so Moira tells me; I was focussed on what I was doing, so didn't look...).

I spent this morning in the shed, preparing canvasses and making a few ACEOs, just for fun. It may not be completely organised, the shed, but it's a joy to work in there. No phone, quite apart from anything else... peace, perfect peace. I had intended to do some quilting this afternoon, but instead found myself printing out this photo of Hunstanton Cliffs, only to find that my colour cartridge needs to be changed; instead of an interesting terracotta colour, it has printed out purple... not quite the same thing. Still, it's an interesting part of the cliffs, and what I want it for is to reference the shapes, rather than the colours. In some ways the purple works better for that.