Thursday, August 10, 2023

Letter from home

I'm sitting here at the start of a very hot day.  

The last three days have been busy, and Dave is out so the house is quiet and there's a feeling of space, and there are so many things I want to do, but I can't decide where to start. I want to write a blog post AND I want to be outside watering the pots, AND I want to be out on my bike AND I want to be figuring out how to tweak this painting so I am satisfied with it. it's not quite there yet and it's bugging me. Spot the difference from the last time I posted it.

August garden and blue fence
Acrylic on canvas board, 84 x 59 cms

I delivered a painting to the Fronteer gallery in Sheffield on Tuesday for their upcoming exhibition 'Portal,' opening on August 22nd. This is it.

The gate next door.
Acrylic on canvas board. 37 x 37 cms.

I've put a price on it, but now I'm ridiculously hoping it doesn't sell, because I'm fond of it and don't feel I've enjoyed it enough yet to let it go.

After I'd left it at the gallery I started thinking about the other paintings I've sold that I'll never see again, and that felt sad. There's the pride and the feeling of achievement of having painted something that someone else likes enough to pay money for, but it's coupled with a sadness. Is it akin to the feeling you get when your children leave home? Not really, because you expect to see your children again.

My favourite school of painting is the Scottish Colourists, so I called in at the Graves Art Gallery in Sheffield to see their current exhibition. This is my very favourite painting of all time but sadly it wasn't there.

And probably because my brain has shrunk since turning 70, I only just realised that this painting of mine is probably an unconscious homage to it. 

Bedside table in February 2015
Acrylic on paper 

I shan’t be selling that one. I’m lucky. I don’t live by my art. Poor Cadell died destitute because after the 1929 crash the bottom fell out of the art market.

That's enough about painting. 

Someone said to me recently that British people shouldn't complain about the government, they should change things themselves, and it bugged me. How many times have I written to my MP and it's made no difference? 

I heard a radio programme in the car on Monday about the lead up to the war in Iraq, and Tony Blair's beliefs and actions. It made me recall going on the march in London against invading Iraq, on February 15th 2003, along with a million other people, including two of my children. It made me cry (literally) to remember that a million British people bothered to go to London to say NO and he still went ahead.

I should stop listening to political stuff on the radio when I'm driving. When Braverman first floated the idea of her Rwanda policy for refugees I was so aghast I all but missed a red light.

But all is well here if I forget about politics. It's not only sunny, it's a still day today, something rare at Hepworh Towers, one of the the windiest spots in the village. It means that Dave will not be able to say it's too windy to play table tennis. I'm not a purist and wind doesn't put me off because I love the game so much. 

Basically I love summer days - bike rides, table tennis, sitting in the garden with a margarita - happiness.

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