A sketch is all I can manage, as the seasons change clothes in this late remembered summer. It’s September and still the fruit loiters in the sunning of the skies, waiting for the call of the next. A lazy summer of headiness slinks away reluctantly. The wren chatters the beck for the umpteenth time and the coal tit still manages the flirt twixt branch and feeder. And yet – a sketch is all I can manage.
Frustrated by the effort of trying to paint something, I let the paint and brushes guide my work. Quickly the remembered coastline emerges from my collected unconsciousness to take on a form that echoes. Trying not to be concerned with producing something to be hung about or sung about the, art magic happens. It might not be detailed, or recognisable as anything, but it lies in its own honesty as a little bit of fresh.
The hum of the lawn blurs with the sweet chitterlings of birds – worn out from their chasing, mating, sitting, watching, dashing, singing, struggling lives of springtime as we move into summer. The garden grows wilder by the second, ferning and fronting in an explosion of green, highlighted by the coming flowers of the high season. In the absence of any more immediate inspiration I take my watercolorist outside and play at capturing my experience of the garden into a small series of humble sketches.
The feeling of being present with new life fills the senses. Blue sky greets the call of the returning chiffchaff as the daffodils rival the trumpets of Jericho in their unashamed glory. Time to dig out the shorts, the barbecue and the tent as the call of the wild bubbles in accord with the heartbeat of a changing season.