One from the archives while I’m making way home…

I don’t often write about the painting. To be fair, these days, I don’t do it often… and definitely not often enough. There is something entirely sensual about the smell of oils and the feel of canvas beneath the brush… something I love…though nine times out of ten I will end up painting with my hands instead. It gets personal. Today, while the electricity has been off and the workmen in, I lost myself in the multihued fairy dust of pastels, working on the design for a private commission.

I grew up with the smell of linseed, copal varnish and turpentine. My grandfather was an artist… a painter and sculptor. It is a sadness that I neither have any of his work, nor any pictures of it. I remember, vividly, the pieces that dotted both his and his parents’ home; murals…