I have a friend who is always photographing ancient ruins. The photos are almost always taken in glorious summer weather under a blue sky. It made me realise just how many of my paintings are done between Autumn and Spring with storm clouds threatening. Looking through my sketchbook recently, I came across a sequence of drawings of Baconsthorpe Castle, near Holt. The weather that week had been fair and according to the forecast it was meant to continue, but when I set out that morning things didn't look at all promising. A restless light, scudding clouds, the threat of rain - would it clear or would the weather close in? I couldn't decide. But one thing was certain - there's nothing like a bit of storm light to add drama to a landscape... Baconsthorpe Castle is a couple of miles or so east of Holt, down a bumpy, potholed farm track. As I clattered over the suspension-testing cattle grid, a break in the trees revealed what remained of the Castle's inner gatehouse, a brooding presence under a dark, crow-scattered sky. The Castle was built in the mid 1400s by the Heydon family and expanded over the next two centuries, funded largely by the thriving wool trade. By the mid 1600s its fortunes had fallen into reverse and the castle was partially dismantled and sold off for building materials. Today it is an extensive ruin, encompassing an inner and outer gatehouse, a system of tumbledown walls and towers, surrounded by a moat and bordered by a broad mere. This first visit was an exploration with camera and sketchbook. I spent a long time wandering among the ruins, taking in the atmosphere of the place. The gusting wind, the hoarse cawing of crows, and a back drop of storm-blasted and ivy clad trees all added to a feeling of haunted bleakness. Sketching the outer wall and moat during a break in the weather. I was interested in the row of gun slots and their reflections. Fortunately, the Civil War is long over, otherwise I would have been directly in the firing line! A few minutes after that photo was taken, the weather turned foul again, and the wind was coming in gusts. Those perfect reflections scattered into a thousand watery pieces, and I had to take refuge in the shelter of the gatehouse, to save my papers from being blown into the moat. The inner gatehouse and moat. One of the earliest parts of the building, it comprised two lodges either side of the entrance gate, with grand rooms and a chapel above. The remains of the left hand lodge offered some shelter for sketching with good views of the ruins. The remains of servant quarters. The gaping windows, stark against the light, still have their oak frames intact. For structural subjects like Baconsthorpe I favour either charcoal or Conté. On this occasion I used Conté, which creates a harder, blacker line than charcoal, and suited the starkness of the subject. Ruined tower and archway. The tower originally held a fulling tank where the coarse woollen materials, produced on site, were softened in a mixture of soapy water and stale urine. The water quality appears to have improved over the centuries and is now crystal clear and home to a healthy looking clump of reeds. A coot shot out in a startled panic as I approached, and took refuge in the neighbouring mere. Below: Baconsthorpe Castle across the mere. Much as I would have preferred to paint the subject on site, the weather deteriorated, making further work impractical. This watercolour was painted back in my studio using on-site sketches and photos. If you are planning a visit to Baconsthorpe Castle be warned - it is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a medieval sentry who stands at the top of the castle walls, dropping plum stones into the moat. He is said to be completely harmless, aimlessly killing time as he awaits an invasion of long vanished pike men. I certainly didn't see the spectral sentry during my visit, but I must say, as I wandered the site, I did have an eerie feeling of being watched from above. It was probably just the crows.
On the other hand, I wonder what really startled that coot... Someone said to me the other day, 'I don't expect you do any painting in winter, what with it not being fit to get out?' Quite the contrary. Although we are still in the grip of winter, it is a time when I love to be out with sketchbook in hand. Whilst rain and snow will quickly ruin a watercolour, winter still provides many opportunities to work outside. It is a season when the whole landscape opens up, revealing subjects that the dense foliage of summer obscures. I love walking in woods, and when people ask me about painting trees, I always suggest to look at them in winter, when their skeletal structures are revealed. What caught my eye here was the central play of light filtering through the trees. I was also attracted by the combination of the sear grasses in the foreground and the blue greys beyond. Warm colours pull forward visually, and cool colours sit back, so this partnership tends to create a sense of distance. It may be the coldest time of year, but ironically, winter plays host to the warmest colours of the spectrum. My winter walks are enhanced by the sight of ochre grasses, the rusty hues of oak leaf litter and dead bracken, the copper spires of last year's rose bay willow herb, and the madder haze of distant birches. On some days, the whole landscape may be flushed with a pinkish light. The scene is visually warm, even though the temperature may be a little above freezing. Detail of a winter wood study from my watercolour sketchbook. The warm colours in the foreground are raw sienna, burnt sienna and brown madder alizarin. The birch bark, with its distinctive tiger stripes, has been given a soft sienna wash, a colour effect that seems to be especially noticeable after rain. The pencil work was added after the watercolour and while the wash was still wet. The effect is to make the pencil rather like a stylus, so instead of the usual grey pencil marks, the result is a darker tone of the underlying colour. Hence the blue edge alongside the birch trunk and the varicoloured marks superimposed over the sienna and madder washes in the foreground. I love using a pencil in this way, but I have to be certain before I draw the line, because drawing into wet pigment renders the pencil work indelible! If winter is really not the season for you, don’t despair - we are only at the beginning of February, but the trees are already coming into bud and it won’t be many weeks before they begin to burst into leaf. Then the warm earth colours of the winter wood will disappear, to be replaced by the bright yellow-greens of spring. This is what I enjoy about the changing seasons - with each turn, the landscape is constantly reinventing itself, and presenting new subjects to paint.
So grasp the nettle - wrap up warm, get out there and take a good look at the colours of winter, before they disappear for another year… It's always disappointing not to have had snow at Christmas, but I have to say I'm relieved – what with the broken foot, the last thing I need is to step outside, slip and slither onto my backside and end up trading the orthopaedic boot for a full body plaster. In the absence of the real thing, I've rootled through my portfolio and found this pastel of a boy in a big orange coat stumping through a swirl of snow. It would have been impractical to do this out of doors, as snow, like rain, can ruin a painting. When a snowflake falls onto paper, it is impossible to brush off, however crisp and crystalline it appears to be. It simply sticks there, and for an enchanted moment there it is, in all its perfect symmetry. Then another and another and another fall, all perfect and different. Then they melt into the surface of the painting and totally muck up what had promised to be a decent piece of work. Fortunately, a combination of observation, rapid field sketches and photographs gave me the information I needed to complete this subject in the studio. That isn't to say I regularly paint in the comfort of the great indoors on the basis of a few hurried 'snaps.' Far from it. Even when the weather makes it impossible to work out on location, there's nothing like getting out in the elements in order to soak up the atmosphere of a place. ~ Near my home there is a vast, windy field, with a track that cuts across the most open and windy part of it. A few years ago we had a tremendous amount of snow, which kept me indoors for some days. Finally, in a fit of cabin fever, I'd had enough, togged myself up, grabbed my hiking pole, and headed out across the Windy Field. I know the track well; it is impossible to get lost. But today was different. Part way across, the snow began falling; minutes later it was coming fast, and I was stumping along, head down, into a blinding white landscape. There was no sign of the track, and no other footprints ahead of me. The snow had erased all trace of my familiar world, and was making the landscape anew. That is, what I could see of it – visibility was down to about twenty feet. I felt like a pioneer, heading into the unknown... Further along, the track was blocked by a dune-shaped drift about three feet high. Not one for turning back, I clambered over it, only to sink up to my knees, the snow half-filling my boots. Oh well, 'in for a penny...' I ploughed on, head down, stockinged feet crunching on the snow inside my boots. I fought off the discomfort by thinking how, after this, my next snow painting would be filled with a great sense of being Out There... Coming back through the village, I met the only other person out that day, a weather-beaten man in his eighties. I was about to tell him of the three foot high drift I had conquered out in the wind-blasted field, when he cut in: 'If you think this is bad, you should have been here in the winter of '47. I was just a boy. The snow kept falling until it almost swallowed the house – the only way out was through an upstairs window!' He went on to tell me how there had been no electricity, no heating and the loo was in a shed at the bottom of the garden, 'with icicles hanging right over the privy, like sharks' teeth – you needed to get your business done quick before one of 'em broke off and poleaxed you! And getting back to the house, the snowflakes were as big as your hand!'
Although I thought this last comment a bit of an exaggeration, I shelved my story about conquering what now felt like a rather feeble three foot high drift. ~ All landscape paintings, whatever the season they depict, benefit from that sense of being 'out there'. Even if it's too wet, too windy, too cold, too whatever to actually paint on location, you can still tog yourself up and get out. The experience will find its way into your work, and you'll come home feeling invigorated and with a story to tell – although presumably not about snowflakes as big as your hand... Someone has asked if I have ever taken my paints abroad? The answer is, yes. I've painted in the Dordogne, and in Assissi and Florence, and some years ago I took my paints with me on a Nile cruise... 'Mud Brick Village and Ancient Tombs' was painted at one of the many places where we dropped anchor en-route from Aswan to Luxor. I was attracted by the washed out, dusty atmosphere and sense of timelessness of the place, and the image of the ancient tombs cut into the hillside, which now provided shelter for the living. ~ The painting was subsequently exhibited at the Mall Galleries, London, at the Annual show of the New English Art Club. Unfortunately, the painting didn't sell, so a couple of weeks later I made another trip to London to collect it. I then visited the National Gallery and deposited the painting with the cloakroom attendant, which left me free to wander the gallery without it appearing that I'd surreptitiously lifted a priceless artwork from the hallowed walls. I then went to Trafalgar Square to have my packed lunch, and do a bit of sketching. This is what a Landseer lion looks like, when you're attempting to wield a pencil in one hand and a cheese sandwich in the other. My work done, I set it down while I poured coffee. Presently, a shadow fell across the sketchbook. I heard the dull clunk of a coin and saw that 50p had been dropped in my lunch box. My first reaction was 'Hmm! Is that all my work is worth?' My next thought was 'If I can keep this up, I might get to earn my rail fare home!'
Sadly, I didn't. But I did go home with my painting under my arm, able to tell all my friends that not only had my work been displayed in the Mall Galleries, but that it had also been accepted by the National Gallery. I then enjoyed a few moments of adulation, before explaining that my brief loan of a painting to the National had been in exchange for a cloakroom ticket. On reflection, I'm pleased that 'Ancient Tombs' didn't find a buyer at the exhibition, because it now joins a selection of pieces that I have painted over the years, each of which holds a very special memory for me. And just in case you're wondering, yes, I still have that souvenir 50p. 'Mud Brick Village and Ancient Tombs' was drawn in charcoal and 2b pencil with watercolour wash, on a tinted Fabriano Ingres paper. 'Landseer's Lion' was sketched with charcoal pencil and a subtle smudge of cheddar... I’ve written before about the perils of setting up my easel on a footbridge overlooking a ford, and having my day’s work drenched by a passing vehicle. I recently played safe, and strolled with my pastels along the River Wensum, well away from any road. It didn’t take me long to find a subject and, looking up river and down river, I satisfied myself that here I could work to my heart’s content, free from interruption or mishap… There was an atmosphere of stillness and simplicity about this scene, with its grouping of skeletal trees and their near-perfect reflections. Some were in strong silhouette, others a fainter grey. Some stood straight, others leaned into each other, making a variety of negative shapes and spaces. As I observed a little more, I picked up on the subtle touches - the sear grasses at the water’s edge, the faint surface-rippling.
Having spent some time looking and ‘painting’ it in my mind’s eye, I set to work. The colours were all at the cooler end of the spectrum, so I selected a soft pinkish grey paper, which would lend a subtle, warm foil to the finished work. It was desperately cold, not an occasion to linger on detail, but the subject was simple and spare, and within a short time I had got down the bones and the all important sense of atmosphere. Even so, by the time I had finished, my finger ends felt ready to drop off, and I fumbled to secure the finished work into its folder. Eager as I was to get back in the warm, I had to take a last look at the landscape, before turning for home. It was such an enchanting scene, those winter trees and their reflections, all bathed in a silvery light. I breathed a sigh of happy satisfaction... I was so busy waxing lyrical, that I didn’t see the labrador trotting towards me, its owner some way behind. I was only alerted to their presence when the dog plunged into the river, to a yell of - ‘No! Out of there! - OUT!’ In its own time it came lumbering out again, doggy-grinning and heavy with the wet. The next thing it saw was me. ‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘No-o-o - !’ Too late. With a movement that began at the tip of its nose, flowed through its whole body and out through its tail, it shook itself for England. And I took the full impact. ‘Oh dear,’ said the owner, who had now caught up with the dog, ‘I’m sorry about that.’ ‘Not at all,’ I said, diplomatically. ‘Honestly, these are just my painting togs...’ Dogs are meant to have cold, wet noses, but, having come out of the river, this one had a surplus and was now wiping it on my pocket. The owner called the dog away and went off with a cheery, ‘Spring is just around the corner!’ Whereupon the dog bounded ahead and took another exhilarating plunge into the river. I couldn't help smiling at the sound of - ‘Oh not again!’ How glad I was that I’d finished my morning’s work and had it safely stowed in its folder before that exuberant doggy encounter. 'Silver Light on the Wensum' was worked in pastel on quarter Imperial Tiziano paper. Looking through my archival work, I came to this one, which I painted a number of years ago at Houghton St Giles, near Walsingham. It was a cold, grey winter’s morning, all colour bleached out by frost and light mist - just the day for an atmospheric subject. The moment I saw the church beyond the water, framed by stark, skeletal trees, I just had to paint it. The stream in the foreground fords a narrow, winding lane, and I set up my easel on the pedestrian causeway that runs alongside. It’s always a risk, painting beside a ford - more than once I’ve been on the point of finishing a piece, when a car has come powering down the lane and hit the water at speed, sending a great spray over me, the easel and the work. Only once have I taken heart from this experience, when the car in question came to a full stop in the middle of the ford and refused to budge another inch. Gesticulation and expletives were going on inside the car, and in the interest of diplomacy I managed a sympathetic smile, before assessing the damage to my morning’s work - great blotches were forming in the still damp watercolour wash, and the whole thing was a write-off.
Fortunately, all the boy racers were still in bed when I painted this one, and it survived to make it into my portfolio. Places change, not just with the fluctuating light and seasons, but also with the passing of years. When I went back recently to have another look at this subject, I couldn’t find it. I stood on what I knew to be the exact spot, but the whole view, from the foreground stream to the church beyond, was obscured by a dense screen of branches. I was stymied. I knew it to be there, but no way could I access it. So this painting now forms one of my special memories, not only of a cold winter’s day when I managed to finish before someone came hurtling by and water bombed my morning effort, but of a subject that, like the Sleeping Beauty, now slumbers forever beyond a thorny thicket… 'Winter Morning, Houghton St Giles', was painted in watercolour on quarter imperial Arches paper. On a painting trip to the Peak District some years ago, I found a number of pretty dales with quaint cottages, babbling streams and sheep-nibbled greens. Every village was chocolate box perfect and every day the weather was fine. I congratulated myself on picking a good week. Then, one morning, it all changed, and I found myself standing at my easel, surrounded by a thick mist. There are various kinds of mist. Sometimes they hang around all day, doing nothing much. Sometimes they lift and are gone in the time it takes to set up an easel, select the paper, and choose the palette of colours. This mist was drifting, fading and reforming, and I wasn’t sure whether it would finally make up its mind to disappear, or thicken up and obliterate everything in an impenetrable fog. Even as I was eyeing up the subject, I knew it wasn’t the time for watercolour. This needed the immediacy of pastel. With the scene fluctuating in front of me, I selected a few greys and earth colours and set to work… I hadn’t been there long before I attracted the attention of a small boy. ‘I draw, too,’ he said. ‘I don’t draw outdoors. I draw indoors.’ ‘Hmm…’ I said, which is the level of conversation I can manage when most of my brain is focussed on capturing a fluctuating mist. ‘Hmm…’ ‘What I draw,’ he persisted, ‘Is tigers and dinosaurs.’ ‘Ah…’ I replied, playing a light grey pastel stick over the blue-green of a hillside. ‘And Vampire Bats.’ This was delivered with such emphasis it transferred itself to a sharper than intended slice of detail on the otherwise misty subject. ‘What else do you think I could draw?’ Here was a comment to which ‘Hmm’ and ‘Ah’ were inadequate responses. ‘Well… just look at what’s in front of you and draw that.’ ‘All right.’ He ran off. ~ I reviewed the subject critically as I drank my flask of tea. In this detail, the mist plays hide and seek with the stone outbuildings, throwing one into sharp focus, while another is a pale ghost. The technique I used was to block in the tones and colours using the side of the pastel in a painterly way, and then to draw in with the edge of the pastel, using a variety of pressures, to create a 'lost and found' effect. ~ Later that day, as I was finishing another field sketch, the boy reappeared, this time with a couple of drawings of his own.
'Look - I drew me dinner.’ There, in vibrant colour, was a picture of a plate of fish fingers and beans in tomato sauce. ‘Oh, very good,’ I said. ‘And I did another - look.’ More fish fingers, beans and - ‘Is that a baked potato?’ ‘No - it’s T Rex eating the beans.’ Before I could comment, he ran round in a circle, flapping a drawing in each hand. ‘Guess what I am?’ ‘A bird?' 'No! - Roarrrr!' 'A plane?’ 'No! - I’m a Pterodactyl!’ And off he went, racing down the track with as terrifying a ‘Roarrrr!’ as a small boy can muster. Alone at the easel, I looked afresh at my misty landscape. Compared with the vibrancy of ‘Fish Fingers Meets T Rex’, I had to confess it all looked a bit tame… ‘Misty Morning in the Peak District,’ was worked in pastel on a warm grey Tiziano paper. ‘Fish Fingers Meets T Rex’ (not reproduced here) was drawn in vibrant crayons in an A4 sketch pad - the type of sketch pad that converts readily into a pair of pterodactyl’s wings… This month’s painting is one from the archive. It was painted looking towards Hempton village, with Fakenham church beyond. The foreground is part of Hempton Common, an extensive area which provides good vantage points from which to paint a number of subjects. The blue building was once the KIng’s Head Inn, now a private home. Hempton has long been a favourite haunt for painting groups, with its quaint cottages, duck pond and views towards the church. I remember one student in particular, who came on a ‘plein air’ class many years ago. He settled down to paint a row of cottages that had taken his eye, and having keyed in the composition, decided to include the church tower beyond. The only problem was he couldn’t actually see the church tower from that position. Undeterred, he resorted to Artistic Licence and put it in anyway. He thought he knew Fakenham church well enough to do it from memory.
Partway through the painting, he attracted the interest of a passer-by. Now some people don’t mind being watched while they work, and some people just don’t like it. This student fell into the latter category. The visitor hovered for some time, looking at the painting, then at the view, then back at the painting, and putting in the odd helpful comment. This did nothing to help the student’s powers of concentration. Finally, deciding that enough was enough, he turned and addressed the onlooker: ‘Do you know Fakenham church well?’ ‘Pretty well,’ said the man. ‘Does it have a castellated tower?’ ‘Er…’ ‘Only I need to know. In the interest of Factual Integrity.’ ‘Oh. Of course… well, I think it does…’ ‘Would you mind just going round the corner there and taking a look?’ I couldn’t believe what was now unfolding. Eager to be involved, the man readily accepted the position of Artist’s Assistant - and off he went to check. Minutes later he was back. 'Yes. It does have a castellated tower.’ ‘Good.’ The brush hovered over the painting. ‘How many?’ ‘How many what?’ ‘How many castellated bits?’ ‘Um…’ ‘The thing with Art,’ said my student, waving his brush in an authoritative manner, ‘Is you have to be observant. You need to get the facts right. Otherwise someone will come along when it’s hanging in an exhibition and say, “Hmm, that artist needs to learn to observe. He’s put the wrong number of castellated bits on that tower”.’ ‘Oh. Of course.’ The man obligingly went off round the corner again, and came back with the answer. ‘Four.’ The student keyed in the correct number of castellated bits. ‘What about the time?’ ‘What?’ 'The time by the church clock.’ The man checked his watch. ‘11am.’ The student frowned. ‘No. That’s the time by your watch.’ ‘Yes. It’s brand new. Quartz Action.’ ‘But the church clock isn’t. The church clock is ancient and has lots of working parts and things that make it chime every quarter hour. It isn’t chiming at the moment. So. It can’t be 11 O’clock. Would you mind awfully, just checking it? In the interest of Factual Integrity.’ I had other students to attend to, so I missed how this scene continued to unfold. Suffice to say, when I came back fifteen minutes later (by my own watch, not the church clock) the Assistant had gone. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked. ‘All right.’ ‘You’ve lost your Assistant.’ ‘Yes. He decided that Art wasn’t for him.’ He held the painting up for me to see. Atop his rendition of the church tower flew the flag of St George. ‘Oh - you’ve put the flag in.’ ‘Yes, it always flies on St George’s Day.’ ‘It isn’t St George’s Day.’ ‘No. But it doesn’t matter to a day or two.’ ‘A day or two? It’s September - you’re five months adrift!’ Yes. Well I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’ ‘So what happened to Factual Integrity?’ ‘Hmm? Oh That…’ he waved the paintbrush in the authoritative manner. ‘When it comes to the boundary between Artistic Licence and Factual Integrity, the parameters are always set by the one wielding the brush.’ I have to admit, I was lost for a reply. ‘Hempton Village and Fakenham Church’ was painted in watercolour on 1/2 Royal Wookey Hole paper. The blue building has since been repainted cream. And in the absence of a suitable Artist’s Assistant, I have to confess that I completely missed the detail of that castellated tower… Some time ago I needed to go into Norwich for the day. As I was about to leave the house I grabbed a small box containing a handful of pastels, just in case there was time to do some sketching. Indeed, there was plenty of time. My shopping done, I was free to wander, looking at potential subjects, and finally settled on a view looking down London Street towards the old NatWest Bank. I then reached for my little box of pastels, only to discover I’d accidentally picked up an identical box which contained conté sticks, and that every single one of them was sanguine. Ah well, at least I was better equipped than the last time I went, when all I had was the back of a shopping list and a biro… ‘It isn’t the materials you have to hand,’ I told myself, ‘It’s what you do with them that counts’. Rooting in my handbag for further drawing instruments, I found and rejected the biro, and rooting further, found a pencil - which worked in fine with a sanguine conté stick. Thus equipped, I settled down to work. The old Bank, built in 1925, is an imposing building, with its classical pillars and tall cupola, and I knew I had picked a challenge… I can never go to Norwich without recalling my first exhibition there, at the Assembly House, many years ago. My doughty Aunt, who was experienced in hanging exhibitions, took command. ‘It will have to be hung in two tiers. These are the top tier paintings. Those over there are the second tier. Right. Here is the cord. We need twenty cords one Nosewipe’s length, and twenty cords two Nosewipe’s length.’ A Nosewipe equated to a yard, from the time-honoured way of measuring, which involves holding one end of a piece of string in the left hand, next to your nose, and then pulling the other end out with the right hand, as far as you can go. Hence Nosewipe. Of course, using the time-honoured way of measuring, everyone’s yard is a different length from everyone else’s. So it was important, in the name of consistency, to decide who’s yard we used. My Aunt decided that as she was good on ladders, and at giving commands, I would be in charge of the string and scissors. The first result was met with a derisory, ‘Call that a Nosewipe? Stretch, girl S-T-R-E-T-C-H!’ I stretched as far as I could, so that my right hand was now reaching some way behind my back. Not that it made much difference. The result barely stood up to scrutiny. ‘Well, if that’s the best you can manage it will have to do,’ came the Voice of Judgement from the top of the ladder. Having reconciled herself to my barely adequate version of a yard, production got under way. ‘One Nosewipe! … Two Nosewipes! … One Nosewipe!’ At some point the door opened and a man walked in, carrying a bucket. He strolled around the room and then walked out again, taking the bucket with him. Other than that, he was our only witness. The fact that I had momentarily glanced his way, wondering about the purpose of the bucket, was not lost on my eagle-eyed Aunt. ‘Never mind the man with the bucket! I need Two Nosewipes!’ I resumed my duties, and we were back into the swing of it. ‘One Nosewipe! … Two Nosewipes! … One Nosewipe!’ I still wonder at the reactions of other people walking around the Assembly House that day, to the sound of my Aunt barking commands behind closed doors. What on Earth did they make of it? Back to the present, my sketch of London Street was finished. I held it up for scrutiny. No sooner had I done this than I realised I had struck the kind of pose that was liable to attract attention. Sure enough, there came a voice from behind.
‘May I see?’ ‘Um - okay. It’s just a field sketch.’ (Strange term that, when the subject matter is set in a city centre). The man looked critically at the sketch, then down London Street itself, then back at the sketch. ‘Hmmm...’ Was he wondering why I had chosen to do it in sanguine, when there wasn’t a hint of sanguine about the place? Or worse, perhaps he was trying to decide what part of London Street the sketch was meant to represent. Finally, he nodded in perplexed acceptance that evidently this is what artists do. ‘You should have a show somewhere. People would find it… interesting.’ Ah. Interesting. I felt a bit deflated. 'You should try the Assembly House. Anyone can put on a show there.’ ‘Oh. Anyone?’ ‘Yes. You have to hang it yourself and whatnot. I once watched an artist hanging theirs. Long time ago now. It was an education… you know, up and down ladders, measuring cords and all that…. They had this - well, I suppose you’d call it a system. Now what was that term they used…? Strange term… Not one I’d met before…’ I gulped quietly. He shook his head. ‘Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter. All I can say is it was an education.’ He handed the sketch back to me,’ Well, Good luck with it.’ And off he went. Now, lots of people have shows at the Assembly House, and everyone has their own system. But as I watched the man walk away down London Street, I couldn’t help wondering… could he have been that man with the bucket? London Street Norwich was drawn in 2b pencil and sanguine conté on A4 sketching paper. We had a beautiful April, followed by an indifferent May. Now, on a particularly overcast day, I was sizing up the cottages across the pond at Hempton, and telling myself that cloudy skies are more dramatic than blue ones. And on a day like this there were fewer people, which meant I could focus and work in peace, without interruption... As I set up my painting gear, I recalled the first time I had painted these cottages across the pond. It was the perfect summer’s day, and the subject was all sunlit under a blue sky. I was wearing a pair of lightweight lace-up shoes in a fetching frosted green. They were new on, cool and comfortable - so comfortable it didn’t feel as though I were wearing shoes at all. On that particular day, the pond had been alive with ducks - and they loved to see people, because that meant food. Nowadays, everyone knows it isn’t a good thing to feed bread to ducks, but back then people would regularly turn up with bags of stale bread and toss the crumbs on the water, and the ducks would paddle furiously about, hoovering the crumbs off the surface. Then they would get greedy and come off the water, expecting and demanding more bread. Like all wild animals that get used to being fed, it can soon turn into a problem. I once saw a swan with a neck the length of a broom handle come at a hapless visitor whose bread bag was empty, and who was so unnerved he threw the bag at the swan and fled to the safety of his car. So I wasn’t surprised that as soon as I set up my easel the ducks came paddling across the pond, and then they climbed out of the water and milled around, expecting to be fed. ‘Sorry,’ I said ‘No treats here.’ I carried on working and ignored them. A few went back on the water, but the majority hung around just in case. Most of them settled down to bask and preen themselves in the sunshine. One got fed up with being ignored and started nibbling the toe of my shoe. I thought it rather amusing, it wasn’t doing any harm and I ignored it and pressed on with my work. Presently, another duck came over and started nibbling at the other shoe. Before long there were quite a few ducks nibbling away, trying to let me know they were there, and they were hungry. To this day I don’t know why I let it happen. I was busy painting, they were just ducks, and I thought, ‘Live and let live.’ At length, my painting finished, I found the time to look down at the ducks - and I saw that in the absence of bread, or any other kind of treat, they had nibbled away the surface of both shoes. Gone was the fetching frosted green, and in its place a series of patches with the underlying fabric showing through. My new shoes, my pride and joy, now looked as though they had been subjected to years of wear and tear. Ducks don’t just go a-dabbling. As I found to my cost, they sometimes come a-nibbling, too! Now years later, on this overcast May morning, I was wearing a pair of old hiking shoes, just in case the great great grandchildren of those original ducks had designs on my footwear. But of course, as is the way with these things, there wasn’t a duck to be seen… Cottages across the Pond was painted in watercolour on half imperial Canson mi teintes paper. The moment I saw this famous facade of the great temple at Abu Simbel, I had to paint it. There wasn’t much time. I was on a tour and the itinerary was busy, with time taken into account for those who wanted to take photos, but without much space built in for the odd artist who wanted to settle down and paint. Fortunately for me, if not for my fellow travellers, another group had got there before us and we were obliged to wait for them to finish their tour of the interior before we took their place. While the rest of my group wandered around taking photos, I got busy with a 2b pencil on a warm toned fabriano paper. Aware that time was short, I worked feverishly, sketching the great sandstone figures, the rock striations and the shadows. I overlaid it all in loose washes of Ultramarine and warm earths, which dried quickly in the hot, dusty atmosphere. I just had time to key in a few tiny figures for scale, before the last of those figures disappeared into the temple.
It was then that I looked around and discovered that my companions had all vanished. I was surrounded by a crowd, but they weren’t my crowd. They were a crowd of Germans, who had finished their tour and were now taking photos of the exterior. Some of them had even gathered round to take photos of me painting, with the temple in the background, an extra unscheduled attraction to their itinerary. I then realised that the figures I had been so keen to record before they all slipped into the temple following their guide, were actually my own group. Seized with panic, I packed up smartly and rushed over to the temple entrance, just in time to tag onto the tail enders. One of them turned to see who the latecomer was, and quipped, ‘Oh, it's the painter - we should have known - it’s quicker with a camera, you know!’ True enough, and I certainly took plenty of photos on my Egypt tour. Painting, however, makes me observe in a way that snapping away with a camera doesn’t. And when I look through my portfolios of work, whether recent or from deep in the archive, the memories and anecdotes of that day come flooding back. Which is just as well, as my blog devours anecdotes as a Labrador does biscuits! Temple Facade, Aswan, was painted on 1/4 royal fabriano ingres tinted paper. 'I’ve been doing the washing up with one of your pictures.’ The comment pulled me up short. Last month one of my paintings was likened to a batch of laundry. And now this. ‘You remember? The tea towel.’ ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Of course. The tea towel. That was a few years ago now…’ ‘Seventeen years, according to the date on it. We’re all a bit older. And greyer.’ I was conscious of my friend’s gaze on my silver bob. ‘Seventeen years?’ I said. ‘Wow.’ And in a bid to sound younger and more trendy, ‘Like. I mean. Wow…’ I had been asked to design the tea towel to help raise funds for the Village Hall. The brief was to fit in the Church, the Old School House, the Village Hall, and a reference to the local nature reserve, home to a population of rare natterjack toads. It all sounded fairly straightforward - so much so that the words ‘Consider it Done’ were already forming on my lips. Then came the bombshell - ‘And can you put a map of the Wartime aerodrome and a Spitfire or something flying overhead? It would made a good bit of action.’ ‘You don’t have to put in an actual dog fight, of course. Just some sort of flypast.’ ‘And a picture of the control tower - that would be good - of course, it isn’t there now. But there are bound to be photos … somewhere.’ ‘Oh - and you will include a drawing of an actual toad? They’re very much a Local Thing.’ Spitfire… Aerodrome… Toad… I was still nodding, gamely, whilst thinking, ‘Help….’ Then with a deep breath of steely resolve and a professional smile, ‘No Problem. Consider it Done.’ I started by looking at the assortment of subjects in the brief, trying out various angles to make the most of each one, and working out how best to fit them together in the overall design. By moving elements around it quickly became obvious to me what should go where. Once I had blocked this in, I set to work on the detailed drawings. The aeroplane was the biggest challenge. It involved some research to find a plan of the old airfield, photographs of the type of aeroplane that would have flown from there, and the Wartime control tower which can be seen in the background. I needed photos of the aeroplane from more than one angle, so that I could envisage it 'in the round'. The photos, being old, were a bit fuzzy, a quality that was matched by my knowledge of aircraft. I’m not an aviation artist, and could only hope that it would meet with the approval of any war time pilots still living… Then it was on to the subjects that actually still existed and that I could walk all around and see from various angles…. The Old School House is a characterful building, with its multi-faceted chimney stack, ornamental fascias and castellated porch. In past years swallows have regularly returned to nest under its decorative eaves. I looked at a number of angles, before settling on this one which best showed the key points of its character. The house sits adjacent to the the former village school, which closed many years ago. Whilst the sound of children and the ringing of the school bell have long been silenced, the school building itself enjoys a new lease of life as the Amy Robsart Village Hall. Visitors to the hall invariably ask, 'Who was Amy Robsart?' This is where Syderstone lays claim to a famous bit of history. Amy Robsart was born in Syderstone in 1532, and married Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, himself a favourite of Elizabeth I. It was rumoured at the time that Dudley had designs on marrying the Queen, should Amy predecease him. Then came the fateful day when Amy was alone in the house, and was subsequently discovered dead at the foot of the stairs. At the time it was deemed to be an accident, but speculation is still rife as to ‘did she fall or was she pushed?’ Either way, her demise did leave Dudley free to marry the Queen - who, famously, though she had her ‘favourites’, was not one to be pinned down. So poor Amy, whether by accident or design, died in vain… The original school bell with its decorative cupola, is still in situ, but is never rung. Nowadays, the hall is used by a variety of local interest groups, a monthly cinema, and a visiting post office. At one time the post office shared their slot with the carpet bowls club, and customers had to step over the bowling carpet, in order to reach the counter. This involved a certain amount of awareness and co-operation between the post office queue and the players! There are over 100 round-towered flint churches in Norfolk, including the 12th century St Mary’s in Syderstone. The building is only 22 feet wide but 111 feet long - that’s a lot of length to fit into the average tea towel... I’ve written before about how the view of the South elevation, that aspect which is seen from the road, is partly masked by yews. I chose instead to draw it from this viewpoint, with the East window in the foreground and the tower beyond. The foreshortened perspective creates a satisfying shape and shows more of the building's features. It also has the added advantage of fitting comfortably into the available space! The East window is notable for its design of angels, and was installed in thanks for the fact that all those from Syderstone who went to war in 1939 came back safely. I had already blocked the whole design in rough at the sketching stage, as part of the initial planning, but now it was time to see all the completed drawings brought together in the finished work. At this point there was only scope for some minor tweaks. It made sense to put the airfield and the aeroplane in flight at the top, and the heaviest element, the Church, at the bottom. Initially the aeroplane was placed on the left of the design, so it was flying into the picture space. Unfortunately this gave the impression that it was headed straight for the Old School House, so I quickly transposed them! The Old School House and the Village Hall were set diagonally opposite each other by way of mutual balance. I included an enlarged drawing of the cupola alongside the Village Hall. The bulrushes, representing the damp areas of the reserve favoured by the natterjacks, were used to frame the piece. A specimen natterjack was placed at the bottom left. ~ The tea towel had been selling for a few weeks when there was a knock on my door. ‘I’d like to congratulate you on your work on the Mosquito.’ ‘Mosquito?’ I shook my head dumbly. This was obviously a case of mistaken identity. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t do insects…’ ‘It isn’t an insect. It’s the aeroplane on your tea towel. The Mosquito.’ ‘Oh. Of course. The aeroplane.’ And here I was, thinking the aeroplane was some kind of Spitfire… ‘There’s only one problem.’ ‘Ah.’ I thought there would be. As I said, I know next to nothing about aeroplanes and no doubt my effort did not strike this expert as even being airworthy. It turned out that the error wasn’t in my drawing, but in something else that I hadn’t even considered relevant; ‘That number,’ said the expert, ‘Never flew out of this airfield!’ And here I was, thinking that a number was just a number... ~ I was snapped out of my reverie of seventeen years ago by my friend, who had now produced the said tea towel and was flapping it in front of me. ‘It’s a bit faded and out of shape. But I thought you might use it for a blog or something.’ ‘Hmm…possibly.’ 'I especially like the toad.’ Ah - the toad. I’d forgotten to mention how I set about drawing him. Or it may have been her. It's difficult to tell with a toad. Also, they’re quite secretive and I’ve rarely seen them, although on spring evenings I’ve often heard them ‘singing’. For such small creatures they can really project their voices - in a croaky sort of way. Natterjacks don’t move as fast as aeroplanes, but even when you’ve tracked them down, they still won’t pose obligingly while you draw them, so this was another case of having to resort to photos for my source material. I’m still waiting for an expert on toads to knock on my door and inform me that they know this particular individual personally, and it actually inhabits a completely different colony elsewhere... If your village is looking to create a tea towel featuring your local landmarks, with or without aerodromes mosquitos or toads, please use the Contact page to enquire.
‘I’ve been thinking about your January blog,’ said my visitor - the same one who had been helping me to think over coffee last month about the Christmas blog. ‘I hope you don’t go on about how we’re in the midst of winter and it still hasn’t snowed yet, like you did last year.’ ‘I hadn’t planned to.’ ‘Good. Only it seemed to bring on one of those snow bombs. No sooner did your blog go up than we were up to our knees in the white stuff.’ ‘I think that’s more to do with weather systems, than me. Anyway, I wasn’t going to do a snow picture this time round. I was thinking more along the lines of what we’ve had a lot of lately - which is damp and drizzle. So if I go banging on about how we’ve had nothing but drizzle since the middle of November, and your theory’s right, that should serve to bring the sun out.’ ‘I hope you’re right. It took me a week to dry the laundry over Christmas. I had it hanging up all over the house. It put a right damper on things. Anyway, where’s this picture?’ I obligingly set it up on an easel, while my friend swapped distance glasses for readers, and scrutinised the piece critically. ‘Ah. The church from the back. That’s unusual…’ Syderstone Church is more usually painted from the road, where its south side presents a pretty face, albeit partially blocked by large yews. Dodging around those dense monoliths to find a satisfactory composition can be challenging.
Viewed from the north, it’s quite different. There are trees here, too, a stand of them, which partly mask the nave to the left, but in winter it is possible to see the building behind them, and a clear view of the west end and the tower. In contrast to the sunny south facade, this north side has a look of quiet melancholy - all the more so on a damp, slightly misty morning. ‘It does have a damp look.’ ‘Well it was a damp day. Also, I painted it on this archival rag paper. It has a lovely fabric texture, but the surface is oversized, so when you pull a brush across it, the paint stands up in bubbles. To prevent that, you have to thoroughly wet it. Then it becomes super-absorbent and you get this soft, fuzzy effect. And having wetted it so much so that it accepts the paint, the whole thing takes forever to dry out.’ ‘Hmm…’ there were nods of appraisal, as a critical eye was cast over the soft tones, the pearly sky, the trees full of glistening damp…. ‘A bit like my laundry, then.’ I have to confess this was a first. I’ve had some unexpected comments about my work over the years, but I’ve never before had a painting likened to a batch of wet washing. ‘Oh well, I’d better get back and see if there’s any point in trying to iron it yet.’ I nodded distractedly, while staring at the painting and wondering which wash programme it looked as though it had been subjected to… ‘Happy New Year, by the way,' came the parting comment. And with a nod at the painting, 'I expect you’re right. It’ll be a drizzly one.’ ‘Happy New Year,’ I replied, thinking ‘the wool wash, perhaps…’ And with that, I shall draw a curtain, undoubtedly wringing wet, over a damp and drizzly New Year … ‘If you wait for the weather, you wait for ever…’ It’s a maxim that was driven into me from a young age. I had arranged to meet a friend for a session of plein-air painting. We had enjoyed several days of sunshine, and had high hopes for good weather, but the day before our planned foray it all changed. We had persistent drizzle from dawn to dusk, and it was set to continue for the rest of the week. That evening I had a frantic phone call. 'What do we do if it rains?’ ‘Wear waterproof trews and jacket. Carry a sketchbook and camera, make observations and soak up the atmosphere. If it’s changeable we can paint outside, but be prepared to whip the painting off the easel and throw it in the car boot until the rain passes over. If it’s really bad - the weather, I mean, not the painting - I’ve actually painted inside the car. The steering wheel makes a good easel - it’s the perfect slope for watercolours. People don’t design cars with that in mind, it’s one of those unintended consequences we keep hearing about.’ You’ll gather I’d been there, done it and had a wardrobe full of rain-soaked t-shirts… We found a space to park beside a lane that led through a patch of woodland. With the engine off and the wipers stilled, the world beyond the windscreen began to melt into rivulets. It was not a promising start. ‘Do we have to get out?’ ‘Yes. If only for a few minutes. Take it all in. Soak up the atmosphere.’ We stood with water dripping off our hoods. The avenue of trees stretched away into an indeterminate distance. The receding layers of foliage appeared soft and silvery in the rain. We agreed that the combination of drooping canopies and gentle, misty tones lent the scene a mood of sleepiness. 'It is sleepy,’ I confirmed. ‘And wet.’ ‘Very wet.’ In fact, too wet. Sketching outside, we agreed, as we battled with pencils on blotched paper, was not really on. We mopped our sketchbook covers, and decamped into the car. I was fascinated by the converging wedges of the lane and its verges, the receding trunks with their arching branches, and the canopies that seemed weighed down by their burden of rain. These were the shapes that I distilled into my initial structure. The windscreen was kept relatively clear with an occasional sweep of the wipers. Even so, in my structural sketch the horizon line seems to be adrift from where it is meant to be, the top half and bottom half being somewhat fractured by the distorting effect of rain on the glass. ‘Give up?’ 'Never give up.’ We ploughed on. The structural drawing that I had planned to build into a full blown pastel on site was abandoned for a second, third and fourth quick pencil sketch. No time was spent on the details. It became less about the woodland and more about the weather, and the sketches grew increasingly vague and close-toned. And then, out of the blue - or should I say the grey - came a temporary lull, and with it a slight brightening. Colours often look heightened after rain, and the pines to our left now stood in silhouette against a background of sizzling green - "lizard green" it’s called in pastel, and I had a stick of it in my little travelling set. I knew there was no time to waste - the opportunity was fleeting, and I had to work quickly before it all vanished. I wound down the side window and got a quick study of dark, ivy clad trunks, with wedges of vivid "lizard" showing between. The more muted green in the foreground added a third layer and dimension to the subject. I blew off the pastel dust and held it up to view. At last. 'I’ve got something that looks like something.’ ‘Let’s see…Ooh yes…’ Then it worsened again. Up went the window, and the view through the glass turned decidedly blurry… It wasn’t enough to clear the screen with an occasional swish of the wipers. They needed to be on full time. The rat-a-tat-tat of rain on the car roof was accompanied by the measured rhythm of Whoosh-whoosh... One moment the world was visible…. then it wasn’t…. then it was….then it wasn’t… Whoosh-whoosh-rat-a-tat-tat… ‘That hammering on the roof’s driving me nuts.’ Whoosh-whoosh-rat-a-tat-tat… ‘Use it. Work it into the drawing…’ Whoosh-whoosh- ‘How?’ - Rat-a-tat-tat... I sketched furiously, peering at a mixed up melée of weather and woodland, trying to discern the indiscernible... ‘Let the rhythm of it play into the pencil work. You won’t get a chance like this when the sun’s shining…’ ‘U-hu…’ Whoosh-whoosh-rat-ta-tat-tat… ‘Did you ever read the blog about Walberswick, where I had to take cover in the car and resorted to doing a sketch of the rain bouncing off the wiper blades?’ ‘No’. Whoosh-whoosh-rat-a-tat-tat… ‘Well, just to say, this is the woodland version of it….’ The diagonal swipes are not distant branches, but tracks of rain on the windscreen. The grey smudge across the lower half is where the view of the great outdoors was blotted out by the mist on the inside of the glass. Somewhere beyond it all are disarticulated suggestions of trunks and branches. As my friend remarked at the time - ‘It has a certain “je ne sais quoi”…’ And I had to agree - as I turned the sketch this way and that, and mentally translated her observation into frank and down-to-earth English, ‘No… I don’t know, either…. ‘
If you wait for the weather, you’ll wait forever. So get you waterproofs on, pack a sketchbook and pencil, and head out into the drizzle. You never know, you might just end up with the inspiration for a masterpiece. Or you may just get soaking wet. One way or another, it will be grist to the mill for your development as a plein-air painter... The sketches in this blog were drawn in 2b pencil and pastels on A4 copier paper. With lock-down in full swing, it isn’t possible for me to paint out in the landscape at present, so this month I’ve chosen a piece from my portfolio. It was painted in late February a couple of years ago at Womack Wood, a local area of mixed woodland, criss-crossed by grassy tracks. The months between November and March are a good time to paint woodlands, because the structure of the trees is revealed, and the wood opens out to give a glimpse of what lies beyond... There is a hint of spring in the air, with the bright lime green of new foliage showing. Hollies and yews dot the woodland edge, and their presence lends some tonal weight, guiding the eye down the track and towards the ploughed fields and misty blue distance. The foreground is part of a bronze age burial mound, one of three, largely ploughed out, which date back around 4000 years. The woods were planted partly to protect them and to prove a habitat for wild flowers and ground-nesting birds. Womack is one of my favourite walks, and in normal times a regular painting haunt, but of course during lock-down, with other people also using the tracks for their regular exercise, one has to keep moving… 'Womack Wood' was painted on 1/8 Imperial 'not' surfaced paper - and unlike the scenario shown in the cartoon, I didn't see a soul all afternoon...
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Judith Key
Judith Key is a Norfolk based artist, working in watercolour and pastel. She has exhibited with the Society of Graphic Fine Artists and New English Art Club at the Mall Galleries, London. Her paintings are in collections worldwide. Categories
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May 2018
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