My forays out and about with sketchbook and camera have been temporarily suspended by a freak accident which caused me to break a bone in my foot. One of my friends said it really would make a good blog and have everyone in stitches, but you will forgive me for not being quite ready to discern the funny side of it yet, and have shelved it for some point in the future. So this month I'm having another dig in the archives, and have found an apt piece involving loss of footing in pursuit of one's art... ~ Always on the look-out for photo-opportunities, I went to Overy Staithe with a couple of friends to show them a favourite painting spot on the Brancaster side of the Staithe. One of my companions was a keen photographer, and we planned to get some good location pictures for the website. The track that side of the staithe isn't suitable for my big easel and trolley, so I had brought my pochade box and rucksack. This was a subject I painted at the same site a couple of weeks previously, looking west. On that occasion the light had been somewhat grey, but today we had a vibrant blue sky, one of those days which, if it weren't for the crisp edge to the air, might pass for summer, and we had high hopes of getting some good photos. Unfortunately, our plans for a photoshoot were scotched because the friend with the camera had omitted to change lenses before setting out and only had his macro fitted. He decided there was no point in carrying it down the marsh track, and left it locked safely in the car. As things turned out it was a wise move... Having followed the track down onto the marsh, we found the path extremely muddy. My friends were reluctant to go any further, but I was unfazed. 'I've tackled muddier places than this,' I assured them, ' - follow me.' I led the way through the mud, but they hung back, still dubious. I cast around, trying to find an easier way for them, only to slip and land on my backside in the mire. This elicited the remark that if only the camera had been available, it would have made the perfect film, unfolding, as it had, in glorious slow-motion. Undeterred, and biting my lip against the escape of an apt retort, I struggled to my feet, found what seemed to be firmer ground just a couple of feet away, and directed my companions there. Gingerly, one of them slithered alongside me, only to find that the tussock I was standing on was an isolated piece of firm ground in the middle of a bog into which he was now sinking. In the next moment one shoe was sucked clean off his foot and he was down on all fours, trying to spread his weight. I tried to tell him that he was perfectly safe, it wasn't the kind of bog that actually sucks people under, and had he stayed upright he would only be ankle deep at the most. But it was a bit late for this, because he was now flat on his face doing the breastroke, and getting slathered. Meanwhile my other friend nearly lost her balance in a heart-stopping show of mud-skating, before she mercifully regained her footing. She wisely decided not to go any further and focussed on trying to retrieve the lost shoe which was well embedded in the mud - it eventually came up with a great sucking noise, full of black water and unwearable. With the shoe retrieved, we now had to extricate ourselves and get back to terra firma. Bad turned to worse, and every attempt we made to rescue each other ended in more of a communal mudbath. Overy mud smells distinctly of dead fish. And by the end of it so did we. We squelched back along the track to the car, an uncomfortable experience for the one who was obliged to tramp along the road wearing only one shoe and a soggy sock.
I tried to cheer my friends up by saying, 'Of course, one has to suffer for one's Art'. They were familiar with the saying, but couldn't quite understand why it had to extend to their suffering for my art. And if any mutual friends are reading this, I will only identify my companions as 'O_______' and 'R________' partly to protect their anonimity and partly because the '_______' bit describes the act of slipping into a quagmire better than any words, and I distinctly recall that 'Oh ______!' and 'Aaagh ______!' were the expletives used as the action unfolded. More results of my artistic suffering can be viewed on the Landscape and Marine pages Comments are closed.
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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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