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. This month I’ve gone all tonal. As a friend who was given a preview said, ‘Well, what a good choice, with the Christmas decorations all down, the sun barely skimming the top of the garden fence, and everything stark and gloomy. And what do you serve up? A grey picture. Just what your readers need on a grey day in the middle of winter…' I did this subject years ago, and decided to keep it because of the associated memories. It’s a pastel of boats laid up at low tide at Wells-next-the-Sea. I was attracted both by the light on the water and the way the boats leaned at different angles. The reason I’m showing you a tonal copy is because of what happened when the original was photographed. I’m used to odd things happening when I photograph pastels. Strange colour shifts can occur, and sometimes colours can appear to float forward of others, disrupting the image. Just look at what happened when I tried photographing 'Low Tide at Wells'... I hardly need to point out the patch of strong orange-earth behind the left hand boat. You might wonder what it’s doing there, marring the whole scene. Well, that’s what I wondered, too. I made a number of attempts at photographing it in different lights. The result was always the same. A blot appeared, where none existed in the original. Converted to black and white, the problem disappears. I thought the fault lay with my amateur photography, so I took the painting to a professional. The work was photographed in studio lighting, using a top of the range SLR camera. I had high hopes, until…
‘Hmm,’ said the photographer. ‘These fluorescent colours don’t photograph well.’ ‘What fluorescent colours?’ 'That one. See how it jumps out? Fluorescent colour.’ ‘It isn’t fluorescent. It’s just an earth colour.’ ‘It’s fluorescent. You must have picked it up without realising.’ ‘I don’t have fluorescent colours.’ ‘It’s fluorescent,’ he assured me. I came home with a photographic print that showed exactly the same weird effect as the version produced by my own basic camera. I explained the photographic problem to the friend who had objected to this month’s choice of a ‘grey picture’. Being someone with an interest in science and technology, he understood at once. I knew this by the way he was nodding sagely. And when he’d finished nodding he imparted his equally sage verdict. ‘So next time you serve up a blog picture in black and white, we’ll know why. It’s one of your colour ones that went wrong.’ I bridled at this. And having finished bridling, I stood him in front of the original. ‘Do you see an orange blot?’ ‘Er … No.’ He looked from the original (no blot) to the photo (blot) and back to the original (no blot). He looked thoughtful. Then he nodded sagely again. And now all he could say was, ‘Well, that’s odd…’ Indeed, it was. You’ll have to take my word for it that the original work doesn’t exhibit an orange blot; because, of course, the moment I take a photograph, it does! 'Low Tide at Wells' was worked in pastel on half imperial tiziano paper. The blot was provided by some unidentified and annoying gremlin that haunts my pastel box. 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. Markets can offer a complicated subject, what with the jumble of stalls, the variety of produce on display, traders touting for business, and people milling around, looking, buying, breaking off to catch up with friends, and moving on to mill some more. Aylsham market was no exception. My usual approach in busy situations is to keep it simple, focus on one stall with a few figures picking over produce, but don’t try and paint the whole scene, because there will be just too much happening. On this particular day, I broke my own rule… As always, I began by mooching around, finding a few angles and doing some thumbnail sketches, before settling down to my chosen subject, which on this occasion, was ‘all of it.’ Busy as it was, I reduced everything down to three planes. I used the diagonal of the road to take the eye into the scene, leading the viewer from the foreground stall on the left, towards the busyness in the middle ground, and used the buildings and church in the background to add some visual weight. So the viewer goes on a journey, being pulled up the street, towards the central stall and on to the background buildings and the church tower, before falling back again to the central stall with its splashes of movement and colour. With such a busy subject, I didn’t want to complicate it further by using all the colours of the rainbow. I chose a restricted palette of two colours, Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna. These two colours are seen in their pure form on the central stall. The use of a near-black alongside them helps to ‘punch up’ their appearance. All the colours and tones, through the various browns and blue-greys to the near-black, were made from mixing the Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna together in different proportions. Top Right: Burnt Sienna and Ultramarine, with the near-black created from mixing the two. Bottom Right: Burnt Sienna with Ultramarine added in increasing amounts, to create a range of warm and cool browns to blue-grey. True, I could have used a ready-made black, and there are a variety available, such as Paynes Grey, which is a cold blue-black, and Neutral Tint, which is a warm black. Then there are a number of earth colours available. I could have ended up with a dozen different tubes. By restricting myself to the Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna, I could vary the mix to make both warm and cool blacks and greys, as well as a range of earth colours. The ‘secret’ to fresh and lively-looking mixes is to introduce one colour into the other and not overwork the mix. If you stir them too thoroughly, the result can dry tired and flat. Left: Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna allowed to mingle on the palette - showing the interplay of intermediate colours. The blue-grey mix is enlivened by the presence of the Burnt Sienna, and the browns are enlivened by the presence of the Ultramarine. I’ve often been asked about my approach to line and wash - do I draw first, then add the washes, or vice versa? I often do a little of both. What I always try to avoid is doing a drawing and then ‘colouring in’. In this case, I keyed in the bones of the subject with pencil, then blocked in with watercolour, and once this was dry, added the pen work. Then I added further shadows and finishing touches with watercolour. So there was a certain amount of interplay between pen and brush.
Over the years I’ve tried various pens, including dip pens with bottled ink, and a couple of home-made reed pens. My experience with the latter made me realise that my skill in making reed pens was severely wanting - not only did I cut the reeds badly but managed to slice my finger in the process. And like anything not very well made, my reed pens performed badly, too - so much so that I named them ‘Blobby’ and ‘Scratchy’, and after a few try-outs consigned them to the bin. I finally settled on Edding pens, available in various gauges and in both black and sepia, and this is the type of pen that was used for ‘Aylsham Market’. I enjoyed my morning doing pen and wash in Aylsham - until I got back to the car park and discovered I had a flat tyre. As I sourced a garage to come to the rescue, I reflected that it could have been worse. I will never forget the day, about 30 years previously, when I was driving home cross-country and had the misfortune to follow in the wake of a hedge cutter. The road was peppered with bits of hawthorn, which I thought I had negotiated successfully, until I was forced to pull up in the middle of nowhere with two flat tyres. But that is another story... 'Aylsham Market' was worked in pen and watercolour on quarter royal Fabriano ingres 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. The holidays are almost upon us, and the coast is alive with visitors. I would normally favour it at quieter times, but on this occasion I was in the mood to sketch some bustling activity, so went along to Overy Staithe, where I found bustle in abundance. Boats were being bailed out, lugged down to the shore and prepared for the off, children were jumping in and out of the water, screaming with excitement, whilst dog owners were striding out with their pooches, to join the many others walking the coastal path. There were any number of subjects to choose from, but one thing was certain - it was no occasion for indulging in detail, because the tide was already swilling in and before long those boats would be heading out. I settled on a subject and distilled it mentally down to the bones. Even as I was sizing it up, I was aware that there was steadily more water and less marsh. It was time for action.
Up went the easel and out came the paints. I spent a few minutes contemplating the pristine white paper, always a daunting prospect, which I generally get around by telling myself, ‘It’s only a study… you can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs… Go for it!’ Then it was straight in with the brush. I was grateful that everyone was too busy doing their own thing to stop and engage me in conversation. Fortunately the paint was drying quickly and I was able to press on… As the saying goes, ‘Time and Tide wait for no man’ and they especially won’t wait for a woman with a paint brush. All too soon the snaking shape of the creek had disappeared under a flat expanse of water, and it was time for the boats to sail. Minutes later, ribbons of small dinghies were weaving down the creek, a variety of red, white and blue sails leaning this way then that, as they turned to catch the breeze. ‘It’s like a dance,’ I thought, watching them skim back and forth, ‘A choreographed dance.’ It was yet another subject, but one that was moving too quickly to get down in paint. I just had to stand and watch… I was shaken out of my reverie by a frantic shout - ‘No! Come Back! Heel! Oh Help!’ I looked across and saw a wringing-wet spaniel heading straight towards me. ‘Don’t let him jump up!’ I’ve had this order from dog owners before - I’ve always been nonplussed, because if they can’t prevent their dog from jumping up, I certainly can’t. The dog was almost at my feet - there was nothing between us but my easel and it soon negotiated that. Now it was jumping up, showering mud, and smelling to high heaven of goodness knows what, although I had a suspicion of what it might be. I had no sooner thought, ‘Oh no, not that - please don’t let it be that,’ than a cry of confirmation arrived hard on the tail of the dog. ‘Don’t let him jump up! He’s just rolled in a dead seal!’ Yes. That’s what it was. Dead seal. What was worse, the muddy spaniel now decided I was its new Best Friend. ‘No! Don’t let him jump up!’ cried the owner uselessly. I was engaged in a bizarre dance with this dog now - the more I tried to avoid it, the more determined it was to cement an alliance. Not until it had jumped and rubbed itself around my trousers and transferred the smell of dead seal liberally onto them, did it race back to its owner, ears flapping and happy. A tad too late, the owner fished out a lead, clipped the dog to the end of it, and hurried away tossing a belated, ‘Sorreeee!’ over their shoulder. And I, with an air of false camaraderie, sang out, ‘That’s all right!’ through, admittedly, gritted teeth. Not wishing to attract the attention of other dogs, who would make a beeline for the scent of dead seal about my person, I packed up, returned to the car, put a sheet of plastic over the driver’s seat, and drove straight home. There, my clothes were consigned to the wash, and I to the shower. Those trousers went through the wash three times before I could convince myself that they were wearable. Even then, whenever I took them out of the wardrobe I would convince myself that the aroma still lingered, and put them back on the hanger. There they remain, still spurned, another souvenir of life as a plein-air painter, together with numerous rain-warped sketchbooks and those duck-nibbled shoes. ‘Preparing to Sail’ was painted in watercolour on 1/4 imperial paper, and whenever I look at it, the first thing that comes to mind is not the bustle and the boats, but receiving that unwelcome souvenir from an over-exuberant dog... 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 was strolling along the waterfront at Woodbridge, and in the mood for drawing boats. I certainly had plenty to choose from - the whole place was a veritable bustle of boats in all shapes, sizes and colours. Normally I eschew an overly busy scene, but today I was up for a challenge. So where to start? It took me a few minutes to sort the information into three different planes. There were the foreground boats moored up in front of me, their colours reflecting off each other and in the water; behind them was a muddle of partly obscured hulls and cabins, and beyond that the buildings on the quayside. I was attracted to one boat with a partly collapsed ochre sail and two red floats on its deck. This and the two either side made a pleasing combination of shapes, with two ‘head on’ and the third at more of an angle. Then there was that little tender snuggled up on the right, begging to be included…
Working out of doors isn’t like painting a still life in the controlled light of the studio. Out here the scene in front of you is constantly changing. The light fluctuates by the moment, shadows soften and harden and colours change. The millpond stillness of the water is suddenly disrupted by a diving bird, and those perfect reflections break into rippling shards. The tide creeps out, so that the boat that bobbed upright when you started now leans at an angle; or the tide swills in, and the boat that had leaned at an angle is now upright. The moment they’re upright and bobbing, someone is bound to come along, climb aboard the very boat that forms the centrepiece of your composition and sail away in it. So I knew I had to get my information down before any of it had chance to escape. I started with the foreground boats, keyed in the shapes in charcoal, and blocked in the colours with broad pastel strokes. Every time I spotted someone walking along the moorings, my anxiety levels went up, until they had passed the boat I was working on. Then the anxiety levels went down again. Then up… then down… like an outline of the Alps, with each successive passer-by. Finally, behind me came a sudden - ‘Ooh - you’re doing a picture!’ Which caused the charcoal line I was drawing to veer wildly off-course. ‘What a lovely way to relax!’ ‘Hmm!’ I grunted. Fortunately the bad line was easily corrected, and I pressed on. Once I had the foreground boats pinned down, I worked backwards, fitting in the suggestion of all those cabins behind, and finally the distant buildings. I was happy to leave these until last, as buildings don’t generally sail away while you’re in the middle of drawing them! Finally, I took a few photos as back-up, so that I could develop it later in the studio. Sure enough, just as I was finishing, someone climbed aboard one of my foreground boats, and within a few minutes it was sailing away down river. I watched it go, and breathed a quiet ‘Phew!’ 'Moored at Woodbridge' was drawn in charcoal and pastel on quarter royal tiziano paper. I’m often asked which breed of dog I most like to paint. That’s a difficult one. Regardless of breed, dogs all have different characters, and I’ve encountered many of those over the years. One of my favourites was a working Springer in its prime. The owners wanted me to show a couple of different stances, and having agreed the initial sketches, they couldn’t decide whether it should be set on the beach or ‘in the field.’ I did both and let them choose. They chose the version set in the field, and I kept the one on the beach… Not every request to paint a dog comes to fruition. As with the unfortunate fisherman, I have had a few cases of ‘the one that got away’. The most memorable of these was also a Springer, every bit as beautiful as the one in this painting, but quite different in character…
‘He needs to be working,’ said the owner, ‘He’s hyper.’ Yes, I could see the dog was hyper. Its eyes were flashing in every direction. There was no evidence of focus, nothing, apparently, connecting the eyes or ears to the brain. There must have been synapses shooting around and bouncing off the inside of its skull, but pinning one of them down in a desperate attempt to grab the dog’s attention, would be like swatting at bluebottles. The owner was keen for me to see the dog in action. ‘He’s trained to the whistle,’ I was informed, as we walked along the footpath through a nearby field, the dog eagerly weaving on the end of the lead in characteristic spaniel fashion. Part way up the track, we stopped. ‘This is a good place. Now you can see what he can do.’ He let the dog off the lead, and it shot off like a rocket across the field. ‘He’s trained to the whistle. Watch this.’ He blew the whistle. The spaniel kept running and soon had merged with the colours of soil and stubble and was out of sight. ‘He quarters,’ said the owner, unfazed. ‘That’s what they do.’ He blew the whistle again. We waited. No sign of the spaniel. Wherever it had shot off to in order to do its quartering, it was way out of earshot. ‘Quartering,’ repeated the owner confidently. He blew the whistle, harder this time. We waited. And waited. And waited. The dog was still off, somewhere beyond the far hedge, maybe in the next field, possibly even the next county, still quartering. Now the owner was blowing the whistle for all it was worth. ‘Quartering,’ came the comment for a third time. We stared into the distant hedge as though staring could make the dog come back. ‘How old is he?’ I asked. ‘Three. Still young.’ We waited some more. And as we waited, I was reminded of a saying that a gun dog enthusiast once taught me - ‘Labradors are born half-trained; spaniels die half-trained’. Eventually, the owner had to admit defeat and pocketed the whistle. ‘He’ll come back when he’s ready. 'Perhaps you could come and look at him again…’ he paused and searched the distant boundary for signs of movement. ‘Maybe later in the season, when he’s found his focus.’ I heard later that the dog had gone into the next field, turned onto a track that led back to the village, and was waiting at the house for its master’s return, tongue lolling, eyes a-buzz, and coat covered in burrs. I never did get the call to return. That was over a decade ago, and I can only assume that despite every effort by the owner, the dog never did manage to find its focus…. Springer on the Beach was worked in pastel on half royal tiziano 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 … With December fast approaching, I was looking for a seasonal subject for the Christmas blog. I put the challenge to a friend who had come round for coffee. ‘What about a cartoon of Rudolf having his portrait painted?’ ‘Did that one last year.’ ‘What about doing one of Santa Claus having his portrait painted?’ ‘Hmmm … It sounds a bit repetitive.’ We stared silently into our coffee mugs, looking for inspiration. The result hardly set the world alight. ‘Coffee’s very brown, isn’t it?’ ‘Very…’ More silence. ‘Another cup?’ I offered. ‘No, any more coffee and I’ll be hitting the roof.’ That was my light bulb moment. ‘Of course - the roof!’ I grabbed a pencil and paper and jotted down a sketch. ‘What do you think?’ ‘Hmm … ’ 'And then, of course, he has to actually get all the way down the chimney…' 'And when he does eventually squeeze his way through, he might find this fireplace isn't quite what he was expecting... ' ‘That’s the thing with these fancy appliances,’ said my friend, ‘They don’t take Santa Claus into account. And now they're building houses with no chimneys - makes you wonder how he gets in at all.’
‘Magic, I expect.’ 'Hmm. I don’t know about that. I mean - Magic. It has no basis in reality, does it?’ There was a prolonged hiatus here, while I tried to square my friend’s disbelief in Magic with their acceptance of the existence of Santa Claus. And while I was busy thinking this, my friend spotted the time. ‘Well, can’t sit here all day, must dash. Good luck with it. And Merry Christmas if I don’t see you before.’ ‘Merry Christmas,’ I replied. It was still only November at this point, so I omitted to add, ‘And Happy New Year.’ ~ With the festivities almost upon us, it just remains for me to say that whether your chimney is in working order, totally bricked up, or even non-existent, rest assured, Santa Claus will still find a way in, so just make sure you set out the customary sherry and mince pie as a thank you for his effort… |
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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