Distant trees

Initially, when I was asked to write a piece for the WNAA  newsletter, I was slightly alarmed, but then I realised it is good to seize the opportunity and share a flavour of my day as an artist, digging down a bit, into what it feels like to stretch my skill set daily and hopefully help someone else along the way. 

Hard to believe, I set myself daily targets to paint and usually end up putting the results away in a pile and mostly feel my work is not strong enough. These sketches can often find themselves being collaged, or the basis for a painting 6 months later. A piece of advice I was once given, was to keep everything you create and cull at a later date. Good advice it turns out, as there have been occasions I recall, when I have returned to old sketches and reviewed my thoughts about them completely!

Looking back V

Recently this winter, I have been working in a concertina 12 feet continuous sketch book. It naturally seems to reflect the horizon which goes on forever and the changing skyline, movements and season. It is a visual diary, and occasionally, along that long piece of paper, something pops out and works– freeing up space in my thoughts for a new composition. I think this explains what it is like for me when I am making. I can paint and sketch and then somehow – something feels right. It can happen during ten minutes in a painting, but very rarely happens all the time! 
 
Inspiration comes mainly from observing colour and mark making in the landscape. Artists like Derain, Rae and Cezanne, infuse my thoughts and compositions.  The way a gleam of sunlight hits a muddy rut from the plough and turns it orange; and the pattern that machinery makes as it traverses the field, amplifying perspective with strong cuts, like tattoos in the earth. These marks change and disappear seasonally, and the whole process begins again yearly as the farmer changes his field use. This energy between man and nature affects all our vision – like the farmer is painting in the soil too.

Distant green

I think most creatives would agree that it is often quite hard work, to hit that sweet spot, where it all comes together during the process. We strive, often over painting and not recognising when it is time to stop. If someone says “oh, it must be so relaxing to paint” I sometimes inwardly sigh, and wish it was! It feels more of a struggle of self-reflection, analysis and imposter syndrome, but there is an innate need to make so I just go with the flow.  
 
I majored in sculpture and printmaking at Norwich, Loughborough and Cyprus schools of Art, but latterly found joy in the immediacy of painting and colour studies, whether landscape or still life.  Now I often paint in a favourite spot; on an old roman track, looking out to sea or surrounding landscapes, reflecting elements and moods; laying down colour and movement in quick immediate brush strokes.  These huge, exciting Norfolk skies inspire me, bouncing light and colours changing every surface. 
 
I do wonder that I don’t tire of the same views and could probably paint it thousands of times, but it changes daily. Memories of watching my father and grandfather on tractors stay with me.  So many variables and factors affect the outcome, but it is the alchemy involved in the creative process that make it a joy to keep striving.