North by north west, oboed through grassy reeds the wind sings in the mountain pass.
For everyone that follows my erratic travels through Scotland I need to explain that the Peterhead and Ardnamurchan project has been put aside for a while as I am not sure where it is headed and a break will help the process. So as you can see I am now currently challenged with the task of articulating what a mountain might be, in particular, the Buachaille Etive Mor. For those people that live in Scotland it is a mountain that inspires a great deal of respect and love from all the people that walk and climb. It is a mountain for everyone with its iconic arrow head, pyramidal form rising above the vastness of Rannoch Moor. Indeed the first time you see the mountain it’s a moment you will not forget. A lovely muckle lump as a friend called it, indeed it is. I wanted to look at it a few years ago but was unsure I could tackle something so vast. How can you be in anyway equal to a mountain ? How can one’s work measure up to or express the scale of this landscape ? I think my fear was holding me back, but fear of what ? I came to the conclusion it is the same as any other landscape I encounter, it requires you to walk it repeatedly, get to know it, be still and listen and the mountain will let you in . At least thats my methodology. We’ll see how it goes, you will be the judge of that . Expect many wet drawings, it rains a lot here, and midge spattered paper. Can’t wait.
Drawing at the Coire na Tulaich on the Buachaille Etive Mor yesterday. Wet, dreich, but beautiful.
A mountain must be faced without timidity for both climber and painter.
Happy new year !
I’m having a sale of small works as part of the artists support pledge scheme , so for every £1000 I make I pledge to buy another artists work.
Below are the pieces available. If you are interested email me at – email@example.com. All works are unframed.
A huge thanks for all your support,
Net curtains of rain brush against my face. The old beech tree brought down in the storm lies across the track, its bark the skin of a great whale grimly reflecting the cloud. I poke a puffball with my toe and watch a plume of spores cough in the gloom. The day feels hollowed out and hungry, yet I walk wearing the sky on my head and the earth on my feet. All will be well.