Oil on panel -25 x 20 cm.
Stepping out into the light from the wood, stepping over the line, into the field. The wood, the field. The field, the wood – each have there own temporal planes, their own time zones. The field shrieks its haste, it knows its future is short, a season is all. The wood shrugs, knowing its own history, the stories, an unbroken line stretching away. Its cycle is time-less. Crossing these planes of time is jolting, exhilirating. There has been no rain for weeks. I come back with dust from the field and mud from the wood on my boots.
spectacular. love your emails.
xo K
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Thanks K, so enjoying rambling around the fields behind the village. Def a project fermenting ! Hope you’re both well, and see you ….whenever that will be 🙂 x
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