Author: dominiquefcameron

Acrylic and charcoal on panel – 50 x 50 cm.

It’s been a year.

Oil and charcoal on panel – 40 x 50 cm.

Oil and charcoal on panel – 20 x 25 cm.

November rain, a freckling, softens footfall, trampling acorns into the deep leaf forest floor. Silver lichen glows in the indigo light. The wind picks up , drawings take flight. Blooming yellow flag iris in the bog by the shore.

She has a repair to her coat, bright yellow dashes of thread pull together a tear in the collar. She asks if I think it will be warm enough, her coat, to wear on her day trip to Orkney. Perhaps I say, but isn’t it an awfully long way to go for a day trip ? Turns out she is going to Thurso for a holiday, which raises yet more questions but the bus has arrived at stance number four. The door opens and she slowly ascends, her first steps to the far north. I gaze out at the grey sea, grey sky and wonder if it might be warmer in Wick right now.

Clay head of Samer from a weekend sculpting course at Edinburgh Sculpture Workshop with Duncan Robertson.

Charcoal, crayon and graphite on paper – 76 x 56 cm.

Sketch, Ruby Bay, Elie.

A good westerley this morning ruffles the shoreline. Clambering over the rocks, a picture of my younger self, but now cautious, considered. I try a small leap, it feels good, I just need a bit of cajoling these days. The rocks here are impermeable, the sea has seemingly made little impact, grey in colour or rather, if I look closer more of a burnt charcoal ashey smudge of a colour- ‘mole’s breath’ according to a paint chart I am looking at on my desk at home. Below the rocks the sea slaps, slips over bronze bladderwrack . The wind is picking up and the sea responds, churning itself round the small bay, dashing into the smallest of gaps, salt floats high in the air, curing this landscape like a memory. A startling white gannet glides past heading east to the Bass Rock.

Climbing this short rise the view to the west and the north opens out towards mountains in the distance – Schiehallion for sure and others I can’t name as yet. Swallows dart across the topmost fields, old hawthorns berried on the brow of the hill. Eyebright, birdsong, gorse bees. A housemartin zips past my face, so close I feel the whoosh as it dips its wing and is away, like the summer up here on the edge. A vole scurries into the long grass. A new view, a new home ? I like the clear, broad space and the constant north light. I think so.