Author: dominiquefcameron

Pulling away from the city, sun drenches a Dutch painted landscape, skies all sharp blue and dazzle white clouded, flattening fields, pushing them inexorably toward the coast and the waiting North Sea. Picking up speed now, hurtling past wind stooped hawthorns, sewage works and Shetland ponies and a boy walking across a vast field with his head down. To my left, a group of Glasgwegians, off to the races. Tennents and banter. Turning, kneeling on the seats, hanging over the headrests, laughing, like bairns on a school trip. They are all my age. Loud, happy. Brick, houses, half timbered, gravel pits, conservatories, canals and traffic at a standstill. “Darling, if it’s too much then don’t, it’s your call, you’re in charge…….no I just thought…… no, I appreciate that, yes, I know, honestly you don’t have to…… ” The phone call ends. She turns to her daughter who says,”I don’t know why you bother Mum. Why do you?” “Because I love her”. Outside the day pulls us closer to London. Where is the point where the countryside ends and ther city begins ? I always try to look for the edge but am always left disappointed as the frontier blurs, seamless almost. Yet there is a change, perhaps it could be the combined weight of people and their stuff that causes the light to constrict, where the Flemish sky admits defeat, retreating as we push on through Betjamin country and the long ago, lost, Utopian suburbs. I turn back to my phone and scroll through the flotsam of ill advised words and the world does indeed dim slightly.

Methil docks this morning. The sun is shining but there’s a cool wind from the south east numbing my fingers. A few creel boats are out in the Forth but not busy. Gulls sook in the sun on the corrugated warehouse roof. Eider ducks bob. A small boat squeaks against its fenders and the pier pilings with every wave. An understated start to the day, police sirens, outboard motors and a startled pigeon blown in on the breeze.

A warming day in the hills this morning. Shoogling catkins, soft murmurs of Spring. A giant bird box high in an oak tree. Higher up the ground is spongy, soggy, seeping into my left foot. I forgot there’s a hole. I always do . Shadows of cloud animate the southern flank of hills, a keen wind hurrying them through. Shovefuls of air and light and just enough heat in the sun to make me smile.

Lorries barrel between snow clouded hills,

Werner Herzog on the radio .

These last few days have been hard.

We bring back snowdrops and sympathy cards

and a tenacious geranium.

Raining, walking and drawing.

New Year near Kinloch Hourn. Look at it on a map and you’ll see its a road to nowhere or somewhere depending or how you look at things. But its also the middle of nowhere and I had forgotten how dark the night sky can be . The sound of water is everywhere below, above and across the dark stained moorland, rolling down the hillsides emptying into amber coloured burns, and finally into the river in the glen. Deer, buzzards, but little else out in this end of year weather. It is full of quiet, if you can ignore the rain, such a fullness of silence, it is just the place for new ideas.

A very happy new year !

Dominique x

Hithe is an old word for landing place. Oil on wood – 20 x 25 cm .

The peat rises above the surrounding fields, bog cotton muffling the wind, softening its gallop over the moor. A shelter of Scots pine catches the sun. A woodpecker flashes high up in the branches. Moss deckles the edge of darkest water.

Sky sketch on the banks of the Tay.

Low tide on the Tay, silvery in the short north light. Flocks of oystercatchers clack their way across the sand where nubs of salmon netting posts indent these flats up and down the river. A search for agates on the foreshore and although none found, I stumble across what looks like a large WW2 unexploded artillery shell. The police are down taking a look. Just as well I didn’t pick it up as I am wont to do. Unexpected and interesting.

The Great Moor is glowing, like a breath igniting embers of a fire. The climb onto Dunadd, ancient coronation rock of Scottish Kings. French horns proclaim the arrival of the geese. Ogham text speaks down through the ages, now gone with the wind and the wild boar.

Acrylic, charcoal and watercolour crayon on plywood – 122 x 95 cm.

A day of frustration in the studio, of getting it wrong. So, a walk to Badgers Wood. Shadows ink the north edge of beech trees that mark the boundary. Embroidered moss tucks its feet in around their roots. Holding out a hand to the horizon I can rest the sun in my palm, mine for a moment in all the world. The shrike of sharp bird song, an old man and his dog with a few words on the weather at days end. A bumblebee forages on the slim pickings of gorse flowers as the sun sinks lower, cooling the air and the day exhales.