photo: woman with daffodils - gouache on handmade support. this painting is larger than my tiny ones. It measures 12cm x 9cm. I am going to make more this size, alongside the tiny paintings (they measure 88mm x 56mm - about the size of a bridge playing card).
photo: not a great photo but a quick snap to show you a size comparison - and a sneak peek at a tiny painting - both of these will be in my shop later
Hello Everyone, I hope you are well and thank you always for taking the time to read these notes. It’s been an especially busy week for me but determined to get happy balance, I did give myself some of Friday to just sit and read. I call these breaks necessary pauses rather than time off. I am never far away from what I do, but it is important to take a breath.
Also, I have felt an old shoulder injury muttering at me - as if as a little warning. So yes, listening and pacing myself. This shoulder/neck pain comes from detailed work, especially working on my sewing machine.
And, sadly or inevitably, Margery my machine is no longer happy to wind bobbins. Oh dear, I said, as she flatly refused again. That’s it then. So I am winding each by hand, holding the small metal bobbin and winding the cotton thread, getting just the right tension. It’s not a big deal and can be done. No one but myself gets to touch Margery so I won’t be taking my machine to be repaired. She has never been ‘professionally serviced’ in her entire life (of over twenty years). The idea of her being taken apart by anyone but myself is just not good to my heart. Call me foolish, but I am deeply protective of my relationship with my sewing machine. Some may scoff. But think about it: a bloke with a beloved guitar - yeah sure, he can have a special connection with it! But a woman and a sewing machine?? Oh, I see…
So, I pace myself and I take care to wind the bobbins. And yes I do sing the wind the bobbin up song - the song I sang as a child and sang with my children when they were little. But I don’t do the pointing.
**
Shop News
My next shop update is today:
Sunday 28th January at 7pm UK time - I will be adding new paintings. Preview from 5pm.
Wednesday 31st January at 8pm UK time - I hope to have new stitch work available. With preview from 5pm.
Any questions please do send me a message via my shop. Thank you.
**
Photo - painting from 2018 - an evening study - I like how loose and gentle this feels
I have been painting daffodils in paintings for so many years.
Did you make daffodils as a child, using crepe or tissue paper? Did you paint daffodils on a bleary school afternoon, longing for sunshine, quickly realising how messy all those yellows can become?
And here we are again, finding the right yellows. As I was painting over the past few days I jotted in my head or on paper a few notes, to share with you if you ever feel inclined to paint daffodils yourself. These notes are written as random bits and thoughts, that might add up to a poem one day.
You will need plenty of yellow. Always overestimate the amount of yellow.
Work quickly with triangles in mind. Don’t get lost in trumpets.
Forget the stems until later. Snip as you go. Replace the shape of this one for that.
Become like a bee, finding different ways to love yellow.
Remember not all daffodils are yellow. Remember the pheasant’s eye, or poet’s daffodil, pale and sprightly.
Take a moment to find the dark as a balance, a breath.
Begin in the golden bull’s eye and count the petals, but only if you must.
If you find yourself painting just so much yellow it blends together, so be it.
Who is the scent for? A waking bee or a woman with a loaded paintbrush trying to find a way to stop over-painting?
photo: an abstract study of daffodils from 2017 - again I want to paint this again (or something similar, not the same - I can’t paint the same.)
And here is a new painting - I will be including this in my update later. It is gouache on paper and measures 23cm x 21cm
photo: a new painting - daffodils in an old jug
**
A Few Small Stories
Looking out of our attic windows. Especially early in the morning. The ruddy skies and the dark, dark trees. The wild clouds, solemn birds and the quirky chimneys. Somehow each day is so different. What I think is a glowing planet eventually moves and becomes a small aircraft. But one morning, looking from a different window, I am sure I am seeing a planet, a twinkling planet! Oh, How I wished I had been one of those kids with a map of the heavens on my bedroom wall. Someone who can now easily identify Jupiter from Venus, the plough in the night sky. This morning, who am I seeing? I ask my phone: what planets are visible in the UK sky? It gives me a small list. I’m none the wiser.
**
A small, fair boy is building a fort from large picture books. Or, at least, I think this is what he is attempting to do. Mummy, he says, I know Jacob’s Grandma is radioactive! Mummy is a dark-haired woman, sitting with a hungry baby to her breast. Oh, the woman says, staring away, across the library. Yes, Jacob’s Grandma, the boy says, there is a radioactive clock on her bed, her bedside table. Oh, his mother says, but I don’t think so. Perhaps Jacob’s grandma has a radio by her bed. But that is a nice thing. The boy disagrees, his head pops up from behind a book: it’s a dangerous thing! He shouts before retreating behind a book.
There is a pause. But Mummy, the boy says in a calmer voice, you don’t understand, it glowed in the dark! Mummy smiles at her baby. There is a quiet moment. With the boy happily ensconced behind his picture book fort, the mother takes the opportunity to look about the library with a baby sleeping in one arm, the other arm free to quickly pull books from shelves. The library is warm and hushed. Mummy, are you still there? The boy calls out. Yes, the woman says from the far-off adult fiction section. I’m still here! Is that baby still here! the boy calls out. Yes, the woman says, the baby is still here!
(Just an extra thought: I have an alarm clock that belonged to my grandmother. It is painted metal and glows in the dark. I love it but I can imagine it might be ‘radioactive’.)
**
To one side of the churchyard there is a small garden of remembrance, hedged in and dark green, with an open iron gate. At this time of year, after stormy weather, potted plants are strewn about the muddy grass. I happen to favour a nearby bench, as it gets plenty of sun, when the sun appears. People walk by, as the path leads out from the church grounds into more green space. With the Georgian buildings around us it might feel like a village, but the sounds of town life are never absent for long, and this morning trains and construction noise punctuate any silence. The birds make smaller remarks. It’s still early in the year for anything like spring song, but the sun is so warm today. I sit on the bench and enjoy the warmth.
A young woman in a fur trimmed coat carrying tulips walks past me and into the garden of remembrance. I note how easily she strides, in platform boots, despite the muddy grass. It is as if she has done this many times before. From where I sit, I cannot see inside the garden but can only imagine her placing the tulips in a familiar-to-her spot. A while later and she appears by the iron gate, leans across to throw a bunch of dead flowers into the bin.
She disappears back into the garden. I attempt to read my book.
I am expecting her to come from the garden but maybe she is busy tidying. There is only one entrance. There are thick hedges concealing and separating it from adjacent private property. But she does not appear. I am certain I have not missed her. I have not really been concerned that much with my book, the sun is too bright. So I stand and look into the small dark green garden. No one is there. The plant pots are still strewn about the lawn. I look about to see if there’s another way out but there is not.
A robin sits on an upturned flower pot and takes a breath as if to sing but flies up into a tree.
**
Thanks always for reading here. If you enjoy my writing you are welcome to buy me a coffee. I am grateful to everyone for their support.
YouTube short - churchyard - You might like to see a short clip of the place (this will take you to my YouTube channel).
Hi Cathy! I know here in the US that you can buy a Bobbin winder machine from craft/sewing stores or Amazon for around $40 or so! I don’t know which brand would be reliable but I hope that may help. Search Automatic Bobbin winder, some brands are Sidewinder, Handi Quilter, Brother, Simplicity.
You have such a lovely way with words. I hope Margery perks up soon :-)