Crepe myrtle


I am pretty certain I read about crepe myrtle in Anne Rice novels, set in New Orleans, Louisiana. The first time I saw crepe myrtle trees in red, pink, purple, lilac, and white was when we moved from New South Wales to Queensland in 2018. Since then I have been fascinated by the council planted trees along the streets of Morningside.

I was heartened to see our next door neighbour has a hot pink one in the corner of their garden. It proudly displays its dark green deciduous foliage and cerise blooms above the dividing slatted timber fence.

With my watercolour painting, I am attempting to find my groove. I appear to be in an ovoid phase. Given I am at the start of a journey, an egg shape is perhaps apt.

The picture at the top of the post has seven elements signifying research analysis and deeper understanding. I cannot see the point for myself to paint reality as I can take a photograph. I wanted to paint a representation of next door’s myrtle tree. Working on the basis of the approximate proportional amounts of each of the colours, I light touch painted three ovals in pink, three tear drops in dark green and a surrounding oval merging the three colours.

The next step is to try a painting including the pale blue of the sky.

Deconstructed riverside view

Constrained version, abstract version below

Back in the eighties, I was gifted a set of Daley Rowney Georgian tubes of watercolour; I still have them. At the time, I was inspired to paint a hotel doorway in Whitby, UK and the view from riding pillion. I will post pictures of them when they resurface.

Over the decades that followed, I dabbled with watercolour painting. Lacking confidence because of my self doubt and fears of failure, of not being any good, and of looking stupid, I have hidden and stifled my art enthralled inner child.

Sixtieth birthday gifts included, Mont Marte A3 paper blocks and a compact Winsor and Newton Cotman watercolour set.

On the day of our thirtieth anniversary, on the way to lunch by ferry, we narrowly missed a heavy downpour on the Noosa River. The first picture is a representation of the malevolent view from our table at Lucio’s Mariner, Tewantin.

With a need to suspend my self disbelief, to allow my inner child to stretch their arms and reconnect with its creativity, I have opted to have a go at abstract painting.

The second painting is a section of my inner vision of the occasion, an abstract sky. Freed from the heavy constraints of assumption and expectation, it represents a lightness of hearts and a hope-filled future. My mind sees other shapes there too.

This conceptional style of painting allows me to experiment with the properties of the watercolour medium and normalises the reduced dexterity brought on by aging. It accommodates less than nimble and unintended jerky movements.

The third painting reflects a vegetation lined riverbank.

I don’t feel comfortable with the whole abstract image. My inner critic believes there is a disconnect between the ‘sky’ and the ‘earth’.

Here it is for your review.

Halloween witches

I have found doodling is a successful catalyst when seeking inspiration. I can generally come up with concepts, it’s at the execution phase when where my inner voice/critic stymies my creativity. ‘Not good enough!’ is the most frequent thought.

Last Friday, I set out to to draw a witch for Halloween. Using the Freeform app on my phone, I scribbled a predictable silhouette of a witch in profile riding a broom in front of a full moon.

Grabbing a Winsor & Newton A4 visual diary, next I sketched out an imagined witch’s face with an oversized mouth.

Drawing on memories from reading Anne Rice novels, the second witch iteration became a glamorous vampire in front of a crescent moon. I paid attention to the lips and eye, inspired by the BBC One reality tv series, Glow Up: Britain’s next make up star.

After taking a photograph of the pencil coloured pictures, I applied filters in Google Snapseed, removed the backgrounds, and added black backdrops and text.

I imagined a heavily accented, Greta Garbo speaking the title of the vampire witch portrait as Fampyre Vitch.

My husband said, the initial sketch was scarier than the final one so I have included both. What do you think?

Purple

Apart from yellow, I prefer secondary colours over the primaries. This plant brings me joy, showcasing both green and purple.

When we moved into our new house in March, it had a few velvety leaves that appeared to be being eaten, my husband sprayed it to curb the ‘pests’. Gradually, new leaves appeared, unimpeded.

Over weeks, sprays of buds appeared at the centre of each shoot. Eventually they swelled, bursting open to reveal many many daisy like blooms.

Last weekend we spent two nights in Brisbane staying at the Inchcolm Hotel.

On Saturday night we were thrilled and entertained by Bite Club: Second Serve, a collaborative performance with Australian singer songwriter, Sahara Beck and Briefs Factory, “a down-and-dirty mixture of drag, boylesque, street politics and circus skills, all delivered with a smirk and a big sloppy kiss” at the newly renovated Princess Theatre, constructed in 1888.

On Thursday, in a small meeting room at work, windows blanked out with sheets of brown paper, I stripped down to my underwear. Time for my annual check up so that my moles could be checked for abnormalities that may indicate skin cancer. This picture from the right side of my face was taken through a dermatoscope that will result in a non urgent trip to the GP.

Cloud self portrait sketch

It is less than a month until family members arrive from the UK for a five weeks holiday. I’m taking a month off from work to coincide with our relatives’ arrival. Both were postponed due to COVID.

My husband has repainted most of the interior of the house and is busy reinventing the covered patio. Fingers crossed, the insulated ceiling panels will have been installed to help shield us from the heat of the Queensland sun in Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Spring officially sprang in Australia on 1 September.

Winter is tax time. Usually a time of extreme procrastination, we knocked off one lot last weekend, it’s now with the accountant. Just the personal returns to complete next weekend.

My enthusiasm for things, like the phases of the moon waxes and wanes. The poet authoring part of my brain has already downed tools. It may make a grab for them again soon, one never knows. With this in mind, I’m taking a break from podcasting and creating audio files.

I aim to continue weekly blogging with the odd picture thrown in for good measure. This week’s is a cloud self portrait sketch.

Creating

For the past few weeks, I have been wrestling with writing a poem. It is one of the longest so far. Perhaps next week it will finally be ready to share.

I recently came across these pictures of a young me, mid ‘80s at night school in Birmingham. I was fortunate to be able to go back to study with the person who inspired me to pot at secondary school, Lyn Chatwin.

Part of the base blew off in the biscuit firing of this Medusa inspired coiled creation. I did not risk a second glaze firing, opting to spray paint it instead.

Weary week of weeping

Self portrait, Blue

Tuesday’s train commute drafting Mom’s blog

Mist filled eyes well, they overflow

Unseen tears tickle as they trickle down, turning torrential

A silent wrenching sob stems the salty deluge

I pull myself together to alight

Day long, senses are on high alert.

Thursday again office bound, nerves fraying

Rubbing raw eyelids smart, stinging red

My throat’s hoarse, sinus cavities throbbing

Tight head’s aching, cranial pressure building

Reliving memories of music, words, scenes

Gates release, inner body racking, wailing

Sluicing waves wash out secreted regret, loss, guilt

Concluding a weary week of weeping.

Eight aitch words

On Thursday, I used two words, I seldom, if ever use, haywire and hullabaloo.

The former in relation to my new work laptop connecting to a landscape, wide screen monitor, after I returned from lunch. The mesmerising resizing action of Google Chrome browser and Microsoft Outlook windows appeared completely out of control.

The latter when describing havoc related incidents at large scale events.

Being the eighth* letter of the alphabet, I’m surprised I haven’t thought more about aitches.

Havelock was my grand father’s middle name. According to https://www.meaningofthename.com/havelock, it has Norse ancestry meaning sea battler and from the Germanic elf warrior; olive tree.

Haphazard, our reality while in limbo. Could also be used to describe the seemingly random posts on this blog.

Heart, home, hearth; an oasis of warmth, caring, and kindred spirit.

Homo; the same.

* read more https://theinfp.com/2022/10/30/numerology/

Pink flamingo sketch

For a time this year, I thought, what is the point of drawing and painting when a moment can be captured in a photograph?

More recently, I decided I wanted to create, to paint but what? What is it that brings me joy? Typing this stream of thoughts, of words, I believed would help.

My ego demanded without ego. Whatever that meant.

What to include? A grand plan to capture heart, body, and soul.

Pencil sketches of a partly used up tube of watercolour paint were completed. An analogy of a point in my life. This subject did not progress even though I could see it completed in my mind’s eye.

During a mindless scrolling session in Pinterest, a portrait of a pink flamingo caught my eye. That might be it!

The first hurdle was to rouse myself to search out supplies. Packed away for four years since moving house.

Weekends passed.

My husband took control; during your birthday week, on Friday 21st October you shall paint!

On the day before, car partially reversed from the garage, we rootled through cupboards, boxes, at last: watercolour pencils, bought awhile ago in Port Douglas and an aged watercolour paper scrap, this’ll do for a sketch.

The day slipped away so fast including, the making and eating of French onion soup and sipping of French Blanc de Blancs along the way. Time disappeared while sketching, colouring, waiting, and repeating.

Magically, a pink flamingo sketch emerged.

David Harvey Lawrence

Other than the 1969 movie of Women in Love starring Glenda Jackson, my knowledge of D.H. Lawrence was virtually non-existent.

To a naive closeted teen, it was shockingly titillating to watch the fire lit nude Oliver Reid and Alan Bates wrestling scene. Especially in a house where sex, intimacy and relationships were never raised let alone discussed.

Inspired by Merchant Ivory’s productions of Maurice and Room with a View, I had spent the 1980s and 1990s devouring and revisiting the writings of E.M.Forster.

Today, 26 June 2022, as I dived into the novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover, 1928, I was pleasantly surprised to find the read enjoyable.

Googling the author, Lawrence, delivers prolific offerings of poems, short stories, travel books, novels, paintings, and non fiction during his short 44 years of life, 1885 to 1930.

Here begins a new obsession.

The photograph is a screenshot from When D H Lawrence’s unlovely paintings were confiscated by Scotland Yard