Painted a crow.
A wren.
So bold, so loud and yet so tricky to see!
The firs and the moon.
Thee is a crow or two hidden in there too, because what drawing doesn’t need crows?
A flock of wood pigeons, in the valley, in the cold winter light.
Don’t you just love how the soft pencil shines on the karst stone paper?
catframpton reblogged
He could hear the sea, a slow pounding on the shingle out in the dark under the scudding clouds. The wind, although filtered through the trees around the house, was bumping the window, a low insistent rattle that showed the folded cardboard had worked lose again.
He sighed, closed his book and stood up, stretching as he did. The fire was low, so two logs were pulled from the basket and carefully added to the heat before he walked to the window and bent to find the folded cardboard. The dogs were watching him from their bed, the oldest stood, copied his stretch and padded closer to the fire.
There was no moon, no stars outside tonight, just rain, wind and waves under the low clouds, but the room felt comfortable, cosy with its closed door, warm rugs, old well polished furniture and sagging sofa.
The old dog though, she was not settled, and now the other two also stirred, ears up and attentive, looking towards the closed door towards the rest of the house.
Then they all stood, as one, and their hackles rose. There was no noise from the house, nobody at the door or driving past and yet they stood and watched.
The old dog was the first to move, she stepped quietly up to the others, stood a touch in front. Then tail down, hackles up, she froze.
He took a step forward then also stopped as all three dogs watched something he could not see walk through the door, all eyes intent on something invisible that moved from the door to the bookcase, across to the fire and back to the door. Three heads turning in unison, three sets of eyes fixed on something, three low growls filling the room.
Then as if released by command they suddenly relaxed again, broke out of their frozen stance and shook themselves. Two going to the door and one over to the bookcase, sniffing, busy, tails back up, hackles down.
They returned one by one to their bed, curling up against each other, settling down as he stood, cold, the cardboard forgotten in his hand, wondering what he just witnessed.
It’s raining. The wind is picking up.
Above me two crows are settling into the top of the old oak.
Sketches.
The last four days. Rain, sun, sun, rain.
From my weather journal. A daily record of the weather, drawn every day (except twice) for nearly seven years.
Here, have two ravens. Pissed off at the world but, you know, also living with it.
Ink, pencils, oil pastel and watercolour.
Some migratory birds I've been working on.
Redwings. Trying to catch the swoop and speed.
Some winter birds for you guys. Goldfinches.
Working on a commission. The swallow is 1cm long. Tiny embroidery.
Just some birds. Merlin, longtailed tit, linnet, lapwing, stonechat, oystercatcher and goldfinch. (IMAGE: a selection of watercolour and pencil sketches of birds)
Houndtor swallow Sketchbooks are necessary, for without them how would I know what a swallows shape is, how would my hands and eyes know where the needle goes? Without my sketchbook how would I know the shape of the clouds beyond the hills? This was a commission (yes I do commissions!) (IMAGE: a number of sketchbook studies of swallows and a close up 'in progress' photo of a tiny embroidery swallow, also the finished embroidery of a swallow flying above the hills of dartmoor with gold painted clouds behind it)
Hunting kestrel I'm working on paintings that are founded in the idea of loss and the deifying of nature. Pretentious huh? Turning the sketched bird into the focus of an icon, while leaving a space for the endangered vole. I want a pretty picture, but I also want that feeling of a missed step, that something is out of kilter, wrongness. I also love gold acrylic paint! (IMAGE: work in progress shots, the finished picture and close ups of a painting of a kestrel hovering over a patch of long grass, in which is the empty outline of a vole. The background is gold and the bird and grass are pencil and light watercolour)
An oak in the greening woods. Pencil sketch
Ghost birds Lapwings and gold. We always had lapwings, they nested up in the moor by the bog. Now they are gone. None last year, or the year before. Is the moor too overgrown? Are walkers dogs disturbing them? Is it the weather or the pond drying up that one time? I miss them. (IMAGE: gold acrylic paint, with a slightly rough surface, and two small birds, lapwings, one on the ground in watercolour, one in the air, just the lightest pencil sketch. )