Acrylics on paper, 42x59cm.
This painting started out in the usual subconscious way but the real magic occurred when musing on the red splodges brought to mind this poem by Andrew Young, a Scottish clergyman and naturalist born in 1885:
The cherry-pickers left their picking
And ladders through the branches
And cherries hung like gouts of blood
Down the long aisles of white-washed
But now the sun is breaking through
Dark clouds that dry to pools of blue
And the smooth Medway lies
Except for drops the boughs released.
What is it makes the sun so proud
He will not suck a passing cloud
But needs raindrops to quench his
Well, let him do his picking first.
It was the “gouts of blood” that did it for me!
ps: Many thanks to yawn, pikink, and Hello Fig for having a look at and “liking” my previous and first ever post on WordPress. Thanks!