Spring scribbles...

Spring was in the air today, between the showers.

Blue skies, ponderous white-grey clouds threatening to catch me and my paper with a soaking, grass beginning to stir itself into a lively green and movement everywhere.

It’s the movement that interests me, the movement that I can feel around me but can’t quite see. The movement that is like an extension to the wind, a magnification of the shade and light as it passes over landscape. I feel the movement at the edges of my senses so strong that it should be with capital. Movement.

The Movement is the unseen inner life of the landscape - a sound of insects, the whisper of a breeze, a smell of something rotting on the wet land. It comes to the paper as scribbles in an attempt to catch everything; it’s moving all around.

I know it sounds pretentious or maybe a madness, but it’s what I feel when I’m drawing, the landscape broken down into a series of wiggly moving lines.

So here’s my latest scribble - Across the fields towards the mountains with a stone gatepost in the foreground. Don’t ask me what those dark smears over the field are, I have no idea. I simply felt and heard them as they passed in the air high above me.

Perhaps they’re echoes of bird song.