Grass in the milk, banging pipe and stories from round the times. First hay cut and lying to dry. Swifts high and screaming. Caught churched arches of colour and single lines of light pointedly between the trees. Infinite green. Sounds beyond normal giving a feeling of emptiness and heat. An evocative mint morning mist of memories failing for once to concern this single persons self absorbtion. The scents, sighs and sweetness tainted by these portraits of waking rather than normally celebrated in lines of personal extended history. This inevitable concern with memories is of some fleeting interest and is extremely unhealthy.
What say this is but a wish to create every day? Why a blatant concern if nothing new is done? Can I do it, can I piece it together? Will it once return? To think about drawing is to not draw. Who knows and who cares. It did before if only with a certain essential moody irony. It I will see again. No doubts. No bother. Nothing attached to the hearing of it.
So record what I see and smell, putting it down in pencil and pen, all usable information before moving on. This romantic walking through sketch book beauty dulling only the inadequate senses and pushing playfully, after all these years, the still inferior drawings. Grass strokes drawn against the legs. A swish of sea sound, undulations of tone in sound and sight, brush stumbling away into washes of sound.
To force these self seeding dreams into a cold water shock of reality concerns all who truly experience. To hear the underlying music from forms unseen. Darwin's artist drawing in the Summer. High shadows and long horizons infinitely possible with blues. Cannot be so says the concept artist who ruts only in the mire at the bottom of rusty tanks left to rot and therein makes his bed. Unlikely says the stark modernist who looks only downward into a grasshopper field of constant changes.
Mark these changes. The single light line of pearled web. The echo of a vapour. A low buzz from insects moving between elements. A warning warble of tree top song and a high scream of impatience from both hunter and grazer. Infinite tonal depth to the sounds ranging away on slow repeated wave forms through the steamed grass and into the hazed distance. All evoking the scattered memories mentioned before. So why write about these things? Is not enough information gained simply by drawing?