By the end of August, I always find myself looking back before looking ahead.
Whether it’s the vivid greens of a rainforest in Costa Rica or a patch of cow parsley beside an old Northumberland stone wall, I’ve realised that the places I remember most aren’t always the dramatic ones. They’re usually the details that almost went unnoticed.
This summer has been full of both. Family adventures further afield, followed by slower days at home exploring castles, farms, gardens and the Northumberland countryside, usually with our three children and two dogs in tow.
It’s the smaller things I find myself returning to.
None of those places ever appear in a painting exactly as they were. They’ve already become something else. A colour remembered slightly differently. A shape glimpsed for a moment. Warm grass underfoot. Evening light, catching the tops of seed heads.
Perhaps that’s part of the appeal of botanical and floral inspired art. There’s something familiar in it, without it needing to belong to a particular place.
Original paintings capture some of this in a way I love.
Light moves across the surface. Colours deepen or recede. Texture appears that you hadn’t noticed before. The same painting can look slightly different depending on the time of day, the weather, or simply where you happen to be standing.
The countryside is much the same. By late August, the wildflowers are beginning to fade, the grasses are taller and the colours are changing. It happens gradually enough that you barely notice it.
As summer slips into autumn, some of these things will inevitably find their way into future paintings. Not as particular places, but as colour, texture, movement and half-remembered details.
Fragments of summer.