Between us.

Sometimes, Soraya sleeping next to me, I lay in bed and listened to the screen door swinging open and shut with the breeze, to the crickets chirping in the yard.  And I could almost feel the emptiness in Soraya's womb, like it was a living, breathing thing.  It had seeped into our marriage, that emptiness, into our laughs, and our love-making.  And late at night, in the darkness of our room, I'd feel it rising from Soraya and settling between us.  Sleeping between us.  Like a newborn child.


Excerpt from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

Painting: Curled Pink Nude, Private Collection

Painting website http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/

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Wishing to be part of it all ....

My thoughts skimmed to This reminded me of your place ....., which I had left with its corner folded in my mind ..... and that although my heart remains in Cornwall, I feel I could be falling passionately in love with Roscerff Farm.

The slates inside the front door hollowed by ten thousand steps of wooden clogs.

The colossal chimney where the dogs warmed themselves in the century old photo, and still warm themselves today.

The silent courtyard among the family of small granite houses where barn owls swoop whitely and bats flit to their home through the arch, above the well.

The jungle of ancient oaks and cider apples trees tumbling down to the meandering Yar river, bubbling eternally towards the bay.

So when the huge red sun rises over the oak ridge and the moon in all its phases travels over the blue black sky,

I find myself wishing to be part of it all, to know this place, its history and people, to stay long enough to love and nurture ....



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Nothing but rock and sea ....

Wavey ran to get away, then for the sake of running, and at last because there was nothing else to do.  It would look undecided to change her pace, as though she did not know what she wanted.  It seemed always that she had to keep on performing pointless acts.


Quoyle lay in the heather and stared after her, watching the folds of her blue skirt erased by the gathering distance.  The aunt, the children, Wavey.  He pressed his groin against the barrens as if he were in union with the earth.  His aroused senses imbued the far scene with enormous importance.  The small figures against the vast rock with the sea beyond.  All the complex wires of life were stripped out and he could see the structure of life.  Nothing but rock and sea, the tiny figures of humans and animals against them for a brief time.


The sharpness of his gaze pierced the past.  He saw generations of Quoyles rinsed of evil by the passage of time.  He imagined the aunt buried and gone, himself old, Wavey stooped with age, his daughters in faraway lives, Herry still delighted by wooden dogs and coloured threads, a grizzled Herry who would sleep in a north room at the top of the house or in the little room under the stairs.


A sense of purity renewed, a sense of events in trembling balance flooded him.


Everything, everything seemed encrusted with portent.



Excerpt from The Shipping News by Annie Proulx

Painting: Looking out over a turquoise sea, Arisaig, Scotland



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Surfer paintings at the Tubestation .....

I'm sitting on a rock down by the shore in Polzeath, North Cornwall - sketchbook on my knee and a flask of coffee near by .... what more could you ask for?  The weather has turned warm, suddenly everything feels different; the sea-light is clear and the ocean sparkling, the sky is a delicate bird's egg blue.  It's as if the world is stirring - I don't know about you, but I always feel a little intoxicated by Spring .... a little wild ....


It's good to get out of the studio, to embrace the elements, feel the beach-vibe and experience the positive energy that eminates from this special place.  I've been working long hours on a series of paintings for my exhibition at the Tubestation.  It's a surfer inspired show, just right for this funky hang-out right next to Polzeath's famous surfing beach.  This old Methodist school hall (in much need of love and attention) was turned on its head in 2006, refitted, revamped and reborn, so to speak.  It's a thriving cafe with a difference - a charity set up to serve surf culture and to provide generously for the local community.  With the superb surfing beach but a flip-flop's throw away, you can really relax and enjoy the artwork. 

View all the paintings on-line here> Surfer Paintings Polzeath Tubestation

Through these new paintings, I've tried to use the concept of the surfer as a symbol of freedom - depicting the surfer perhaps waiting for the next wave or returning to a favourite beach.  In some of the poses, I've tried to capture the energy of the sport, with an emphasis on the surfers' relationship with their surroundings - the raw and exciting forces of nature.  I've recently come to appreciate the contemporary culture which surfing encapsulates - an alternative lifestyle. 

Surfer Paintings, Tubestation (opposite beach car park) Polzeath Cornwall
  

Melanie McDonald Exhibition at the Tubestation Polzeath 


Read more about the incredible history of the Tubestation

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The open sea of the empty .... canvas.

A certain fear of the empty page has stayed with me since my schooldays.  For me it still seems perfectly to mirror an empty mind bereft of ideas.  It saps my confidence and my will and any hope I might be harbouring that I can cover the page with words at all, let alone with a coherent story.  Yet almost every day of my life I choose to face down that fear. It is not because I am brave.  Rather I am like a sailor who knows the terror of the sea and has discovered over the years and after countless voyages and adventures that the only way to banish this terror is by knowing and understanding the sea in all its moods so well that he is no longer frustrated when becalmed, nor terrified for his life in the midst of the storm.  And just as a sailor goes out once again to face the perils of the open sea, so I go to my bed each day, pile up my pillows behind me, settle back, pick up a pen, draw up my knees, open the exercise book and confront once more the open sea of the empty page. The mariner sails the sea because he longs to, because it is a challenge he needs, because each time he is testing himself, exploring, discovering, I write for the same reason.

Excerpt from Singing for Mrs Pettigrew by Michael Morpurgo

I have often wondered if writers fear the blank page.  I fear the blank canvas.

Michael Morpurgo is the story-maker behind War Horse.  I've long been a fan of his and recently picked up Singing for Mrs Pettigrew, which was lying around on my daughter's bedroom floor.  It's comprised of eleven short stories - each story followed by the story of its making.  The excerpt above is from an art and a craft and a marvellous magic - one of his 'story-maker's journey', autobiographical descriptions.  I confess that most days, when I enter my studio, I also face down a fear of the blank canvas.  I have often wondered why I put myself through it.  My art is a reflection of my life,  and an escape and a joy, perhaps it works for me where words fail.  Ultimately, it must be some kind of challenge I need.  The mysterious process of putting something I see in my mind's eye onto canvas is a miracle, indeed a truly marvellous magic.

p.s. In this treasure of a book - by describing his craft, Michael gives his readers the idea that this process of story-making and story-telling is for everyone.  And that it is 'simply a question of planting it and encouraging it to grow'.  I recommend this book for both children and adults, and all writers, artists and craftsmen.  Thank you Michael.

View my paintings and prints on www.melaniemcdonald.com


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The day the tide went away ....

The day the tide went away ....


One day, in a town at the edge of the world, the tide went out and never returned.  The sea just left without warning.  At first, people were little more than puzzled.  They continued to gossip and fight over the same old things.  But soon a silence began to permeate the township.  A desert of unbelievable magnitude was forming before their very eyes.  Weeks passed and there was still no sign of the ocean.  The people grew worried.  It was decided to send a small group to search for it, in the hope of bringing it back.


As the days went on, more and more people went looking.  The people searched far and wide, but the ocean had vanished without a trace.  The quiet land, once bountiful, had become hard and unyielding.  Then a shape appeared on the horizon.  Through a blaze of heat, the people saw what looked like tumbling water rolling towards them.  A wave of excitement passed through the town, as they anxiously watched the ocean return.  But as it grew closer, the shape began to alter and mutate.  What looked like tumbling water, was in fact wild horses.  Everywhere they turned, they saw horses drawing closer and closer.  Their excitement turned to fear, and their fear became panic, for it seemed that nothing could stop their advance - which, as the ocean's disappearance, had come without warning.  But then no one, not even for a moment, had stopped to question why the ocean had left in the first place.


The people had no choice but to trust that the horses would lead them to their ocean. Without reins or saddles, they rode the horses across the barren land.  But the ocean had disappeared for good.  And the people, together, alone, had no choice but to face each other in their loss.  They made a home for themselves in a new environment, although one that had changed forever.  They learnt to live in the space the ocean had left - although it lingered in their dreams.

An excerpt from the film In My Father's Den


This week I sent a few of my art prints to Dunedin, New Zealand, including Coming back to the ocean, pictured.  I was reminded of the short story above, which was told as a voice-over in the film In My Father's Den.  Set in an isolated town in the South Island of New Zealand, the story is poetically spoken by the character Celia.  An intelligent sixteen year old with a passion for books, Celia is encouraged to write her own stories by a celebrated war photojournalist who returns to his childhood home to bury his father.  At the heart of the film is Paul's father's secret den, an entrancing dilapidated room packed with maps, books, LP records and obscure art.  Here Celia is encouraged to write and pursue her dream of leaving home .... and of travelling to Europe to sit in a cafe and watch the sea.

A haunting, many layered mystery with a gritty, authentic feel, written and directed by Brad McGann - based on the celebrated novel by Maurice Gee.  Here's a video link to the voice-over featuring clips from the film .... however, I recommend you watch the film first, and then read the book .... xx

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