Gauguin's Loft

Vintage Surfing .... (Taschen style)

2012-02-01T10:31:00.000Z

Mahola to my friend Mark who surprized me this week with a great little Taschen Icon book called Vintage Surfing. Composed of a collection of vintage images from the Jim Heimann collection, Jim being a cultural anthropologist (.... and Executive Editor of Taschen America to boot!). Here are a few of my favourite images .... above are engravings of Surf-Swimming in Hawaii from around 1872. For more info on ancient surfing see my earlier post Surf-Bathing.

It wasn't until the early 1900s that surfing was introduced to mainland California, wave-riding was demonstrated to crowds at Venice Beach by 'the man who could walk on water', George Freeth. Tourist brochures like the one above dated 1920, soon began to promote the sport.

And visuals associated with surfing expanded to include children's book illustrations (above left 1936) ....

And soft drinks' labels (top left 1930s), luggage labels (bottom left 1950s - bottom right 1937) and postage stamps (top right 1918) ....

Here's one of my favourites - a U.S. Airmail First Flight letter postmark from 1950, the picture on the left is an advertisement from 1938.

Media images generated after the War set the stage to transform surfing from a sport into a lifestyle, summed up in this photo of California in 1963.

From the early 60s, surfing's popularity has continued to grow and continues to inspire a global following .... drawn by the wave and the mystique of an alternative way of life.

In my recent paintings I've been experimenting with the classic surfer silhouette, as seen here in this poster from 1967. As I head off to my studio this morning, I'm sending a big lei to Benedikt Taschen for once again providing me with another inspiring art book - Vintage Surfing #lovebooks xx

My Surf Art - Paintings and Surf Prints Worldwide.

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To have the time to contemplate ....

2012-01-22T19:53:00.000Z

It was later, when she got home and lay in the bed after her evening meal, that the day she had just spent would seem like one of the longest of her life as she would find herself going through it scene by scene. Even tiny details stayed in her mind. When she deliberately tried to think about something else, or leave her mind blank, events from the day would come quickly back. For each day, she thought, she needed a whole other day to contemplate what had happened and store it away, get it out of her system so that it did not keep her awake at night or fill her dreams with flashes of what had actually happened and other flashes that had nothing to do with anything familiar, but were full of rushes of colour or crowds of people, everything frenzied and fast.

Excerpt from Brooklyn by Colm Toibin.

Painting: Looking towards Trevose, Constantine Bay, Cornwall

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To shed her past ....

2012-01-15T18:42:00.000Z

Curiosity drew him to a studio in Kent Street, a grimy industrial site with tanneries and wool stores as its neighbours. And in a white-walled loft on the fourth floor he discovered the former Marxist confidently in control of a production which would eventually feature in the pages of Vogue magazine.

Two months before, in Melbourne, she had long auburn hair and a tiny waist, with peasant-like skirts that flared and flounced when she walked. She had very long legs, and though she often wore slippers in her studio she never ventured out into the street in anything but high heels. Now, in Sydney, her hair was cropped short in the manner of someone who had been caught in flagrante with the enemy, which, from her political point of view, was not inappropriate. The skirts were gone, replaced by pants and a long, soft shirt whose colours were the sole reminder of her previous life, for they were all - right down to the single small black button at the neck - in the palette of her paintings.

This transmutation stirred Chubb excessively. At first it seems paradoxical that a man who put such weight on the truth should be so excited by a woman who cared so little about it. But Chubb was mired in his own history, and it is not difficult to imagine how attractive it must have been to see someone shed her past like an old skin.

Excerpt from My Life as a fake by Peter Carey.

Painting: Archive life painting.

View more painting on my website Melanie McDonald

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Winter sun near Rock, Cornwall

2012-01-09T20:11:00.000Z

Dreams, then waking. At times it was hard to tell the difference; I would drift out of riotous slumber and get up and walk around in a hazy, shallow state that seemed only a calmer, less tormented form of sleep than that which had gone before. I tramped the roads in the chill of dawn while a white sun came up tremblingly out of the sea. Everything is strange at that hour, stranger than usual, I mean: the world looks as I imagine it will look after I am dead, wide and empty and streaked with long shadows, shocked somehow and not quite solid, all odd-angled light and shifting facades. These open vistas - so much sky! - alarmed me. I was permanently dizzy, clinging for dear life to our flying island, and there was constantly a sort of distant ringing in my ears. It felt like early morning all day long, there was that fizzing in the blood, that taste of metal in the mouth. The days hung heavy, falling towards night. We watched in silence the unremitting, slow advance of time.

Excerpt from Ghosts by John Banville.

Print of painting: Winter Sun near Rock, Cornwall

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One's first-foot ....

2012-01-01T19:28:00.004Z

Father’s Journal, 1970

January 1^st

As I was up long before the other members of the household Icarried out the old ritual of going out by the back door, and bringing in alump of coal by the front door. Afterthat I did my usual daily stint of lighting the fire and making their morning teafor the sleepers! Some showers beforedaylight. Forenoon damp withintermittent smirr and hill fog. Wind Westerly,light to moderate, at first but veered to Northwesterly in the evening. Showers from mid-day onwards. Afternoon and evening raw and cold. No sunshine. Apart from Eliz’s illness, the year just ended was a good one for us inevery way. No post tonight.

The old ritual referred to by Father is of course theScottish New Year custom of the ‘first-foot’. According to this custom the luck of one’s household is determined irrevocablyfor the whole of the coming year by the physical type of one’s first visitor inthat year or, in the synecdoche of the common phrase, by one’s first-foot. Women, children and fair-haired men areconsidered unlucky; the ideal first-foot is a dark, mature male. It is better, too, that he does not comeempty-handed and if he carries a piece of coal that is felt to be especiallyproductive of good fortune.

Excerpt from Night Falls on Ardnamurchan – The Twilightof a Crofting Family by Alasdair Maclean.

Painting: These are the colours of my world, Rhum and Eigg, Scotland

Waiting for that one person ....

2011-12-11T19:35:00.001Z

'At this stage, what you're doing is waiting for that one person to come and hear you. And that one person might just as easily be in a room like that one on Tuesday, in a crowd of just twenty people ...'
'There were twenty-four, not including the organisers ...'
'Twenty-four, whatever. What I'm staying is that numbers don't matter right now. What matters is that one person.'
'You refer to the man from the recording company?'
'Recording? Oh no, no. That'll take care of itself. No, I mean the person who'll make you blossom. The person who'll hear you and realise you're not just another well-trained mediocrity. That even though you're still in your chrysalis, with just a little help, you'll emerge as a butterfly.'
'I see. By any chance, might you be this person?'

Excerpt from Nocturnes - Five stories of Music and Nightfall by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Photograph: Studio shot autumn 2011.
For more info on my paintings please view Melanie McDonald Art
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Red beach.

2011-11-29T19:36:00.001Z

He just wanted to hear what I thought of the idea. He intended to set up an office in Paris to handle that side of the business on the spot by dealing directly with the big companies and he wanted to know if I was prepared to go over there. I'd be able to live in Paris and travel around for part of the year as well. 'You're a young man, and I imagine that sort of life must appeal to you'. I said yes but really I didn't mind. He then asked me if I wasn't interested in changing my life. I replied that you could never change your life, that in any case one life was as good as another and that I wasn't at all dissatisfied with mine here. He looked upset and told me that I always evaded the question and that I had no ambition, which was disastrous in the business world. So I went back to work, I'd rather not have upset him, but I couldn't see any reason for changing my life. Come to think of it, I wasn't unhappy. When I was a student, I had plenty of that sort of ambition. But when I had to give up my studies, I very soon realized that none of it really mattered.

Excerpt from The Outsider by Albert Camus.

Painting: Surfer, Red Beach.

Rainbow girl.

2011-11-20T10:25:00.001Z

.... when he first saw her - dressed then, as now, in white shirt and grey monpe - he had wanted to paint her. Not paint a portrait of her, he added quickly. But the striking contrast she formed with the lush green of the Kagawas' well-tended garden across which she had walked towards him ten months ago made him wish for buckets of thick, vibrant paint to pour on to her, waterfalls of colour cascading from her shoulders (rivers of blue down her shirt, pools of orange at her feet, emerald and ruby rivulets intersecting along her arms).

Excerpt from Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie, a historical story charged with beauty and emotion.

Monpe - Japanese clothing, simple pants usually worn by fieldworkers or tradesmen.

Painting - Rainbow Girl, archive life work.

View my recent collection of coastal paintings on www.melaniemcdonald.com

Surf art paintings.

2011-11-15T20:31:00.001Z

Coming back to the ocean ....

Surf porthole painting.

Past and future forgotten ....

I can still hear the sound of the waves ....

Some new surf art paintings and a song to view them by ..... Xxx

To live on some forgotten strip of sandy shore ....

2011-11-09T21:30:00.000Z

We saw not a soul; we might have been alone in the world. For a mile or two we went along close to the river bank and then all at once sky and sea opened before us and we crossed a broad reach and came in sight of a long, low, khaki-coloured shore. I can see it, I can see it all, as clear as day, the white punt and that sunlit shoreline and the two of us there .... It must have been a place where the river waters met the open sea, or perhaps it was something to do with the currents, or the tide was turning - I do not understand these things - but for a minute we were halted and held motionless on the unmoving water in the midst of a golden calm. The burnished surface of the sea was high and heavy and smooth as metal, and a small, repeated wave gambolled like an otter along the margin of the shore. The sun was hot. Nothing happened. We just stayed there for that minute, poised between sea and sky, suspended somehow as if in air, no, not air, but some other, unearthly element, and it seemed to me I had never known such happiness, and never would again, though happiness is not the word, not the word at all. That is where I would like to live, on some forgotten strip of sandy shore, with my back to the land, facing out into the limitless ocean. That would be freedom, watching in solitude the days pass, marking the seasons, observing the spring tides and the autumn auroras, weathering the summer sun and the storms of winter. Pure existence, pure existence and nothing else.

An excerpt from Ghosts by John Banville. Each time I've moved house, a battered copy of this book kept coming to the top of the pile, eventually I read it .... and loved it, (.... although it is described as 'His funniest book ....' on the cover - I didn't find it remotely funny .... funny that).

Painting: Disappearing sun over Eigg, Arisaig, Scotland - Paintings of Scotland.

This month is all mine ....

2011-11-01T20:59:00.000Z

The next morning, the first day of November, I went at dawn to the arch at the end of Rua Augusta, the most beautiful street in the world. The sea in the wan morning light was like a smooth surface of flat silver. To experience with special alertness how long a month is - that was the idea that had driven me out of bed. In the café, I was the first one. When there were only a few sips left in the cup, I slowed down the usual pace of drinking. I was uncertain what I should do when the cup was empty .... What does it depend on when we have experienced a month as fulfilled time, our time, instead of a time that has passed us by, which we only suffered, that ran through our fingers, so that it seems to us like a lost, past time, and we're not sad because it's past, but because we couldn't do anything with it? So, the question was not how long is a month, but rather: What can you do for yourself with the time of a month? When is it that I have the impression that this month was all mine?

An excerpt from Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier.

I've been away from the studio for a few weeks and I have decided to make this month all mine ....

Painting: Past and future fogotten ....

The lost fishing rock of Sanna Bay .... Ardnamurchan.

2011-10-19T19:30:00.000+01:00

Near the sandy cove on the way to the Glendrian Caves there exists still, though it is slipping away from the world of men and dissolving into wilderness, a fishing rock we patronized, my grandfather and I, a fishing rock long fallen into disuse and no longer, I think, known to anyone but myself. I passed near it the other day and on an impulse tried to find the actual scene of a picture that even yet looms darkly in my mind. (The rock had been one of our favourites.) After some searching and no little hesitation I did find it; not the black steep reef of my memory with the still blacker figure of my grandfather perched atop, but a mildly-stepped platform, sunny and bare and utterly deserted.

For the life of me, however, and for the life of the rock, I could not remember its name and I have not remembered it since. And though it may not matter very much I feel I have betrayed a trust. Because of my carelessness a pleasantly useful place and the row upon row of shadowy earlier fishermen who frequented it have slipped an inch or two more deeply into the great bog that is limbo.

An excerpt from Night Falls On Ardnamurchan by Alasdair Maclean.

On the day that a Viking Chieftain's burial ship has been excavated on the Ardnamurchan peninsula after 1,000 years.

Painting: A place to rest, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan

Imagine if you'd never seen the ocean ....

2011-10-08T17:31:00.000+01:00

I'd get up early some Saturday mornings and drive south on Highway 17, push the Ford up the winding road through the mountains to Santa Cruz. I would park by the old lighthouse and wait for sunrise, sit in my car and watch the fog rolling in from the sea. In Afghanistan, I had only seen the ocean at the cinema. Sitting in the dark next to Hassan, I had always wondered if it was true what I'd read, that sea air smelled like salt. I used to tell Hassan that someday we'd walk on a strip of seaweed-strewn beach, sink our feet in the sand, and watch the water recede from our toes. The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried. It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood.

An excerpt from the novel The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

Imagine if you'd never seen the ocean, can you imagine it? Imagine if you'd never smelled sea air or walked barefoot on the sand. Imagine if you'd never eased your feet in salt water or caught a rolling wave ....

This book is dedicated to the children of Afghanistan.

Painting: Breakers and Surfers, Constantine Bay, Cornwall from my website http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/gallery_surfer-paintings.htm

Remember, this is now ....

2011-09-28T21:29:00.000+01:00

I lie in bed and listen to the rain thrumming on the campervan roof. I can't sleep. Parked in the courtyard next to the crumbling old farmhouse with the red door. It's country-night-black and the last of the sweet apple scent blows through the open window. It's been two years since the lump, the surgery, the radio and chemotherapy. There's been disbelief and denial .... it's the will to live you see. Somewhere there's acceptance. You told me to get on with things, that you're not going to die. Lying here wrapped up in my blanket of solitude, the thought of it still makes me catch my breath. I always thought it would be me, it never crossed my mind that it would be you, my love. I listen to your breathing. With your heavy arm across my waist you hold me .... remember, remember, this is now ....

Inspired by:

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted. Sylvia Plath.

Painting: Small family in shadow by St. Michael's Mount

http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/gallery_paintings-of-st-ives-and-penzance_189.htm

The first chill winds of autumn.

2011-09-21T20:56:00.000+01:00

September, 1653. The last of summer. The first chill winds of autumn. The sun no longer strikes my eastern window as I wake, but, turning laggard, does not top the hill before eight o'clock. A white mist hides the bay sometimes until noon, and hangs about the marshes too, leaving, when it lifts, a breath of cold air behind it. Because of this, the tall grass in the meadow never dries, but long past midday shimmers and glistens in the sun, the great drops of moisture hanging motionless upon the stems. I notice the tides more than I did once. They seem to make a pattern to the day. When the water drains from the marshes, and little by little the yellow sands appear, rippling and hard and firm, it seems to my foolish fancy, as I lie here, that I too go seaward with the tide, and all my old hidden dreams that I thought buried for all time are bare and naked to the day, just as the shells and the stones are on the sands.

Opening passage from The King's General by Daphne Du Maurier (1907 - 89), who lived and died in Cornwall, which was the setting for most of her books.

Painting - The Doom Bar, Cornwall - 72 x 48 inches. Private commission.
Please view my commission paintings information page http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/commission-paintings-by-melanie-mcdonald.htm

The end of another summer.

2011-09-11T12:24:00.000+01:00

It throws me off balance every year, the new faded morning light announcing winter.

Goodbye bright light and glorious dazzle.

Goodbye sweltering air that makes you want to flee to the shadows.

Watery sun like a consolation prize.

How does it make you feel .... when sharp edges become blurred outlines?

The end of another summer

.... what have I done since May?

Post inspired by Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier.

Across from Skye to Camusdarach.

2011-08-28T17:02:00.001+01:00

Atmospheric skies from the ferry ... leaving Skye

Views from the road at Mallaig

Heading for the beach

Beautiful Camusdarach

I'm not sure how this page ended up here, it was posted in August three years ago. Is it a glitch .... or maybe a sign of good fortune? A reminder of a beautiful time and a beautiful place .... I'll just let it be xx

High places.

2011-08-27T13:05:00.003+01:00

She'd always liked high places so she'd left and gone to Scotland without telling anyone. Losing her lectureship after all those years had left her heart feeling clamped and her mouth pulled down at the corners. The agent had said no-one's going to live all the way out here, but she loved it. It was a place where she could rest and listen to the wind blow. When she was lonely she listened to the noise of whales calling in the Hebridean sea. She dreamt of burning books and children's voices and drew an image of herself on the crumbling white wall. On her horse she would follow ancient tracks for miles. She'd started writing a novel about a lady of the city who was now the woman of the hills, like Catherine in Wuthering Heights. Waiting for a husband, someone to listen with, to the sound of whales and the wind blowing.

Completely inspired by PJ Harvey's 'The Wind', with a nod to an English lit teacher I knew at uni, who ran away to write a book in a croft and was never heard of again.

Paintings of Rock and the Camel Estuary and a few words from John Betjemen ....

2011-08-13T12:34:00.008+01:00

Those moments, tasted once and never done,
Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun.

And in the shadowless, unclouded glare
Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where
A misty sea-line meets the wash of air.

Against the breeze the breakers haste,
Against the tide their ridges run
And all the sea's a dappled waste

Criss-crossing underneath the sun.
Here where the cliffs alone prevail
I stand exultant, neutral, free,

And from the cushion of the gale

Behold a huge consoling sea.

With some words from Cornish Cliffs and Winter Seascape by Sir John Betjeman CBE and Poet Laureate. Betjeman's love affair with Cornwall began when he arrived at Trebetherick as a small boy from the London suburbs before the first world war. The observations in his, often humorous, poetry manage to evoke a touching sense of time and place. He died at his Cornish home near Daymer Bay aged 77, and is buried at St. Enodoc church on the Camel Estuary.

View paintings of Rock and the Camel Estuary on my website http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/gallery_paintings-of-polzeath-rock-and-padstow.htm

The clarity of the air ....

2011-08-02T21:06:00.001+01:00

The first thing I noticed was the clarity of the air, and then the sharp green colour of the land. There was no softness anywhere. The distant hills did not blend into the sky but stood out like rocks, so close that I could almost touch them, their proximity giving me that shock of surprise and wonder which a child feels looking for the first time through a telescope. Nearer to me, too, each object had the same hard quality, the very grass turning to single blades, springing from a younger, harsher soil than the soil I knew.
I had expected - if I expected anything - a transformation of another kind: a tranquil sense of well-being, the blurred intoxication of a dream, with everything about me misty, ill-defined; not this tremendous impact, a reality more vivid than anything hitherto experienced, sleeping or awake. Now every impression was heightened, every part of me singularly aware: eyesight, hearing, sense of smell, all had been in some way sharpened.

The opening lines from The House on the Strand by Daphne du Maurier (World Books 1969), a novel set in Cornwall.

Other Posts you might like:
Fistral Beach, Cornwall. BLUE.
Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland - waters running clear ....

Paintings of Polzeath, Rock and Padstow on my website.

Window reflections.

2011-07-19T19:05:00.040+01:00

The bright light makes me look at my reflection instead of the window display.

I mingle with the street scene behind me.
People pass by, making shadows like clouds passing over the sun.

Is this the way I look to others?
The girl with the fly away light brown hair.

I cast a searching look at my reflection.
Who is she?

Human beings can not be viewed like houses, trees and stars.

What are her desires and hopes, fears and prejudices?

How well do I know myself?

P.S. With a nod to The Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier 2004.

Surf bathing ....

2011-07-02T14:17:00.024+01:00

In one place we came upon a large company of naked natives, of both sexes and all ages, amusing themselves with the national pastime of surf-bathing. Each heathen would paddle three or four hundred yards out to sea (taking a short board with him), then face the shore and wait for a particularly prodigious billow to come along; at the right moment he would fling his board upon its foamy crest and himself upon the board, and here he would come whizzing by like a bombshell! It did not seem that a lightning express-train could shoot along at a more hair-lifting speed. I tried surf-bathing once, subsequently, but made a failure of it. I got the board placed right, and at the right moment, too; but missed the connection myself. The board struck the shore in three-quarters of a second, without any cargo, and I struck the bottom about the same time, with a couple of barrels of water in me. None but natives ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly.

An excerpt from Roughing It by Mark Twain. As a young writer Twain discovered the pastime of surfing during a voyage to Kona, Hawaii, in 1866. Almost a century later in 1965, U.S astronauts Borman and Lovell read Roughing It aloud to pass the time aboard NASA's Gemini VII 14 day long mission orbiting the Earth. Surfing had first been described almost 200 years earlier in 1769 by the English naturalist Sir Joseph Banks who took part in the first voyage of Captain James Cook. In fact surfing was a central part of ancient Polynesian culture and an integral part of their spiritual life. Today the popularity of surfing has created a multi-billion dollar global surf culture which includes innovations in equipment, clothing, films, music, art, cars and tourism, regarded by many as not just a sport but as the ultimate lifestyle choice.

Other posts you might like:
Night Ocean Surfers.
On the shore, Polzeath, Cornwall.

Painting featured:
Polzeath, Cornwall - surfer, shadow, surge of water.

Ocean child.

2011-06-11T12:52:00.011+01:00

ocean lover
born under the sign of the crab
there is magic in the sea
enjoy the waves
be free.

As we talked the stars came out ....

2011-06-04T10:02:00.017+01:00

At night time down by the harbour on a summer's evening you come back to me. I know it was a long time ago but some things stay with you for a life time, even when more important and momentous happenings grow dim. The gently rocking reflections of lights on the water and the smell of seaweed and tar. We'd been out for a drink at a pub and were diverted, drawn down the hill, following the old Tram Track road down to the harbour. You were unemployed, hanging around arcades in your DMs and skinny turned up Levi's. Named after a star - you had blue eyes. We sat close, not saying much, teenagers wrapped up in the night and our own thoughts. Above the harbour the hotel lights of the Cornish town flickered orange high up on the cliff. In the distance we could see the railway station where the old Tram Track begins its route along the cliff edge. Half way along the track was a view point with an old bench and Victorian railings, where you could sit and gaze out to sea. A few months later, on another dark night, you jumped over the railings and went flying into the darkness above the harbour. The black sea 200ft below. Stars have their moment and then they die. Now the railings have been replaced with a high fence and a warning 'danger cliff'. And I wonder who you'd be today if you'd stayed.

Other posts you might like:
Night Ocean Surfers
On the shore, Polzeath

Painting:
Newquay, Cornwall .... as we talked the stars came out.

Hearts and bones.

2011-04-02T09:59:00.014+01:00

My father held my hand.
We hadn't gotten far when he pointed to something in the sand. "A skull," he said, and there it was, a baby's. It looked like how I pictured a skull looking, just smaller. I was shocked. Then they were everywhere: down by the water, up past the sandbanks. Forty people, or a hundred - I couldn't tell. They edged toward the ocean, skull here, leg bone there, bleached and scattered, the bones of little girls and old men. Some had tumbled to the shore; some were still banked along the dunes at the top of the beach where they had been laid. They were very white. Tiny holes opened where insects and the wind had eaten through ....
All the way along that Niihau beach, picking up lobsters, stepping past bones, I had that sick-sweet feeling of wanting to open my eyes wider so that I could take everything in, and at the same time wanting to close them and run.

Except from West of Then by Tara Bray Smith 2004 ISBN 0-7432-3679-3 p. 180-181
Published by Simon & Schuster.

'..... forced to bury their dead in mass graves' is just one of the devastating sentences in the news this week, referring to the victims of the tsunami.

It reminded me of this excerpt in the memoir of Tara Bray Smith which is a haunting account of her life on Hawaii.

The time after the islands were discovered in 1778 by Cook is referred to as the 'Great Dying'. The European explorers introduced diseases such as smallpox, measles and influenza to Hawaii. An estimated 400,000 Hawaiian people, (based on a visual count by one of Cook's men), plunged precipitously to 40,000 in a few decades.

Other posts you might like:
Finding meaning.
Thinking about The Book Thief.

Beach paintings by Melanie McDonald www.melaniemcdonald.com

Fistral Beach, Newquay, Cornwall - We stood on the beach in the wild air ....

2011-03-23T21:20:00.010Z

The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable - two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.

Excerpt from The Babysitters by Sylvia Plath.
From Sylvia Plath Selected Poems, edited by Ted Hughes.
Published by Faber and Faber Limited. 1985. ISBN 0-571-13586-2 (pbk)

Other posts you might like:
Paint inspired memories.
Reading poetry by Sylvia Plath, thinking about my husband.

Painting featured: Fistral Beach, Newquay, Cornwall - We stood on the beach in the wild air... Original or Print Available.
Surfer Paintings.

Isle of Staffa, Scotland .... Over azure blue and turquoise seas we voyaged ....

2011-03-17T20:51:00.013Z

I noticed the boy and girl as soon as I got on the boat. They were both about twenty, in love, very together. She had hennaed red hair clipped up in a messy knot, black eyeliner and a nose stud. He wore one of those odd jumpers with a large snowflake pattern on it, and had heavy sideburns like a young George Best. They were kinda cool. On the way back from the island they were missing.

Over azure blue and turquoise seas we voyaged, in the Sound of Iona. And witnessed the great lines of St. Columba's Abbey monumental in an inky blue silhouette. Passing the calcium white sand of North Beach on Iona and heading for the flat black island on the horizon. Fractured, iconic, liquid rock cooled on the edge of a vast Atlantic ocean. Basalt hexagonal columns rising out of the ocean like a modern sculpture, glinting with deep black light. I imagined the boy and girl sitting together on the narrow ledge of the cave. Fingal's laments echoing through the air. Wind whipped notes of Mendelssohn's Hebridean Overture. They watched the evening star appear in the roof arch of the cave, the lines of the great abbey misty in the distance. A special silent night. Planes all over the world had been grounded for them. A night for lovers, alone on their own island.

Other posts you might like:
A few steps to the water, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland.
Starry, starry night ....

Photo featured: Looking out from Fingal's Cave, Isle of Staffa, Scotland.
Paintings of Scotland.

Isle of Mull, Scotland - Ancient footsteps by the shore ....

2011-02-27T18:02:00.013Z

Excerpt from The End - a novella by Samuel Beckett.

I saw the beacons, four in all, including a lightship. I knew them well, even as a child I had known them well. It was evening, I was with my father on a height, he held my hand. I would have liked him to draw me close with a gesture of protective love, but his mind was on other things. He also taught me the names of the mountains. But to have done with these visions I also saw the lights of the buoys, the sea seemed full of them, red and green, and to my surprise even yellow. And on the slopes of the mountain, now rearing its unbroken bulk behind the town, the fires turned from gold to red, from red to gold. I knew what it was, it was the gorse burning. How often I had set a match to it myself, as a child. And hours later, back in my home, before I climbed into bed, I watched from my high window the fires I had lit. That night then, all aglow with distant fires, on sea, on land and in the sky, I drifted with the currents and the tides. I noticed that my hat was tied, with a string I suppose, to my buttonhole. I got up from my seat in the stern and a great clanking was heard. That was the chain. One end was fastened to the bow and the other round my waist. I must have pierced a hole beforehand in the floor-boards, for there I was down on my knees prying out the plug with my knife. The hole was small and the water rose slowly. It would take a good half hour, everything included, barring accidents. Back now in the stern-sheets, my legs stretched out, my back well propped against the sack stuffed with grass I used as a cushion, I swallowed my calmative. The sea, the sky, the mountains and the islands closed in and crushed me in a mighty systole, then scattered to the uttermost confines of space. The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

From The End by Samuel Beckett, translated by Richard Seaver in collaboration with the author. Published by The Penguin Group of books.

Other posts you might like:
Watching the light change, towards Rhum and Eigg, Scotland.
Echoes of Grey, Scotland.

Painting featured: Ancient footsteps by the shore, Isle of Mull, Scotland.

Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland - waters running clear ....

2011-01-25T19:39:00.014Z

The use made by crofters of the gifts of the sea merits a book in itself: seaweed for fertilizer and if need be for food; seabirds for their flesh and their eggs; driftwood for fuel and for building with; sand for fertilizer, for cement mixing and infilling and to provide a layer of insulation under bedding in byres; and of course fish. There is always the chance, too, of finding something really interesting or valuable. (For instance, there is the semi-mythical *ambergris, reputedly worth a king's ransom a lump, which all beachcombers hope for but none ever seems to find. Indeed, one wonders how many would recognize it if they did find it; I doubt if I should!) And there is the beauty, mystery and terror of the great ocean to love and to make a lifetime's study of.

The coast of Ardnamurchan is so finely toothed that it might be a topographical permutation designed to increase one's chances of obtaining these gifts; a hundred miles or so of border, were it straight, becomes a jagged thousand. One of the tinier of these inlets, near Sanna, is still called 'the butter creek' because long ago someone found a case of butter there, just drifting ashore. (Still perfectly usable, of course; the sea would keep the butter cool and fresh without penetrating it, though no doubt the outside of the block would have been pretty salty.) And a famous local anecdote concerns the discovery, on Sanna beach during World War One, of a ship's wooden deckhouse, undamaged in any way, complete with interior furnishings and with the key still in the lock.

*Ambergris is a solid, waxy, flammable substance of a dull gray or blackish color produced in the digestive system of and regurgitated by sperm whales. Ambergris has been mostly known for its use in creating perfume and fragrance much like musk. Wikipedia.

Excerpt from Night Falls On Ardnamurchan - The Twilight of a Crofting Family by Alasdair Maclean. An account of his life and that of his parents who were one of the last remaining families to be born and die in the tiny hamlet of Sanna in western Ardnamurchan, Scotland.

Published by Birlinn Limited. 2001. ISBN 1 84158 159 3

Other posts you might like:
Echoes of Grey.
Reading poetry by Sylvia Plath and thinking of my husband.

Painting featured: Waters running clear, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland.

Fistral Beach, Cornwall. BLUE.

2011-01-11T19:37:00.039Z

She suddenly reminded me of 'Tangled up in Blue'. That old Dylan song. The tall thin lady with her intense look and two beautiful children. It's New Year's Eve. I've met her before at the beach in the summer. Embroidered flowers on her jeans. Memories of razor shells, seaweed and a lesson in marine biology. A lover of animals. She's brought along a slim glossy black puppy and her children with musical names. And she's talking about the feeling of blue. A glass of wine in her hand, at the old pine table with friends all around. 200 meters of it underneath you and 40 meters above. Hanging from a rope somewhere in the middle of the ocean. With a camera and a big stick in case of sharks. We were all hanging there with her. Infinite everlasting Atlantic blue. And only odd worries about dropping the camera or stick. Hanging off the end of her rope, she reminded me of a different point of view. Like the song.

Other posts you might like:
Camusdarach or paradise.
Paintings Polzeath, Cornwall.
Painting featured: Fistral Beach Scene, Cornwall.

Fistral Beach, Newquay, Cornwall - Freedom across oceans and skies...

2010-12-29T17:04:00.006Z

I haven't been on a train for years. Blur of porous celtic sky streaking past. 'Yeah, shot down', said a voice. Louder than he meant to. Above the thrum or nerves perhaps. Glimpse iphone touching pink ear touching cloud of window. Obscured by nasty royal blue velour. Uncut strawberry blond hair, freckled hand like a small boy's. 'Yeah, just out, pumped full of morphine'. Touching a scar like a habit. New pink in blond hair. 'Lost me tail, yeah, can't remember, just shrapnel coming towards me'. Friendship bracelet. 'Had to rebuild me leg, teach me to walk again'. Film of blue green landscape rushing past like life. 'Offered me honorable discharge but I'm going back up'. Up into the impermeable blue of a foreign sky, flying faster than the speed of sound in a supersonic fighter jet. 'Then I'm going to uni'. Next stop Cornwall. Place of surf, safe blue skies and soundless good byes.

Other posts you might like:
Surfer Research
Surfer Paintings, from this to that.

Painting featured: Fistral Beach, Newquay, Cornwall - Freedom across oceans and skies...

Night ocean surfers. Cornwall.

2010-11-24T20:06:00.015Z

.... and I suddenly went back into a state of mind I'd forgotten, something from my childhood. I used at night to sit up in bed and play what I called 'the game'. First I created the room I sat in, object by object, 'naming' everything, bed, chair, curtains, till it was whole in my mind, then move out of the room, creating the house, then out of the house, slowly creating the street, then rise into the air, looking down on London, at the enormous sprawling wastes of London, but holding at the same time the room, and the house and the street in my mind, and then England, the shape of England in Britain, then the little group of islands lying against the continent, then slowly, slowly, I would create the world, continent by continent, ocean by ocean (but the point of 'the game' was to create this vastness while holding the bedroom, the house, the street in their littleness in my mind at the same time) until the point was reached where I moved out into space, and watched the world, a sun-lit ball in the sky, turning and rolling beneath me. Then, having reached that point, with the stars around me, and the little earth turning underneath me, I'd try to imagine at the same time, a drop of water, swarming with life, or a green leaf. Sometimes I could reach what I wanted, a simultaneous knowledge of vastness and of smallness. Or I would concentrate on a single creature, a small coloured fish in a pool, or a single flower, the moth, the fish, slowly creating around it the forest, or the seapool, or the space of blowing night air that tilted my wings. And then, out, suddenly, from the smallness into space.'
From The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing published by Harper Perenniial. page 480.

Other posts you might like:
Surfer research.
Captivated by Ring of Bright Water.

Painting featured: Night Ocean Surfers, Cornwall.

Inside the Painter's Studio.

2010-11-20T18:18:00.017Z

Inside the Painter's Studio.
Where I imagine I'm being interviewed by New York artist Joe Fig.

When did you consider yourself a professional artist, and when were you able to dedicate yourself full-time to that pursuit?

It was a subconscious thing. I'd been hooked into a family business and had been struggling to get free of it for 10 years. It was the day someone asked me what I did and I said 'I'm an artist', just like that. About 8 years ago, although I'd been painting full-time long before then.

How long have you been in this studio?

About 2 months. It's the kitchen in a farmhouse dated 1779 in Brittany. It has an original belfast sink in the corner and one cold tap. It faces south so the light is good. I can make as much mess as I like because the house is going to be gutted. I've had eleven studios, my studio gets moved from room to room in whatever house I'm living in. I'm going to build my dream studio in the space where the agricultural hanger is.

Has the studio location influenced you?

It's near the sea which influences my well being and is my subject matter. My life is much quieter here in France than it was in Cornwall. I have time to concentrate on my work.

Please describe a typical day, being as specific as possible. For example: What time do you get up? When do you come to the studio? Do you have specific clothing to change into?

I get up at 7.30, take my daughter to school and the dogs to the beach. The morning walk is a ritual, it gets my head in the right place to start the day. I look at the light, sea, sky, birds, shells, rocks, nature in the raw. Back at the farmhouse, it's the usual things involving strong coffee, the news, emails - I'm in the studio around 10. I wear paint splattered jeans, trainers, various layers and a woolly hat in winter. I work on the floor or stand up at an easel until 6-ish. In the evenings I mess around on the internet looking at paintings, reading reviews and blogs. It's 24/7 really.

Do you listen to music, the radio, or TV when you work? If so what, and does it affect your work?

Music is a big part of my day. I have music on, otherwise I start thinking morbid thoughts, (laughs). I listen to Cd's. - slow stuff in the morning Cave, Cohen, Antony, Bjork - getting louder and less specific in the afternoon. How can you watch TV and paint? In your book you say that some artists listen to audio books while they work, I'd love to be able to do that.

What kind of paints do you use?

A mixture. Acrylic, oil, house-hold, ink, gouache, watercolour. As long as it's light fast. I'm not brand specific. I like to mix things up and hope for the best. I've given up doing experiment samples because I can never reproduce the same effect.

Do you have any special devices or tools that are unique to your creative process?

Yeah, all artists have special tools. I don't use brushes very often, or palette knives. I use household products like squirters, cereal packets, sponges. I try to recycle, I cut the bottoms off plastic water bottles to mix colours. I let wet canvasses drip on to other canvasses so I don't waste paint.

Are there specific items that have significant meaning to you?

My old Bose music player, Cd's, clock, dehumidifier, large mirror. I had a Chinese paint brush which I used for flicking white paint to make sea spray. It disintegrated recently, after about 20 years. I try not to let it seem symbolic, it was just a paintbrush.

Do you work on one project at a time or several?

I work on one project at a time but on several paintings. I have an idea, make sketch notes in an A5 notebook. Then transfer the idea on to 3 or 4 canvasses in slightly different ways. I work on them all for about 3 weeks in thin layers. I refer to photos, computer print outs, sketches - but mainly I paint quickly by instinct.

When you are contemplating your work, where and how do you sit or stand?

I never sit. I'm always standing or wandering around. After a while one of the paintings will catch my eye and I'll work on it until it's more or less finished. I look at it upside down and in my large mirror; it's like seeing something with another pair of eyes.

How often do you clean your studio, and does it affect your work?

I clean when I've finished a project or when I'm going off travelling for a while. It doesn't affect my work, I'm a messy worker.

How do you come up with titles?

Since reading your interviews I've thought about titles a lot. My titles now have more narrative. I like words and descriptions. I write down quotes from songs, books, poems, anything - in a random way and mix them up a bit for the title of a painting. The words push the viewer in a certain direction, I don't mind that. I hope the viewer doesn't either.

Do you have assistants?

No.

Did you ever work for another artist, and if so, did that have any effect on the way you work?

No, but I took part in an art course with a couple of women artists in west Cornwall. They're both formidable contemporary painters who I admire a lot. They gave me an insight into work practice and how to approach this art life thing. They opened my eyes to personal language in regard to painting, to be bold and instinctual.

Do you have a motto or creed that as an artist you live by?

Live in fear (laughs). Anything can happen at any time. Go to the studio, work hard, assess your work, do the best you can.

What advice would you give a young artist that is just starting out?

Set up a studio space. Keep overheads low. Look at what other artists are doing and talk to them. Visit exhibitions. Keep open-minded and work hard.

Inspired by his book. Inside the Painter's Studio. Published by Princeton Architectural Press, New York. 2009.

Other posts you might like:
You are my daughter.
Beautiful Brittany - photographs of the Cotes-d'Armor, Ile de Brehat and Le Conquet in Finistere, Brittany.

On the shore. Polzeath, Cornwall.

2010-11-11T19:14:00.007Z

'I just need to stand on a beach somewhere', she said. She'd called me on Skype. I can see her face. It still gets me every time. 'I love London, but .... well, you know what I mean ....'. She looks me in the eye. I know. I was born in London. Soft leather soles hitting hard heavy pavements. In Marylebone, above an antique shop. The people who live in London walk the furthest of any city I've heard. Leaden streets, soft soles of feet .... I know what she means. Fine sand between my toes. Bodies crowd the cities as the soles of their feet yearn for the sea.

Other posts you might like:
Surfer Paintings - from this to that.
Surfer paintings at Polzeath, Cornwall.

Painting featured: On the shore, Polzeath, Cornwall.

C.L.I.C. Sargent Charity - Newquay Ball, Cornwall

2010-10-23T11:11:00.010+01:00

Close your eyes,
Have no fear,
The monsters gone,
He's on the run and your daddy's here,

Beautiful,
Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,

Before you go to sleep,
Say a little prayer,
Every day in every way,
It's getting better and better,

Beautiful,
Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,

Out on the ocean sailing away,
I can hardly wait,
To see you to come of age,
But I guess we'll both,
Just have to be patient,
Yes it's a long way to go,
But in the meantime,

Before you cross the street,
Take my hand,
Life is just what happens to you,
While your busy making other plans,

Beautiful,
Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,
Darling,
Darling,
Darling Sean.

Lyrics - Beautiful Boy by John Lennon

This painting was donated to a charity auction at Hotel Bristol, Newquay, Cornwall on Saturday 9th October 2010, helping to raise in the region of £8,000.00 for C.L.I.C. Sargent (Cornwall), an organisation which gives support to children suffering from cancer and their families.

The lyrics are from the song 'Beautiful Boy' by John Lennon who wrote it for his son. John would have celebrated his 70th birthday on the day of the auction.

Other posts you might like:
'Surfers' - New Exhibition of Surfer Paintings, Cornwall U.K. by Melanie McDonald.
Exhibition - Clifton, Bristol. Melanie McDonald and Chris Hankey

Painting featured: Pink Haze, Fistral Beach, Cornwall.

Watching the light change, towards Rhum and Eigg, Scotland.

2010-10-09T13:24:00.013+01:00

Autumn rivals spring in being the most attractive of Highland seasons. In some moods I prefer it. The tourists have mostly gone and one may roam untrammelled, neither intruding nor being intruded on. The October weather is often among the best of the year and the landscape is at its loveliest. After the intensity of summer light, the blaze and crackle of so much positive colour, there are clouded skies once more. One may lave one's eyes with duns and russets and olives and golds and greys.

Down to the puritan marrow of my bones
There's something in this richness that I hate;
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones,
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate ...

The bustle of harvest is over and winter with its special problems and tensions is not yet. Throughout nature there is a feeling of relief, of letting go; a universal pause. The wild geese fly south, sky-wide sometimes, in huge and heart-stopping skeins, calling to each other, to us, as they go. Everything seems drenched in a gentle melancholy ....

From 'Night Falls on Ardnamurchan - The Twilight of a Crofting Family by Alasdair Maclean.

Other posts you might like:
Paintings of Scotland by Winifred Nicholson.
From Skye to Arisaig.

Painting - Watching the light change - towards Rhum and Eigg, Scotland.

Paintings of Scotland by Melanie McDonald.

26 Treasures inspire me at the V&A.

2010-09-25T11:39:00.055+01:00

The Unveiling
At 12 of the clock you slipped into the world,
slithering, fish-like.
No cry.
A silent child veiled in filmy gauze - your caul.

'A lucky omen' the midwife said.
'A bringer of great happiness and a talisman to keep you safe;
no sea captain shall buy your caul to protect him from a siren's song.'
A son, long hoped for, now unveiled.

Poem by Helen Jones

From the exhibition 26 Treasures at the V&A Museum - Locket containing a caul. Treasure number 17 - the smallest of the 26 treasures and my personal favourite.

Image scanned from my 26 Treasures brochure. (All photos: copyright V&A Images/Victoria and Albert Museum, London.)

Caul is a thin filmy membrane that sometimes covers a newborn babie's head and face immediately after birth. Being born with a caul is very rare - less than 1 in 80,000 births. In medieval times it was considered a sign of good luck and highly prized by sailors (caul - wikipedia). Well, who knew? In 62 words this tiny object has been brought to life in the most extraordinary way. Thank you Helen Jones.

With thanks also to Rob Self-Pierson and the team of 26 Treasures and the V&A Museum.

......

'Come on - I want to go to the V&A again.' I said.
'Oh no, I can't stand museums. They're so antique and dismal, so depressing.'
'No, you've got it all wrong, it's not like that anymore.'
'Yeah but, it's crushing - the weight of all those objects and their previous lives.'
'But that's the point! You amaze me!', I said, giving my husband a kiss, and added, 'I met this guy called Rob, on Twitter, he made a connection between objects and words .... to help make you see the objects in a different way.'
'Who?!'
'Oh, please hurry up hun, I'll show you 26 Treasures and explain all ....'

Other posts you might like:

Golden Sands near Rock, Cornwall.
Mountains, sea, sky, crofts, dormer bungalows, telegraph poles and pine trees.

Painting: Little Beach St. Ives, Cornwall.

Girl in the snapshot.

2010-09-11T13:24:00.013+01:00

My emotions have been sloshing around like messy surf or the coffee in the drink holder of my Mini.

I remember saying to myself, 'Well - that's it, it's gone - I'll never be really happy again.'

But since I've been up at our 'farm on the hill'. I feel like I've stepped out of a shadow into the light. I'm fighting to become that girl from long ago who arrived in a foreign country with a dream.

Being here is forcing me to remember the girl in the snapshot on my computer screensaver. Compelling me to remember again what I'd banished - making me feel light-hearted. Forcing me to forget that frightening and sunless time.

Other posts you might like:

Watching from a great distance.
Moving to France - 4 weeks and counting.

Starry, starry, night.

2010-08-31T14:43:00.010+01:00

When she arrived on that cool summer morning, walking down the driveway and turning the corner, it seemed like she was returning to a place she had known existed but had forgotten. The crumbling old farmhouse with it's languishing cow byres and barns represented a background to a film set or dreamscape dimly recalled. I know this place, she thought, I'm going to live in this house and everything in it and surrounding it will remind me of love. And included in this love will be memories of shadows of past lovers and great oak trees on my walls, and in the mirror of my sitting room and on the ceiling of my bedroom.

With a nod to Doris Lessing and her novel 'Love Again'.

Other posts you might like:
Second cancer month.
A year in Brittany, France.

Painting featured: Starry, starry, night, Isle of Skye, Scotland.

Echoes of grey.

2010-08-15T11:16:00.012+01:00

A life packed into a suitcase. I envied her as I sat on the floor surrounded by boxes - floating in a dead sea of books, ornaments and crockery. I pictured her, a small spare lady with the same surname. In her twilight years staring out at the mountains and sky. Her life sheltering beside her in a bedside cabinet. A memoir stowed away in the drawer - wedding ring, christening shoe, small smiling family in a photo. I envied her as I wedged more stuff into an overpacked removal van.

Other post you might like:
Reading poetry by Sylvia Plath, thing about my husband.
Staffin Bay, Isle of Skye.

Painting featured: Echoes of grey, Isle of Mull, Scotland.

Gentle Atlantic breeze.

2010-08-05T11:11:00.020+01:00

She said she wanted to go home, and that even though it was beautiful here, so luminous and wild, she didn't feel settled, it didn't feel right.

I told her that I live happily in a place while deeply missing somewhere else. I too have a strong nostalgia for long lost shores. But I didn't tell her that this is not for Cornwall - it's for a special sparkling hidden place in my heart. Like an island on the horizon that I'm rowing towards, a safe haven.

Other posts you might like:
Finding Meaning.
Paint inspired memories.

Painting featured: Gentle Atlantic Breeze, Polzeath, Cornwall.

A certain light after a storm ......

2010-06-28T19:08:00.023+01:00

Mel: I'm finding it difficult to be happy.
R.: What would make you happy?
Mel: Hmmm .... I don't know. Security in the future.
R.: No one has security in the future.
Mel: I thought I did, and I was happy. Then it was taken away from me.
R.: My scan was clear. I feel fine.
Mel: It takes its toll.
R.: You're telling me - I've got a fucked up shoulder, lost my saliva and have less energy than before.

We laugh. We're sitting outside in the morning sunshine, on a white painted bench, drinking coffee. And it's looking like a beautiful day ......

Painting: A certain light after a storm - prints of Cornwall www.melaniemcdonald.com

I've just split up.

2010-06-23T18:59:00.009+01:00

Photo: The 'I've just split up' collection poster for Tate Britain - London Tube.

I was actually heading for the Tate Britain when this poster caught my eye in the London tube. I didn't have time to read it until I downloaded it - and now it has me pondering. Words have been chosen here to advertise an art gallery - instead of a piece of art. And not by just any old art gallery - the Tate Britain, which 'holds the national collection of British art from 1500', (not to mention international work). Were they spoilt for choice? Perhaps, so they've cleverly opted for words talking about human emotions and how art can affect them. The poster spoke to me, and I haven't 'just split up', however if I had ...... I'd run to the arms of the Tate.

A few steps to the water, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland.

2010-06-15T16:57:00.011+01:00

Words. I lost them for a while there. When Scottish Husband's treatment for cancer came to an end last summer, I'd just sit and look at my blog and past entries meant nothing. My words, my thoughts meant nothing. Nothing mattered. (Well actually my painting did, but my words had gone).

Instead I read. Voraciously. And each time I picked up a new book, it seemed to be written just for me.

'Yet now I read those entries and feel nothing. I am increasingly afflicted by vertigo when words mean nothing. Words mean nothing. They have become, when I think, not the form into which experience is shaped, but a series of meaningless sounds, like nursery talk, and away to one side of experience. Or like a sound track of a film that has slipped its connection with the film. When I am thinking I have only to write a phrase like 'I walked down the street', or take a phrase from a newspaper, 'economic measures which lead to the full use of ....' and immediately the words dissolve, and my mind starts spawning images which have nothing to do with the words, so that every word I see or hear seems like a small raft bobbing about on an enormous sea of images. So I can't write any longer'.

Excerpt from The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing.

Painting above:
A few steps to the water, Sanna Bay, Ardnamurchan, Scotland.
Paintings of Scotland by Melanie McDonald, click for details.

Golden Sands, near Rock, Cornwall.

2010-05-29T16:43:00.011+01:00

'Perhaps to her grey thoughtful eyes revealed an arch gaiety sometimes; but this was infrequent; the sort of wisdom which looked from their pupils did not readily keep company with these lighter moods. Like all people who have known rough times, lightheartedness seemed to her too irrational and inconsequent to be indulged in except as a reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit suddenly. She felt none of those ups and downs of spirit which beset so many people without cause; never - to paraphrase a recent poet - never a gloom in Elizabeth-Jane's soul but she well knew how it came there; and her present cheerfulness was fairly proportionate to her solid guarantees of the same.'

Description of Elizabeth-Jane from The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy.

Finding meaning.

2009-10-06T19:17:00.026+01:00

Three years ago this month, our friend - an artist living in Cornwall - died suddenly from cancer.

During the drive to his funeral, R. and I made the decision to 'sell up' and move across the Channel to Brittany in France. We've been here nearly two years now. However, in February this year, our carefully constructed 'new life' changed over night when R. was diagnosed with cancer.

It's been the most stressful and traumatic time of our lives. R. has finally begun to recover from all the treatment - surgery, chemo and radio therapy - at times 'youtube' videos of football matches were his only salvation. As for me, painting got me through .... and still does, without it I would literally be lost.

Last week, R. took our van, (full of paintings for customers and galleries), over to Cornwall. Something of our old life - the life before cancer - is returning. The numbness is lifting.

I have asked myself recently, what this cancer means for our lives now. I think we both feel that we've lost something precious - our trust in life - our sense of certainty in our health and the future. It's tempting to wonder what it's all about.

Living this 'life with cancer', as opposed to the 'life before cancer', is hard. It hurts. I wake up in the middle of the night wondering what's wrong and after a moment or two I remember. It hurts when you plan to go to a wedding and know that your husband is having a PET scan the same week to see if the cancer has spread. It hurts when I think of our 'dream home' - the farm we are renovating, which won't be finished for several years. Not to mention the effect of moving to another country and having a dad develop cancer, might have on our daughter.

I don't actually want an ongoing search as to what this cancer means for us or for 'finding meaning'. I just want life to be the way it was before.

Related posts:

Paint Inspired Memories
Moving to France - 3 weeks and counting
Third Cancer Month

Exhibition - Clifton, Bristol. Melanie McDonald and Chris Hankey

2009-08-01T17:29:00.021+01:00

Photos: Me and Chris Hankey at our show with 'Innocent Fine Art' in Clifton, Bristol.
A busy show .... gallery owner, art collectors and artists happy - no pain, only pleasure ....

New Paintings - Melanie McDonald

2009-07-25T15:20:00.009+01:00

Blue Skies in Summer, near Rock, Cornwall 30 x 30 inches.

End of the Day, Rock, II 40 x 40 inches SOLD.

Setting Sun, Camel Estuary, Cornwall 30 x 30 inches SOLD.

Estuary Reflections, Early Summer, Rock, Cornwall 24 x 24 inches.

Darkness Approaching, Camel Estuary, Cornwall 30 x 30 inches SOLD

A Day in Summer, near Rock, Cornwall 24 x 48 inches. SOLD.

The studio

2009-06-10T09:46:00.016+01:00

A place where I go to work and for quiet contemplation .....

My paintings are here www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

South Brittany break - Guilvinec and La Torche, Cornouaille, Brittany.

2009-06-05T08:15:00.021+01:00

Guilvinec, Brittany - white sand and aqua lagoon like sea.
La Torche beach, Brittany - watching the surfers.
Plage de la Torche, Cornouaille, Brittany.
Kids and Dogs, Guilvinec Beach, Brittany.
Surf daughter, Guilvinec Beach, Brittany.
At Guilvinec the deserted white, sandy beaches of tropical beauty stretch into the distance. We've parked our camper in the dunes and are lulled to sleep by the sound of the sea. I've found inspiration at the wild, surfing beach Plage de la Torche, which I hope to paint one day. The worries of the last few months seem like they belong to another time ....

Third Cancer Month

2009-05-23T07:32:00.013+01:00

“I’m grateful for the cancer experience. It has taught me to see what is really important in life," is something you read about ....

It doesn't apply to me - I'm not grateful for this cancer experience in any way and I doubt R. is either. I'm not grateful for something which has taken away my Husband's thyroid, his energy, sense of security in his health and his future. I'm not grateful for something which has taken away my joy. Cancer has made me yearn for life the way it used to be. It's like an ache that never leaves me.

R. was diagnosed with cancer after surgery in February this year and has been treated with chemo and radio therapy. It's been a crap time for us, traumatic. At first, our energy was directed toward coping with the immediate crisis, now that treatment has ended, things are getting back to normal-ish. I'm not sure we'll ever really get over this, however we're trying to accept it and learn to live with it. We know things could be a whole lot worse.

Mel's marketing machine - (Melanie McDonald Artist on Facebook and MelMcDonaldArt on Twitter).

2009-05-04T20:53:00.024+01:00

Hello again, I've neglected my blog in favour of the addictive delights of Facebook and Twitter. But I'm back .... because my website www.melaniemcdonald.com and my blog are great places to see my stuff xx

Second Cancer Month.

2009-04-26T13:06:00.016+01:00

There's been some beautiful weather during Spring, clear blue skies and warm south winds. This photo was taken on one of R.'s better days this month. All through April, I've watched silently as day by day he has become thinner and paler. He's quiet - the radiation therapy has burnt his throat and taken his voice. Thankfully, these physical side effects are mainly short term, but I can't help wondering about the emotional side effects? How will he feel when the treatment ends? How will I feel? How strong does a relationship have to be to get through cancer?

I've read that most cancer sufferers (and their families) experience grief, in response to various losses they feel cancer has caused. And that this grief involves denial, anger and finally acceptance. It comes and goes, like waves in the ocean as you understand and recognize various aspects of the loss.

Camel Estuary, Rock, Cornwall - photos that inspire.

2009-04-16T09:40:00.037+01:00

Late afternoon walk, Camel Estuary near Rock, North Cornwall.

It's time to move on to a new series of work, I've decided to paint a second collection of canvasses based around these photos of the Camel Estuary near Rock in North Cornwall. The photos are a few years old and the first collection of paintings have all been sold. I can still remember the drama of the light on that particular day .... the black line of the headland, procellous clouds, shimmering beauty of the water .....

Thanks to friends and family.

2009-04-16T09:40:00.036+01:00

Old friends and new, family and extended family have been in contact regularly since word got out that R. is undergoing treatment for cancer. Thanks to all who came along to the opening of my exhibition as a show of their love and support. I was especially touched to see friends who I hadn't seen for years. Words are hard to find to say how grateful we are; they have made us feel less alone during this strange time in our lives.

P.S. Thanks also to all who have been reading my blog and sent messages of support, I'm surprised and moved Xx

Surfer Paintings Exhibition, Polzeath.

2009-04-11T14:10:00.018+01:00

Although my trip to Cornwall for the opening of my Surfers exhibition at Polzeath was brief and exhausting; I've returned a bit more grounded and inspired.

The paintings were really well received - John and Steve, the owners of the 'Salt Water Bistro', were thrilled with the work and many were sold or reserved (check out the surfer paintings for more info www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk) . I felt I'd accomplished what I'd set out to achieve, which was a small miracle as stress levels have been high since R. was diagnosed with cancer this February.

Surfers - New Exhibition of Surfer Paintings, Cornwall U.K. by Melanie McDonald.

2009-04-04T10:30:00.042+01:00

Dark Day Surfing, Cornwall.

Surfer Paintings and prints http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/gallery_surfer-paintings.htm

Paintings - Polzeath, Cornwall, U.K.

2009-04-02T09:09:00.027+01:00

Lone Surfer II, Polzeath, Cornwall www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Starry Night, Lone Surfer, Cornwall www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Night Ocean Surfers, Cornwall  www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Night Painting with Surfers, Cornwall  www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Late Night Surfers, Polzeath, Cornwall  www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Random shots of my studio.

2009-03-29T08:11:00.013+01:00

First cancer month.

2009-03-20T20:21:00.011Z

It's been a month since R. was diagnosed with cancer. You go along in life, pushing to fulfill your goals, hopes and dreams. It's our first year in France, a dream come true. After all the hard work, we'd finally done it .... or thought we had. Then cancer came along and wrecked it. It's been the hardest month I can ever remember.

Reading poetry by Sylvia Plath

2009-03-15T19:13:00.022Z

The Hermit at Outermost House - by Sylvia Plath

Sky and sea, horizon-hinged
Tablets of blank blue, couldn't,
Clapped shut, flatten this man out.

The great gods, Stone-Head, Claw-Foot
Winded by much rock-bumping
And claw-threat, realized that.

For what, then, had they endured
Dourly the long hots and colds,
Those old despots, if he sat

Laugh-shaken on his doorsill,
Backbone unbendable as
Timbers of his upright hut?

Hard gods were there, nothing else.
Still he thumbed out something else.
Thumbed no stony, horny pot,

But a certain meaning green.
He withstood them, that hermit.
Rock-face, crab-claw verged on green.

Gulls mulled in the greenest light.

Watching from a great distance.

2009-03-12T16:56:00.017Z

Life has changed so much since R. was diagnosed with cancer shortly after we moved to France. It's as if some fateful spirit came along and decided we were too happy. I feel like I'm watching from a great distance as a toxic form engulfs my future.

Life continues as usual.

2009-03-06T09:18:00.092Z

I think Dr. Guru, R.'s French surgeon, knew straight away that he had cancer when he examined him a few weeks ago, even though the scans were inconclusive.

It's hard to explain how we feel.

R. now has a 12" fine red scar .... but life continues as usual .... with the addition of daily visits to oncology for radio and chemo therapy. Suddenly we find ourselves belonging to a new club, meeting the same people each day who await their turn in the booth, or on the drip. There are posters on the walls with numbers to call if you can't sleep or pictures of nutritional drinks if you can't eat. Some patients arrive on their own, defiant, appearing nonchalant. Most are couples, the wife or husband saving face until the partner's name is called for treatment, then crumpling, hollow-eyed, blindly reaching for a magazine. All the people in the club stare with unblinking remoteness, far away, remembering happy times and trying not to think of an unimaginable future.

We have to wait five years for the all clear. We could spend our time in fear, thinking about the many tests ahead, instead we're trying to find strength for life to continue as usual.

Light on water.

2009-03-01T19:16:00.014Z

When I need some perspective on life, something to focus on and take away the fear of what the future holds, I watch light on water. I think about light travelling all the way from the sun or the moon, like in the photo above. When it hits the surface of the sea, what happens to the light? I suppose it refracts back into space. On calm days the water surface acts like a mirror, I can see myself reflected in the glass, who am I? If I look straight down, the mirror disappears and I can see what's under the surface .... inky blur, your tears, midnight depths. How far does the light travel? How deep before it gets dark?

You never know which way the wind is going to blow.

2009-02-21T21:39:00.010Z

You never know which way the wind is going to blow.

Changing Weather, Camel Estuary. Print Available.

The long night ...

2009-02-18T22:07:00.013Z

R. has surgery tomorrow morning. As I write, tomorrow turns into today. There's a long, sleepless night ahead. My heart is with my husband.

Snow Paintings by Melanie McDonald.

2009-02-08T15:16:00.014Z

Click to enlarge.
New Year's Day. Print Available by Melanie McDonald. See www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk

Click to enlarge.
Walk in the Snow. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 36" x 24". SOLD.

Click to enlarge.
Snow in the Hills of Southern Skye, Scotland. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 36" x 36". SOLD. £1495. Carole Innocent Gallery, Bristol, U.K.

Click to enlarge.
New Year's Day II. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 72" x 72". SOLD.

Click to enlarge.
New Year's Day I. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 48" x 48". SOLD.

Click to enlarge.
Walk in the Park. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 40" x 40". N.F.S.

Click to enlarge.
Walk in the Snow II. Painting by Melanie McDonald. 48" x 36". SOLD.

Thinking about snow paintings and how wonderful it would be to paint a series of magical white paintings. Looking through my archive .... here are a few snow paintings I've made over the years.

Surfer Paintings for Polzeath Restaurant.

2009-01-27T20:07:00.018Z

Big Sky, Surfers North Cornwall
Lone Surfer, North Cornwall Beach

Atlantic Breakers at Polzeath, Cornwall

Over the last couple of years I've been working on a series of surfer paintings. These were originally inspired by walks on Fistral Beach when I lived in Newquay, Cornwall . Fistral Beach is regarded as the premier surfing beach in the U.K. and where the surf scene is *at* - I used to walk on the beach every day and there were always lots of surfers trying to catch the peaks and tubes made by the waves.

The silhouettes of surfers and their boards make intriguing shapes against the backdrop of sea and horizon. They are also a useful device to add scale to a beachscape painting. I'm exploring different surf beaches and themes such as lone or groups of surfers, and different times of day. I recently walked on beaches at dusk and watched the night surfing event in Newquay, which lead to the idea of painting night surfers.

Brittany, new shores ....

2008-12-06T09:40:00.019Z

New shores to explore.

A field to run in.

A dream home to renovate.

And a well dated 1791.

The highs and lows of a new school to navigate.

The wind and stars as our guide.

Surfer Paintings of Cornwall - Second series.

2008-12-01T17:10:00.030Z

Reflected Light and Surfers Cornwall

Night Surfers Fistral Beach

Surfers and Shadows Cornwall

Summer Blue and Surfers, Fistral Beach Newquay

Dusk Summer Evening, Fistral Beach, Cornwall

I used to live in a house overlooking the sea. I saw surfers everyday when I walked my dog on Fistral beach in Newquay, Cornwall - Fistral is the U.K.'s most famous surfing beach and regarded by surfers as the centre of the U.K. surfing scene. There are always surfers around trying to catch the best waves and the surfy atmosphere is very inspiring. Here are a few new paintings, my starting point was to take lots of photos of surfers which is my way of taking notes - snapshots, like quick sketches.

Painting surfers is an ongoing project, a bit of an obsession perhaps. I like the idea of playing about with the paint - thin washes mixed with thick areas. And experimenting with ideas such as big skies and low horizons, drawing in surfboards and then obliterating them with white spray, the morning and evening light on the surf, bodyboarding, silhouettes and actions shots ....

From Cornwall to Brittany, France.

2008-11-23T13:44:00.118Z

A change of shore, from Cornwall to Brittany ....

Paintings and Photos.

2008-11-18T16:48:00.035Z

Some photographs from my recent trip to Wales and some of my paintings .... spot the themes.

It stays with me (or lest we forget) ....

2008-11-11T13:47:00.019Z

Click to enlarge.
It stays with me....(scan by Melanie McDonald).
Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky. Cover. Published by Vintage 2007. ISBN 9780099488781.

It's Armistice Day today and everywhere is closed - in France the 11th of November is a bank holiday.

Today I thought it appropriate to mention a remarkable book I read during the summer, which has really stayed with me.

The book comprises of two stories - Storm in June and Dolce. The poignancy of the facts surrounding the book's survival and it's author's early death, make it a heartbreaking and painfully irresistible read.

Irene Nemirosky (1903 - 1942) died in Auschwitz. She started this ambitious book in 1941, however she doubted that it would be completed after a premonition that she didn't have long to live. Only two of the planned five parts were completed. She was arrested in July 1942 and sent to Auschwitz where she died on the 17th August.

I love the stories because they feel true - they have the spontaneity of a diary or blog. Irene is writing about her moment in time and she uses her characters (of which she says are linked by 'our times, solely our times', p355) to communicate her feelings. Historical facts are over shadowed by the ordinary daily lives and emotions of the families and individuals portrayed in the stories.

I found Storm, (a depiction of the mass exodus from Paris as the Nazis advance) particularly vivid. In it, Irene dramatically describes how the French upper classes prefer to save their linen and ornaments instead of the lives of their fellow people. (An incredibly controversial subject for the time - I presume this could not have been easily published in the 1950's).

I also found Irene's descriptions of nature throughout the stories very moving;

They heard the sound of an explosion ... She could feel a bell shaped pink flower brushing her lips. Later, she would remember that while they were stretched out on the ground, a small white butterfly was lazily flitting from one flower to another.

From Storm in June. Page 53.

After Irene was arrested, her husband Michel, did not realise that this meant certain death. He wrote in complete despair to Marshal Petain asking to take her place in Auschwitz. He was arrested in October 1942 and went straight to the gas chamber. Thankfully, the police were foiled in their attempts to arrest the two little Nemirovsky girls, who were hidden in cellars, convents and attics until the end of the war. Denise, the older child, had grabbed her mother's leather 'diary' before going into hiding. For years, Denise couldn't bring herself to open the book, only when it was nearly destroyed in a fire did she decide to decipher it.

The other book I read in the summer set in the same period is The Book Theif by Markus Zusak (click to read).

Also see Thinking about The Book Thief (click to read).

Five reasons why I like my blog ....

2008-10-17T17:25:00.018+01:00

This quiet blogging place is where I sometimes come to think and reflect .... like this beach in Cornwall.

I'm learning to appreciate the passing of time, and pay more attention to the small things.

Ideas that would otherwise be forgotten can be found here, and maybe special pictures too.

My jottings help keep me grounded in this crazy, wonderful world we live in.

And if I'm very lucky, I get to meet new people and make unexpected friendships ....

Beautiful Brittany - Cotes-d'Armor and Finistere, Brittany.

2008-10-11T16:54:00.018+01:00

Pointe de l'Arcouest, Cotes-d'Armor, Brittany

Plane Trails over the Ile de Brehat, Brittany

Early Morning, Pointe de l'Arcouest, Brittany

Parked up just a few steps away from the Baie de Goelo .... I could see a broad horizon of sea meeting the sky, and the beautiful Ile de Brehat in the distance.

Rain Coming in - Little Beach, West Finistere, Brittany

Upturned Boat, Western Finistere, Brittany

Wild Coast, Western Finistere, Brittany

The western tip of Finistere is wild - the wind blows and the rain falls in this spellbinding place. It reminds me of the west coast of Scotland and Land's End in Cornwall. A remote Celtic out-post, with great grey granite boulders and silver skies. Mystical and inspiring.

Paint inspired memories.

2008-10-07T16:54:00.075+01:00

A couple of years ago this week a friend of ours died. His sudden death made us rethink our lives and move to France. We met Colin when we moved from London to Penzance, Cornwall, in the 90's, and my intention was to be a full-time painter, (it took a while, but here I am ....). My first step was attending a life drawing evening class, I was so incredibly lucky that the class was run by Colin, a formidable artist and a gifted teacher. With his support I applied for a Fine Art painting degree course at Falmouth College of Art and was accepted.

Throughout the 10 years I knew Colin, he had many exhibitions of his paintings. Lots of people we knew would turn up to the private views, discuss his work and have a drink. Then they'd pitch up again at his house for a New Year's party. He came to our wedding with his wife, Pat and other arty friends. Sometimes vivid images of him come back to me when I'm painting in my studio. Colin in a flowery shirt with his hand-painted belt organizing the life class, moving the model into the most striking light. Or chatting in his studio - swapping a large mirror he'd spotted for one of his paintings, chosen from the biggest stack you've ever seen. Colin, wandering up and down Chapel Street smoking a cigar, going from home to studio and back ....

Early one morning in Paris

2008-09-26T16:48:00.012+01:00

Photo of Montmartre courtesy of Wikipedia.

When I was ten I went on a school trip to France. We went from Newquay in Cornwall right down to the south of France on an overnight train. What stands out most in my mind is the train stopping in Paris on the return journey. It was very early in the morning, about 5 a.m.. - a teacher knocked and quietly called at the cabins and asked if any of us wanted to go for a walk in Paris. Being the sort of child who never slept in a car, train or plane, I was among the few who went.

We walked through the misty, empty streets up to Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur. I remember the mysterious damp grey streets, the sound of our shoes echoing, a tramp sleeping in the gutter with a bottle of red wine by his side. Climbing the endless crumbling old steps and the soft golden dawn sunlight shining on the white stone of the Sacre Coeur. It was like a miracle, and my first real taste of the spirit of France. We then had to hot foot it back to the train before it left for home.

I can't remember which teacher decided to take a small group of kids from Cornwall through the streets of Paris at 5 am .... but whoever you are, it was brave and inspired and hasn't been forgotten.

Reading about Picasso

2008-09-25T16:35:00.008+01:00

Click to enlarge.
Scan from Portrait of Picasso as a Young Man by Norman Mailer
ISBN 0-87113-608-2 The Atlantic Monthly Press. Page 232, 233.

One of the things I have time for now I live in France is reading. I have stacks of unread art books.

Most of our books are stored in our enormous French grenier (or Gauguin's Loft) which has no electric. I grabbed the first book I felt, and I've just finished it - Portrait of Picasso as a Young Man by Norman Mailer. Although not a novel, (or possibly it is? it's hard to tell as it's claimed to be an interpretive biography - another reviewer felt it was more about Norman Mailer's own life, but I digress), it's compelling reading.

The book centers around Picasso's great love affair with Fernande Olivier and quotes extensively from her memoirs. Mailer argues that she has a lot to say because after all she 'did live with a great painter through his most profound period of artistic transition'. For me, her memoirs bring Picasso to life. You can feel the life they had together living in the studio, the intensity of it all - creating paintings, discussing art and life, falling in love, evenings spent with friends and contemporaries - alongside the mess, dogs, smells, hunger and poverty. I find it amusing that Mailer says that Fernande is the only writer about Picasso who gives herself more attention than him! Oh, to have been a fly on the wall ....

They lived in Montmartre in Paris. Which reminds me of another story. More later.

Paintings of Scotland by Winifred Nicholson

2008-09-21T11:30:00.015+01:00

Sandaig by Winifred Nicholson (1951 Sourced from www.studio-international.co.uk Trustees of Winifred Nicholson).

Over the Sea to Eigg by Winifred Nicholson (1952 Sourced from www.artnet.com).

The Gate to the Isles by Winifred Nicholson (1980 Sourced from www.studio-international.co.uk Trustees of Winifred Nicholson).

Cheeky Chicks by Winifred Nicholson (1950 Sourced from www.studio-international.co.uk Trustees of Winifred Nicholson).

Isle of Canna by Winifred Nicholson (1951 Sourced from www.studio-international.co.uk Trustees of Winifred Nicholson).

From a remote croft on South Uist, Winifred Nicholson wrote to her son:

This is a place after my heart. I wonder if you would like it. Not a tree, not a bush. But grey boulders, grey rocks. Grey stones, grey mountains. And bog in between - In the bog, lochs with waterlilies, and rare ferns that love the black peaty soil - The sea full of grey mysterious islands and rocks, seals and seabirds. White glistening beaches and transparent sea all the way across to Eriskay. Blue mountains of Barra to the west - and the Cuillins far away snow covered to the south - There are five other cottages in Glendale and no road nearer than three miles - one comes by boat and then walks… Peat fire, water carried from a well, everything as primitive as you want.

Captivated by 'Ring of Bright Water'

2008-09-19T17:24:00.010+01:00

View from Gavin Maxwell's (Hebridean Flowers) by Winifred Nicholson (copyright Trustees of Winifred Nicholson - picture sourced from www.studio-international.co.uk)

Last week I watched Ring of Bright Water, the film based on the book by Gavin Maxwell. I googled it and found Kathleen Raine and Winifred Nicholson, and their captivating stories.

Kathleen Raine (1908 -2003) a poet, was deeply in love with Maxwell. In her autobiography she says that after she lost Maxwell's pet otter, also called Mij, (which accidentally lead to it's death), their friendship ended. Her love was an unrequited passion due to Maxwell's secret homosexuality. She wrote the poem, The Marriage of Psyche, from which the title for Ring of Bright Water came. She never forgave herself for the curse she uttered shortly before Mij was killed - 'let Gavin suffer in this place as I am suffering now'- and spent every night of her life alone after they parted.

Winifred Nicholson (1893 - 1981) was a painter. She was the first wife of Ben Nicholson who left her and married Barbara Hepworth. (Barbara Hepworth's studio is now a museum in St. Ives, Cornwall). I'm familiar with some of Winifred Nicholson's work because of the Cornish connection, however not her Scottish paintings. It's great to discover these works and see her vision of the Isle of Skye, South Uist and Eigg. Winifred Nicholson would paint while Kathleen Raine composed poetry.

First Scottish painting sold!

2008-09-08T20:03:00.010+01:00

Click to enlarge.
Clouds Gathering, Southern Skye, Scotland 60 x 24 inches

Quite a cool thing happened at the weekend - I sold the first of my Scottish paintings!

Scottish Paintings

2008-09-04T20:24:00.010+01:00

April Skies, Isle of Skye

Clouds Gathering, Southern Skye

Cottage Trotternish, Northern Skye

Lone Croft, Southern Skye

I've got an idea for an exhibition .... I'm keeping it under wraps.

August highlight, north coast Brittany ....

2008-09-01T19:32:00.014+01:00

A summer in Brittany ....

2008-07-25T10:43:00.015+01:00

Ready for the beach.

Cote de Granit Rose, Brittany.

Locquirec loungers.

Towards Ile de Brehat.

Alfresco lunch.

Concarneau sunset.

You are my daughter.

2008-07-24T21:15:00.010+01:00

You are my daughter, you were born
So innocent, so full of need
There were times we were friends but times I was so distant
Each night I'd watch over you as you went to sleep
Before I was so afraid of the night
You seemed to take away the places that I feared
You lived inside my world so softly
Protected only by the courage that is your nature
You are my daughter
And I love you
May all of your dreams come true
We were so different then
So similar over the years
The way we laugh the way we experience pain
So many memories
And theres everything to gain from remembering
Faces and worlds that no one else will ever know
You are my daughter
And I love you
May all of your dreams come true
I want this for you
They're gonna come true (gonna come true)

Poem for Skye who was nine last week. (Cribbed with words changed from the fantastic Antony and the Johnsons - 'You are my Sister').

Ocean Girls.

2008-07-16T13:39:00.012+01:00

Ocean Girls.

Melanie McDonald Gallery

2008-07-04T16:23:00.014+01:00

Melanie McDonald Gallery / Studio, Huelgoat, Brittany.

My home in Brittany is where it is said that the famous French artist Gauguin painted a picture in the grenier, which is why I've called my blog Gauguin's Loft.

Please take a look at my paintings on my website http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/ Thanks xx.

Thinking about The Book Thief

2008-06-19T21:04:00.008+01:00

Our home in Brittany - Gauguin's Loft - was once a hotel. I believe Gauguin once stayed here.

I've also been told that it was occupied by German soldiers in World War ll.

Excerpt from The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Page 373, 374.
'On June 23 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reducing to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down ...

Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their French words. I watched their love-visions and freed them from their fear.

I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to grey to the colour of rain. Even the clouds tried to look the other way.

Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.

They were French, they were Jews, and they were you.'

The Book Thief

2008-06-19T19:41:00.014+01:00

Liesel watching Max in The Standover Man.
From The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Transworld Publishers.
ISBN 9780385611473. P.250, 251.

I've just finished reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It's very moving and beautifully written, in an unusual, visual poetic sort of way. The story is narrated by Death, who is strangely human and vulnerable. Death uses colours to describe how he feels about the souls which he collects.

It's set against the background of World War ll and Death tells the story of Liesel Meminger - the book thief. He encounters Liesel 3 times during her lifetime. The first time is when Liesel is travelling to a foster home, her brother dies on the journey. She is 9, she is alone and taken in by the Hubermann's. As is Max a short while later - he's a Jewish refugee.

Mountains, sea, sky, crofts, dormer bungalows, telegraph poles and pine trees.

2008-06-12T19:06:00.008+01:00

Click to enlarge.

My Sketch Book, Scottish Series - Scanned by Mel

As I've said before, when I start a new series of paintings I reach for my sketch book. I make thumb nail sketches of ideas for paintings which take into account the size and shape of the canvas, the colour palette and the composition. I also think about what the painting is trying to communicate - my experience of the Isle of Skye or Arisaig.

Looking at the photos and thinking about the impressions left in my memory; I feel the Isle of Skye is all about mountains, water, sky and isolation. Wherever you travel on Skye, you are always aware of the mountains, often in the form of a purply, hazy, backdrop. The sea surrounds and enters the island in the form of many lochs. The sky is ever changing; clear skies give way to clouds in the turn of a head, later to clear again offering spectacular sunsets.

I paint people in most of my paintings, to show how we are involved with a place. For Skye, I'm replacing the people with crofts (or the ever present little dormer bungalows). By adding one building I hope to give the feeling of isolation and scale. By adding a single telegraph pole I'm say that someone lives here and it could be you - alone in that croft, with a mug of coffee and all that beauty and space around you.

Camusdarach, west coast Scotland .... heaven on earth.

2008-05-22T19:52:00.016+01:00

Camusdarach, west coast of Scotland.

Staffin Bay, Isle of Skye

2008-05-16T18:10:00.004+01:00

In 1999 I went to Skye with R. - we spent quite a lot of time at Staffin Bay - me painting and R. skimming flat grey stones across the water. There's only one shop at Staffin Bay - Staffin Bay Stores, just as it should be. R. struck up a conversation with the lady behind the counter one day, about the weather - we'd had to buy sun screen. She said it generally didn't stop raining for months.

A couple of years ago in our small village in Brittany we were having a meal at the Hotel du Lac. Towards the end of the evening the couple on the next table were making a fuss over Skye - giving her sparkly things from their ice creams. They asked her name and told her that they lived in Skye. Again R. struck up a conversation and realized that she was the lady from Staffin Bay Stores. They were renovating their dream home near the village and planning to move to Brittany.

We visited Staffin Bay Stores again on this trip and asked after the 'lady who'd moved to Brittany'. We were very sad to hear that she'd died from cancer and never made it to Brittany and her house with it's shiny new roof.

Beautiful Skye

2008-05-14T20:06:00.010+01:00

Uig Bay

Southern Skye Croft

Trotternish Sheep

Ullinish

Staffin Bay

A daughter called Skye

2008-05-08T10:48:00.017+01:00

We'd camped at Sligachan on the Isle of Skye. Caught in a spell of high pressure, it was cool and dry. The skies cleared revealing the jagged line of The Black Cuillin mountain range above us. It's the stuff that dreams are made of. At that time in my life I'd lay in bed thinking about the child I desperately wanted. The odds weren't good. When I returned to Cornwall I discovered I was pregnant. As it turned out she's our only child and we named her Skye.

We are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep.
Shakespeare - The Tempest

Surfer Paintings.

2008-04-14T19:45:00.022+01:00

Summer beach, Polzeath, Cornwall 60 x 24 inches

Please view my collection of Surfer Paintings on my website: http://www.melaniemcdonald.co.uk/gallery_surfer-paintings.htm

Concarneau, Brittany, France - Window Photographs.

2008-04-10T18:45:00.017+01:00

Windows of Concarneau

Surfer Paintings - the first series.

2008-03-27T17:07:00.017Z

Surfers, Fistral Beach, Cornwall 36 x 36 inches.

Fistral Beach 36 x 36 inches.

After the rain, Fistral Beach 60 x 16 inches.

Fistral surfers, Cornwall.

Winter waves, Fistral Beach, Cornwall.

Surfers and reflections, Cornwall 24 x 48 inches.

Shoreline surf, Fistral Beach 48 x 48 inches.

Morning after the storm, Fistral Beach. 24 x 48 inches.

Long horizon, Fistral Beach, Cornwall.

When I start a new series of paintings I make thumbnail sketches in my note book. These take in to account the size and shape of the canvas - square, long, tall, thin, fat, etc and how big. I consider where I'm going to place the horizon line and the size and silhouette of the surfers. The colour palette is loosely defined by a photo I've taken or perhaps a previous painting, or an idea that's floating around in my mind.

I translate these thumbnails to canvasses and usually work on a small series - 3 or 4 paintings at the same time. I find this gives me freedom to paint in a loose style - in the hope that the images don't become overworked.

I work quickly and intuitively, building many layers over a few weeks. The paintings quickly take on a life of their own, a mixture of representation and abstraction, often only a trace of the photo, of what originally caught my eye, shows.

Easter thoughts .......

2008-03-23T11:59:00.015Z

Live simply that others might simply live.

Quote: Elizabeth Ann Seton

Sad news

2008-03-20T20:15:00.005Z

A Sunset for Minghella - Pentax Photo by Mel

This morning I read of the death of film director Anthony Minghella.

It was one of those 'OH, NO' moments where you exclaim loudly at the screen in disbelief.

I love 'The English Patient'. It's one of the few films which in my view is better than the book.

Over the years, I have read articles about Minghella with wonder and admiration. I remember reading about his struggle to raise money and his insistence on casting unknown actors like Kristen Scott Thomas.

The world will be a poorer place without him.

Dream Life

2008-03-12T20:45:00.013Z

I've had many studio's .... it was from number 6, that I started to daydream. It was situated in our furniture factory and overlooked a metal fabrication plant. All day long huge rafts of metal arrived on heavy duty lorries to be bashed into shape by a vocal gang of men. When I looked out of my studio window I used to imagine fields and sky, without neighbours, somewhere in France ....