Yesterday, although sunny, was the coldest day since last winter and I had to have the central heating on in order to make it bearable to paint in my studio. Today it is cold again but there is no sun, in fact, it’s dark and rainy; nevertheless, I have to stay in the studio and prepare a semi-finished painting for tomorrow evening – I’m giving a painting demonstration to Sidmouth Art Group.

It seemed like a good idea five months ago, when I agreed to give the demonstration, but now I’m a bit nervous. I can’t paint a half-way good  picture in two hours – not even with fast drying acrylics – so I have come up with a plan that I trust will be both satisfactory to the art group and not let me down as an artist. I am working on a new painting of Exeter Canal (at the estuary end) and, having completed the sky and background already, I hope to have one side of the painting finished, which would leave me the other side to work on during the demonstration. But before bringing out the three-quarter finished painting, I shall start on a new canvas to show the group how to begin. When I think about thirty amateur artists watching me paint (and having a video camera on me the whole time) I feel quite nerve-racked, however, if I can think of those thirty people as well-wishers and kindred spirits, I shall be alright on the night.

On the subject of kindred spirits, earlier today I came across something I wrote during my visit to Australia last January; somehow, it seems fitting to share it with you.

Kindred Spirits

At last I was over the jetlag and the cold I had caught from the Frenchman who had sat next to me on the plane. I was stood on the corner of Foch Street and West Avenue; just as I was considering which route to take for my walk around my old home town of Wynnum a lady with a small dog had crossed the road and stepped in front of me on the pavement. The lady, who was well into her sixties or more, wore a wide-brimmed white straw sunhat, which gave her a typically Australian appearance.

“Isn’t it beautiful here in the early morning?” I asked.

The lady, somewhat surprised to be addressed by a stranger, stopped and searched my face for something she might recognise. 

“Especially the light,” I added, continuing with a smile that told her I was simply another passerby enjoying the first light.

“And especially after the rain – everything is so crisp and fresh!” responded the lady.

“Yes, for a short while,” I agreed.

“And people miss it by staying in bed,” she laughed.

“But not us,” I observed, laughing with her.

The dog pulled on his lead, urging his mistress to move on, and she fell into line. My eyes followed her broad-brimmed straw hat, crisp and white, in the sunshine. I saw her pause and I sensed she was going to turn around, which she did.

“You have a lovely day now!” she said cheerily.

“You too,” I answered equally cheerily.

Kindred spirits.