Sunday, December 25, 2016

A still life drawing

Still life study of chili peppers and tomatoes in an orange bowl. As I was making this I was thinking of paintings by my colleague Shiela Richardson, who also exhibits in the DraĆ­ocht Gallery in Adare, I like her work very much. 

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Solstice shots 2016

What I like about this time of the year: the notion that the light is coming back, and a sense of new hope and new possibilities. That's all. I'll spare you my whole Bah Humbug rant. 

Enjoy your few days with friends and family, wherever you are. 


Friday, December 2, 2016

Passing of Leonard Cohen

A wonderful singer, songwriter, poet ... very sad news. It was only hours later that I realised he died almost on my own father's anniversary.

Just going to potter around with my paints now, got YouTube on to watch old videos. This morning I got some amazing shots of the dawn today, and got the urge to work one of them up into a painting, and only later remembered about my Dad.

Eighteen years.

Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It’s long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I’d looked in the face
What I had hoped ‘twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;

The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelvemonth since,
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, ‘Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.

- The Fisherman, W.B. Yeats

Dawn, 2016 by Orla Clancy