GOING GREEN

 

It was on arrival back on Lewis that my eyes beheld once more a landscape of bleached dead salt-beige winter grass. Autumn bracken, once rich bronze had turned to dull brown, colours now muted awaited spring, the bleating of lambs, and a fresh mantel of green. There were signs already, a sprouting elder in Norma’s garden seem surprisingly advanced, while in my own garden many daffodils lay prostrate, snapped by the harsh easterly wind. Rescued from the cold I filled two jars in the kitchen window, their perfume and brilliant yellow bringing hope of renewal to each morning.

Spring arrives late on the islands, and all the better for it, as unseasonable early growth has in the past been burnt and shredded by those salt-laden bitter easterlies. Now with the changing of the hour we do indeed look forward to leaping forward into spring growth and of pastures turning green.

When looking to change the colour in my studio it seemed only natural that my eyes should crave that same coloured bocage to display anew the flowering of my work. The fruiting bodies of objects would rest solid and stationary before it. Green, like red is a colour that does not move beyond its own boundaries unlike the radiance of sunshine yellow. I would have strength and stability for the summer months to come. I would have a real green, no washed out off-white hint of green, no chilly blue of conifer green, no acid-sparkling fresh yellow green, but a true growth green. People often profess to have a favourite colour, and I will admit to having certain colours I prefer to live with. However, I love all colours; from the deep pink of the button-hole carnation, the brash orange of blowsy dahlias and the cool blues of the mecanopsis poppies. I love the rich tapestry of a cottage garden, and yes, even the sombre greys of a rain laden clouds, for without them we would have no contrast for the sudden and delightful appearance of those angel rays.

As I paint my way around the room childhood memories awaken; of the green V lined walls of fisherman Bob Willies cottage at the bottom of New Orleans Glen, the contrasting dark furniture kept so with a fresh coat of mahogany darkalene varnish. Colours carry memories, and with those memories our choices are tinted.