Living in the countryside, inspiration is just about everywhere. I spent four years living remotely in a rural landscape in South West England, where plenty of beautiful scenes deserved capturing. Sometimes I found the vastness of natural beauty overwhelming, leading to a struggle of not knowing where to start. Nevertheless, I was determined to learn how to record these strange and bountiful surroundings.
I find walking in nature clears the mind and increases connection with the body. Additionally, drawing in nature helps in slowing down and focusing. Choosing a subject can be tricky, especially if there are endless trees and grasses intertwined, resulting in too much detail to fathom. Through experience, I have learned that using a viewfinder, such as looking through a phone camera, can narrow down the immensity of what is presented and lead to focused inspiration. After choosing a composition, it’s good to put the phone away and resume with the naked eye, to develop the skill of ‘seeing’.
An Artist’s Field
I took many drawing walks around the village I used to live in. The surrounding areas also included lots of open views and farmlands. To illustrate one excursion, a view of the valley is noted, encompassing multiple fields lined with hedgerows. A fir plantation was on the left, and the spindly tops of the trees always fascinated me. They looked black against the sky. Looking closer to the undergrowth, I drew two isolated branches, as their warm beige bark stood out against the bustling backdrop of leaves.
I used to live in a yellow cottage, attached to a blue one. They had a shared thatched roof that attracted house martins in the winter. Turning slightly, the church tower was visible from the adjacent field. This particular day, a herd of cows encroached, and as I finished sketching the smallest calf, the drove accelerated towards me. The hope of capturing her clan vanished, and I exited the gate promptly, and towards the cottage in trepidation.
Wet on Wet
One Saturday, I wandered into the empty local churchyard. The sky was grey and the air was thickly moist. In Ireland, we call a busy haze ‘wet rain’, as it’s the kind of rain that soaks you. I sought shelter, sitting on an old crooked bench under the ancient cedars by the periphery wall. In my bag were some fine-liner pens, a few watercolours, a water brush and a small ring-bound sketchbook. Packing these items before I set out would increase my chances of drawing.
Sitting on this tilting pew, I felt hesitant in committing fully to an official drawing. The prospect of the cosy log burner in the cottage beckoned. Urging myself to just get anything down on the page, the fire would be granted. I hated the drawing as I did it, my inner critic complaining and pleading what idiot would draw in the ‘wet rain’? Despite this, the pursuit was on, albeit a rapid one.
The scribbled shapes finally documented, I suddenly noticed the light had changed. A pink hue caressed the church. Inspired, I took out my paints and started to add colour. The trees took form, the rain-stained walls captured. Time disappeared. The critic was silenced. Even the drizzle diminished. This was surprisingly enjoyable!
Finally taking a pause, I looked at the page. Enter underwhelm. The painted church looked anaemic, the branches in the right-hand tree dressed as sausages. Here was the critic banging in my ears again. The rain had manoeuvred around the cedars, now angled towards me. Lashings of rain no less. Seriously, it was time to stop. I went towards the cosy cottage and for a long time I hated on this painting.
As time passed, I gradually found a new appreciation of it. Even if it’s not a masterpiece, it’s a mark of a perseverance through resistance. I guess, sometimes, that’s what the artistic process is all about.