My dad broke his leg last week, his femur to be precise. The femur is not an easy bone to break, and is typically the result of a serious traffic accident or a fall from a great height. Dad broke his setting the table. Quite how he did it, we’re not sure, though it’s possible a sudden drop in blood-pressure and subsequent blackout-fall did the trick, as evidenced by the fact he was found on his back with cutlery lodged in the bookcase behind him. It’s not the first time Dad has broken a bone. Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that if he had a bandage on for every bone he’s broken over the years, he’d look something like this:
Dad’s a trooper though, and always gets back up on his feet. It’s a laborious, painful process, but he will doubtless meet it with the good grace he always does, and will be back, pottering around his allotment come Spring. Dad loves his allotment, and it’s no wonder, it’s a little slice of Manx paradise, that he tends and coaxes with his magic touch, producing an abundance of leeks, giant cucumbers, towering rhubarb, delicate flowers, and lots and lots of potatoes.
With the fall-out from dad’s fall, I’ve been a bit distracted this week, and haven’t made much progress with the green paintings. Instead, I have taken refuge in painting Ann (Ann being the large oil painting I mentioned in my last post). I call it Ann (its working title) because it is about a Manx woman called Ann Thompson, who was transported to Australia, on a ship called the Amphitrite, in 1833, for stealing 37 yards of lace. Tragically, she died in a shipwreck on the way, as did all the other female prisoners transported with her. It is a compelling, convoluted story which I have been researching for the past 2 years, with the help of my Mum (whom, coincidently, has the same middle and maiden name – Anne Thompson), and ever supportive fella. Ann now feels like a dear companion, and it envokes a deep sense of pathos to paint something beautiful and delicate in her memory, in the hope that in some cosmic realm it offsets the terrifying misery that was the last few months of her short life.
This week, I also attended the last instalment of our drawing workshop, which was all about gestural drawing. As the name suggests, gestural drawing focuses on capturing the gesture or action of a figure, rather than the details (Turner’s painting above could be described as gestural). This kind of drawing, which is typically quick and expressive and, I think, very beautiful, is definitely something I would like to practice more. In the meantime, here are my initial attempts from the workshop:
To end, I thought I’d share the song I have been humming to myself since dad broke his leg…the harmonies are exquisite.
bexODESSA 
One thought on “Dem dry bones”