Why don’t you be the artist?
As I gazed aimlessly across the golden sands of Fistral beach, the jet black silhouette of a young couple walked hand in hand towards me with the warm orange hue of the setting sun behind them. Thin wisps of cloud floated lazily through the otherwise perfect sky. To the west the remains of a single vapour cloud left us a reminder of those travelling far away, maybe somewhere tropical or somewhere icy cold, maybe somewhere nearby or remote. One lone seagull elegantly sailed towards the horizon into the evening sun, heading to its roost for the night, chattering to itself. The horizon itself was a haze of salmon pink and terracotta, like the old worn tiles of a traditional Spanish villa; the round glow of the sun only just peeping up about the vast stretch of aquamarine. The soft lapping of the waves onto the shore provided a soothing sound, ideal for relaxing and forgetting the world. The movement of the tide throughout the day had left strands of sun dried seaweed scattered along the shore, creating a salty yet somehow sweet smelling aroma. The last few surfers were packing away their equipment into their classic Volkswagen Campervans before settling down for a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. For me, surrounded by my paint palettes and water pots, snuggled under my tartan rug, I was in my element as I began to add the final touches to my water colour landscape.
Different types of paint: oil, acrylic or watercolour. Specific colours: Payne’s grey, Camidion red, Ochre. Art lingo, meetings and galleries; as a child I was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of an artist’s life. From the age of three, I drew pictures for my parents, made greeting cards or was creative with glitter or felt. For birthdays, Christmas and any other occasion I received art or craft equipment. Over the years I acquired a wide range of paint tubes, paint brushes and art books exploring techniques and ideas. I remember sitting in the mellow shade of a garden umbrella, amongst the long grass that covered my grandparent’s garden. The warmth of the afternoon sun surrounded me as the sketching pencil in my hand created uneven marks across the page to try and resemble the object that lay in front of me. My grandparent’s garden was a multi-coloured puzzle of different plants and flowers muddled together to create a beautiful scene. Neat pathways were mown through the wild grass that dominated the majority of the land, creating what seemed like a maze perfect for me to run around. Butterflies fluttered from flower to flower whilst birds perched chirping to one another on the sturdy branches of the ancient oak trees. Beneath these towering trees squirrels scampered shyly away after retrieving a wind fallen acorn.
Family members were always supportive and enthusiastic about my art. My great auntie Jo, a keen potter for many years of her life, once said to me; “No matter what happens, I will support you, whether it’s living in a beach hut or owning an art studio, I will be here for you.” To me now this is even more significant, as if she is looking down on me, still giving me the encouragement I need in my every step. Big Grandma, known for her height, was a watercolour artist. Although she never sold her artwork, she enjoyed perching in obscure positions to sketch and paint the rolling landscapes that her soft eyes laid upon. It’s from these relatives that I have learnt, in order to be a successful artist, you must look for the detail others may miss and a pocket sized sketch pad is an artist’s best friend. Auntie Carolyn was my closest relation, being my mother’s only sibling and living only a couple of doors away. Like the others she was also an artist: a modern artist. She used vibrant colours, enormous canvases and often worked from photographs taken on holidays or significant events. Her studio was what I had always envisaged an artist’s studio to be like; paint splattered floorboards, books piled high and artwork hanging wonkily covering the whitewashed walls. During school breaks we would spend days together discussing art and sometimes she would teach me techniques using unusual materials or help me with art projects.
In the heat of one summer afternoon, I arrived at an artist’s house situated in the tiny fishing harbour village of Bosham. I knew this artist would inspire me. As I walked up the crunchy gravel driveway a model sailing yacht made out of driftwood stood proudly in the wooden window frame of the old cottage. As I ducked under the vintage, floral patterned bunting that was strung from tree to tree, an array of art work created using flotsam and jetsam was laid out before me. In brightly coloured flower borders stood rustic wooden groins salvaged from a beach redevelopment scheme. The tatty children’s wendy house had been taken over by stacks of drift wood, and other found objects. Inside the house itself homemade artwork lined the walls accompanied by the sense of a cosy country home. ‘This is perfect’ I thought. For me it was this day that started my dream, my passion, to become a beach artist just like Jan Guest.
From that day on, everything I was interested in changed for the better. Art projects included driftwood, an element of the coast or homemade ornaments. My bedroom became closer and closer to looking like a beach hut; stripy blue cushions lined my sofa, distressed cream shelves, upon sat drift wood or model yachts. I knew that I wanted to pursue a career as an artist: a beach artist. I dreamt about it day and night, it gave me a niggly feeling inside, the feeling I now call happy flies.
As I gazed aimlessly across the golden sands of Fistral beach, the jet black silhouette of a young couple walked hand in hand towards me with the warm orange hue of the setting sun behind them. Thin wisps of cloud floated lazily through the otherwise perfect sky. To the west the remains of a single vapour cloud left us a reminder of those travelling far away, maybe somewhere tropical or somewhere icy cold, maybe somewhere nearby or remote. One lone seagull elegantly sailed towards the horizon into the evening sun, heading to its roost for the night, chattering to itself. The horizon itself was a haze of salmon pink and terracotta, like the old worn tiles of a traditional Spanish villa; the round glow of the sun only just peeping up about the vast stretch of aquamarine. The soft lapping of the waves onto the shore provided a soothing sound, ideal for relaxing and forgetting the world. The movement of the tide throughout the day had left strands of sun dried seaweed scattered along the shore, creating a salty yet somehow sweet smelling aroma. The last few surfers were packing away their equipment into their classic Volkswagen Campervans before settling down for a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. For me, surrounded by my paint palettes and water pots, snuggled under my tartan rug, I was in my element as I began to add the final touches to my water colour landscape.
Different types of paint: oil, acrylic or watercolour. Specific colours: Payne’s grey, Camidion red, Ochre. Art lingo, meetings and galleries; as a child I was surrounded by the hustle and bustle of an artist’s life. From the age of three, I drew pictures for my parents, made greeting cards or was creative with glitter or felt. For birthdays, Christmas and any other occasion I received art or craft equipment. Over the years I acquired a wide range of paint tubes, paint brushes and art books exploring techniques and ideas. I remember sitting in the mellow shade of a garden umbrella, amongst the long grass that covered my grandparent’s garden. The warmth of the afternoon sun surrounded me as the sketching pencil in my hand created uneven marks across the page to try and resemble the object that lay in front of me. My grandparent’s garden was a multi-coloured puzzle of different plants and flowers muddled together to create a beautiful scene. Neat pathways were mown through the wild grass that dominated the majority of the land, creating what seemed like a maze perfect for me to run around. Butterflies fluttered from flower to flower whilst birds perched chirping to one another on the sturdy branches of the ancient oak trees. Beneath these towering trees squirrels scampered shyly away after retrieving a wind fallen acorn.
Family members were always supportive and enthusiastic about my art. My great auntie Jo, a keen potter for many years of her life, once said to me; “No matter what happens, I will support you, whether it’s living in a beach hut or owning an art studio, I will be here for you.” To me now this is even more significant, as if she is looking down on me, still giving me the encouragement I need in my every step. Big Grandma, known for her height, was a watercolour artist. Although she never sold her artwork, she enjoyed perching in obscure positions to sketch and paint the rolling landscapes that her soft eyes laid upon. It’s from these relatives that I have learnt, in order to be a successful artist, you must look for the detail others may miss and a pocket sized sketch pad is an artist’s best friend. Auntie Carolyn was my closest relation, being my mother’s only sibling and living only a couple of doors away. Like the others she was also an artist: a modern artist. She used vibrant colours, enormous canvases and often worked from photographs taken on holidays or significant events. Her studio was what I had always envisaged an artist’s studio to be like; paint splattered floorboards, books piled high and artwork hanging wonkily covering the whitewashed walls. During school breaks we would spend days together discussing art and sometimes she would teach me techniques using unusual materials or help me with art projects.
In the heat of one summer afternoon, I arrived at an artist’s house situated in the tiny fishing harbour village of Bosham. I knew this artist would inspire me. As I walked up the crunchy gravel driveway a model sailing yacht made out of driftwood stood proudly in the wooden window frame of the old cottage. As I ducked under the vintage, floral patterned bunting that was strung from tree to tree, an array of art work created using flotsam and jetsam was laid out before me. In brightly coloured flower borders stood rustic wooden groins salvaged from a beach redevelopment scheme. The tatty children’s wendy house had been taken over by stacks of drift wood, and other found objects. Inside the house itself homemade artwork lined the walls accompanied by the sense of a cosy country home. ‘This is perfect’ I thought. For me it was this day that started my dream, my passion, to become a beach artist just like Jan Guest.
From that day on, everything I was interested in changed for the better. Art projects included driftwood, an element of the coast or homemade ornaments. My bedroom became closer and closer to looking like a beach hut; stripy blue cushions lined my sofa, distressed cream shelves, upon sat drift wood or model yachts. I knew that I wanted to pursue a career as an artist: a beach artist. I dreamt about it day and night, it gave me a niggly feeling inside, the feeling I now call happy flies.