10/09/15

It is easy to imagine him waiting for you when you get home, the way it is easy to think about something that obviously isn’t.

A polar bear in a swimming pool.

A carnival ride on a hill.

A boy in a dressing gown handing you a drink as you hang up your keys on a hook by the door.

You are both ordinary.

You were being a petulant child when you saw him the Monday before last because you were wearing a jumper you’d bought when you had been a fractious child.

Perhaps it was the jumper the whole time, you think. Perhaps you were just a child inside a petulant sweater that ate your hands and your waist.  

Maybe you had already been happy.

You suppose you could paint the walls grey.

18 year Elijah Project, year two

Elijah turned two in July and here is the second portrait in the series that I promised him on his first birthday. He is doing his 'special smile' and I'm pretty chuffed about the whole thing honestly. He's still the best human being.

18 year Elijah Project

I have a nephew called Elijah. He is the best human being that probably exists. I promised to paint his portrait every year for his birthday for the first 18 years of his life. Here is last years portrait. Elijah is two in July and I have this afternoon started the second in the series. It reminded me that I never posted the first one. Here it is. He's nearly not one anymore though.

Self Portrait

Personal commission

Terrie

portrait

a portrait of two people looking happy 

portrait

A recently commissioned portrait. 

A portrait with a cat. 

A girl with a recently commissioned portrait. 

A portrait with a cat. 

 

tiny drawings

I made nine tiny drawings and posted them around Hastings Old Town and if you find one you can have one.

a poem for a girl

She survived a famine, and then a love as fast as a flood (though all water must go somewhere eventually, or else it sits still as a lizard until it stinks heavy of ending.)  

He was the cascading gush, the big bang, a flower bursting crimson at her bedside, corporeal lashes like lightening strikes, a hole cut from within.

Each day began with the opening of windows, an assault of fresh air beneath sheets weary with sweat. Her heart was a home and he was a pillow on which to rest her bones.

I suppose green is the colour of loss. It is a bud after all. A sudden space to fill with other. Shoots out of soil like birth. She is a universe being born, a girl kissing with her mouth open. A bird. She is a flicked switch and a dancing flame at once, electric and fire in the dark.

But if she is to find herself in her lostness, she will need to keep swimming in circles.  

dream