Hi-Vis Portrait, or traffic control officer in the manner of Reynolds

One of the unexpected side effects of the plague is a resurgence in Georgian hairstyles. Many are embracing the difficulties of home hairdressing: simply shaving random strips on the sides of their heads, and tying the rest up samurai style. Or some, like me, just look like Dr Johnson.

The demands of workplace health and safety are also forcing a lot of workers into peacock coloured hi vis clothing of a Regency-like brightness. For many of them, I expect this is the most vivid clothing they have ever worn.

I saw a traffic control officer at a local building site, swaddled in his hi vis pullover. His fresh complexion was set off by the ginger ringlets of his home-made mullet. He was framed by the crepuscular gloom of the underground carpark he was guarding. He was, simply, a subject fit for Joshua Reynolds.

If only Joshua Reynolds were here …

A lump of wood

Spending time alone can be a difficult art to master, but it is, I think, worth doing. I have had a lump of wood sitting on my windowsill for many years. I had not spent more than a minute or so looking at it at any one time, and then for a total of maybe ten minutes in all those years. I certainly had never looked at it for a solid three hours. Then I decided to paint it. Hours later the painting was finished, and I had never noticed so much about the lump of wood before, or appreciated it so much.

Still, but full of life

Getting priorities straight with Henry Hanke

Henry Hanke painted his fair share of the great and the good. But when he was commissioned to paint a commemoration of the Australian Navy’s efforts in World War II, he picked someone from the ranks: Able Seaman Walker.

This is my copy of the Walker portrait. Apparently the white shroud is anti-flash gear, to protect the wearer from fire. It also has the effect of making them look like a medieval pilgrim.

I learned a lot from making this copy. Thank you Henry Hanke for the picture, and thank you, Able Seaman Walker.

Still life with feathers

A cat, it was, that did it. There were vestiges of a struggle, but the poor bird had little chance.

The cat, well-fed, was content to take the life and leave the body for the ants and for me to paint.

The bright little bubble of an eye still caught the light.