Oil on Board
12" x 12"

11.01.2008

If yesterday you had to be an idiot to go out painting, then today you've got to be a total plonker, cos it's absolutely chucking it down and there's no sign of it letting up. Yes, you'd definitely have to be a loon to go out painting today or ... maybe ... a stalwart painter dedicated to the pursuit of capturing the elements and keeping it real. Yeah. Right.

Maybe the rain will ease up.

I make some compromises to the weather:
1. I take a small board - it will get some protection with my d.i.y. painting cover thing.
2. I put the undercolour on before I leave the studios
3. Likewise I get all the paints ready on the palette and wrap the brushes up in a plastic bag.

That's it - let's do this thing.

I'm soaked before I'm half way to town. The coat does a fairly good job of keeping most of me dry, but my hat isn't waterproof and neither are the jeans. Still - what did I expect?

I walk through town looking for somewhere to set up that is vaguely sheltered and has a view. I try Abbey (not so) Green because it's got that archway, but it doesn't do it for me and I head back up to that alleyway with all the shops behind the main drag - the one with Ben's Cookies and the Silver Gift Shop. I've thought about painting it many times and what the hell - why not. Maybe the rain will ease up in a bit.

I set up next to a doorway so at least I can leave my bag out of the rain. The rest of me is gonna get wet (wetter). I set the easel up only to realise that it's taking the big drips from a roof edge somewhere above. I have to move it further out into the open. As I start painting I realise that I've only succeeded in moving the big drops on to my palette and my very un-waterproof wooly glove. Rather than move again I just try and hurry along with the painting, the glove is already soaked and I've started now.

Woman: "Oh, are you the one who does ...", she says and then glances at the painting which I've hardly started. "Ah, no, you haven't done anything yet," and she's on her way. What was she trying to say? Was she talking about the painting? Or was it a telling indictment of my life? I must be the one who does not.

Ah bollocks, just getting wetter and wetter. The gloves are sodden and it now feels like I've got ice packs on my hands. The sleeves of the coat have given up pretending to be waterproof and the hat is sodden, but I guess it is, at least, keeping my glasses clear. I try and slap the paint on as quickly as I can. There're still Christmas decorations up all over town. Unlit and after the event they look awful - they're hanging all across the passage and I leave them out.

Maybe the rain will ease up soon.

I get some odd looks - no surprise there - but I just concentrating on bringing the painting to a vague conclusion. Like the bigger pictures of the last few weeks I leave the outside unfinished. With a few gobs of orange for the lights and reflections I think it's time to make a break for it.

Twat or Stalwart painter dedicated to the blah blah blah?

Whatever. Roll on summer.

Back at the studio I lay everything out to dry - easel half set up spread across the floor with trousers, shoes, coat, hat and gloves all vying for a position in front of the heater. I shuffle about between the obstacles in a pair of sandals and my long johns. I know the easel is there, I should know, I put it there and I can see it plain as day, but still, as I step over it, the lip of the sandal catches the top of the easel's box lid. I try and lift my foot higher but it's caught and the lid comes with it. My momentum is carrying me onward and in slow motion I topple forwards. I reach out but there's nothing to break my fall apart from some paintings and I'd rather take the bruises. I collapse across the easel, the palette and a pile of wet clothes. Surprisingly I don't land too awkwardly and I sustain no real damage. Ah, but the easel. One of it's slender wooden arms lies snapped in two, like the twig it is. Will it ever work again?