Paint and Poppies

Patio, June 2015.

Some of the lovely lilac and purple poppies which grew in abundance through the block-paved drive at our old house have managed to hitch a lift in the tubs we brought here with us.   They weren't deliberately planted in the tubs; their seeds must have been in the soil which came fresh from our compost bins.  The poppies hadn't been deliberately planted in the block-paved drive, either.  They were supposed to grow in the rose border.  Not one poppy grew by the roses.   But along the drive there were so many that by Autumn it was easier to run the mower over it to gather up the dried-up stalks than to clean it up by hand.

Anyway, here they are again, springing up with glorious abundance amongst tubs of plants around the patio.  I'll leave them to seed themselves as they wish.  They probably will, anyway.

Richard and I did some of this year's annual Wirral Open Studios Tour, which was great fun.  Artists and crafts-workers across Wirral throw open their studios to the public, giving people a chance to see original works and where they are created.  And, of course, you can meet the people behind the creations.  Some exhibit as groups, such as those using the Williamson Art Gallery in Oxton.  Others exhibit in tents, or pop-up shops as they're tending to be called.  Others simply throw open the front door to their homes and invite the world to drop by.  We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and visited as many studios around our part of Wirral as we could.

Art Room, June 2015.

We're toying with the possibility of taking part in next year's tour.  In the photo, you can see the cross-stitch peacock which I'm currently working on.  While the embroidery silks look dramatic against the black Aida, I've found it hard on my eyes.  Maybe I need new reading glasses.  Fortunately the quality of light in the room is very good, so this has made progress easier.

On the table, you can see an in-progress pen and ink drawing of Richard's.  The wooden storage box behind that, with the gondola picture on it,  was made by one of my uncles many decades ago when he was an apprentice carpenter/joiner.  It was passed to me by my mother some thirty years ago, with the promise never to repaint it.  Oh well, shabby chic is all the rage. 

Yesterday, I did battle with my art easel.  For the last few years its legs have been folded away while the 'body' of it sat on a 1950's TV table, which rested on painfully squeaky casters, in order to save space.  When unfolded, the easel's three legs take up quite a bit of room.  Anyway we have enough room here, and so now - after having re-mastered the mystery of exactly how the contraption unfolds, and after spilling the entire contents of its inner trays all over the floor -  the easel stands in all its glory in the corner of our art room.  There's even a small canvas sitting on the easel, its stretchers freshly hammered.  All I need to do now is actually paint something.