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Sunday, 7 January 2018

A blank canvas...

the thing is...
where to start with a characterless box of a house?
My style some might say is wacky:
 discarded road signs, the flotsam and jetsam of a bygone era gives me great joy.
With every fibre of my being I have to walk-on-by hub caps that passing cars have shed on their journey through life.
Worrying I know!

Moving has given me sleepless nights, I have lost my way.
Modern just doesn’t get my creative juices going the way an ancient house does.  The very fabric of an old property without trying speaks to you...
the joy, the pain, marriage, consummation, life, death...

Walls made from wattle and daub, full of imperfections weigh in as heavyweights against the pristine perfection of plasterboard...




No contest!

Drinking tea alone at 4am, giving full rein to the doubts...
What have we done? 
Sitting in the pool of light from my reading lamp the plain perfectly formed walls seemed to gloat in the gloom.

Getting up this morning I decide the way forward is to start getting my pictures unpacked and on the walls...
Do something don’t just wallow, 
whinge and moan!
It helps that the day dawns fair and bright and men from across the county are bracing themselves for the second day of a fishing contest.  Small tents are erected tackle out(?), the juiciest lug 
worms are carefully selected and off they go.  Cheek by jowl they 
sit, not a spare patch of shingle can be seen from here to Folkestone.  The day passes, inside spirits lift with just one or two treasures finding their way onto the wall.  Outside they sit, patiently waiting for the one bite that will catapult them up to the top of the leader board.

All is suddenly good in the world in this particular part of the Kent coast...










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