At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan
all photographs © L.M.Noonan
I've been pushing oilpaints around on a canvas I put away a couple of months ago and while I still have some things to resolve I'm enjoying the doing and of course the smell.
I don't want to post a picture just yet so I'm putting up some photos of rather mundane subjects with a little twist.
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1 comments:
I absolutely love the middle photograph. The feet and the cat are strugging to tell a story. I am addicted to diagonals and the shadows fulfill the need. I could go on but you are probably bored to tears by this drivel.
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