I have discovered that I adore the view from within my new studio. I sit at the computer; or cuddle up on the couch with a dog or two and a book; or sit at the table puzzling out designs, or the execution of a particularly tricky construction problem; or puddling with paint, and I am happy, again. Mostly.
And there is always the sound of the sea. The constant 'swash' of the waves fills me with echoes of an unfamiliar emotion. I never knew that this sound had been missing from my life until I heard it constantly again after 55 years. It's a long time to wait, but here it is, in my life again. Not a tropical Papua New Guinean swash to be sure, but enough buckle and splash to send joy through the cells of this ageing body.
And as I communicate with you my brain is assembling lots of images of buckling clay and puzzling out ratios such as humidity and sunlight on drying clay, and wondering what the hell is going on with it all. This is part of an 'Objectnalia' series. Or, it was going to be until disaster struck.
Too much afternoon sunlight I suggest. I caught Sunlight pouring in the western window this afternoon. I haven't the heart to draw the curtains whilst the clay dries out so I'll just have to find another place for slow-drying clay.
Perhaps I should just go and ease the pain by picking up a paintbrush and having a glorious dabble?