I Decorate A Bowl

I've been meaning to get my paints out for months. Passers-by may have got the impression that I have, may have noticed that I recently applied a coat of grey eggshell to my front door, and I touched up the external frames with white gloss. But I did these things in adult mode, thinking about weathering and rot. Getting my paints out means something else. It's what I do when I want to take my inner child out to play (I Paint A Canvas). 

Last week, I met my goddaughter at the Emma Bridgewater factory in Stoke. She'd booked us into the painting studio so we had a table for two and a couple of hours. There was a choice of ready-made pots to paint, a wheel of colours, sponges, brushes, pencils and a sander for rubbing out mistakes.

I was choosing from the ready-cut sponge shapes when I let myself be drawn to the dinosaurs. I chose the one that looks like a brontosaurus: the one I grew up with but now have found out never existed. 

Dinosaurs weren't in my plan, nor was green, not that I had a plan. Somewhere in the back of my mind was lodged the thought that I'm not the target market for dinosaurs. Being in the easy company of Ruth, an early years teacher, made all the difference. She was encouraging about dinosaurs - no shape out of bounds - and her enthusiasm released my inner green thunder lizard.

Having started with the dino, representative for me of my elder son, the next choices were easy: musical notes, flowers, a swallow, bees and three cakes; symbols of our family sponged onto a French bowl.

All the while we were chatting, and Ruth was painting her pottery too. It looks amazing and I can't wait to see it once it's been fired. I can't tell you more, though, as it may become a present for someone. Mine's a present to myself: reminder of my children, myself as a child, the child I am still becoming. 

I Paint A Canvas

Back in the spring I had a sudden urge to paint.  The urge came out of a therapeutic conversation - something to do with my inner child, something, it being therapy, to do with woundedness.


I sometimes find it hard to write because I'm a poet, and so I judge anything I write with a critical eye, even stuff like shopping lists and diary outpourings meant for my eyes only.  I needed a new, uncritical mode of self-expression.


I told a friend about the urge and the next time I saw him, he gave me a set of acrylic paints.  Everyone needs a friend like this.  Being well-brought up, I had no choice then but to respond to his kindness by going to buy some canvasses and brushes.


My first attempt involved painting my inner darkness.  It turns out that my inner darkness is a sludge-greeny-brown colour.  Halfway through, sick of brown, I got out the orange, and, enjoying its orangey-ness more than expected, ended up looking at the work of my inner 5-year old half an hour later.


I sent a photo of the painting to my friend by way of a thank you letter:

Painting #1

I received an unexpectedly kind and non-judgmental response, mentioning a Star.  Even though I know that the sun is a star, I hadn't thought of it like that.

Still having quite a lot of orange left, I embarked on Painting #2:

I took this canvas to therapy, proud of the depiction of my inner 6-year-old's free-ranging spirit.  "Well," said TP, "That's a fine Picture of Hell if ever I saw one.  I'll see you next week."

For Painting #3 I decided to restrict myself to blue and yellow.  I'd like to say that this was an artistic choice, or even a therapeutic choice, but it was a choice determined by the colours of the free samples of paint available in the local art shop.  I decided to name this painting before anyone else could get in there first.

Painting #3 - Free Samples



Painting #4 occurred when I had a vase of sunflowers on the table.  I also had candles on the table and it was a lot of fun dripping molten wax in lines across the canvas, watching them set, then putting my fingers into the paint and spreading it around.  I'm not sure what this is called, or how old I was when I was painting it, but maybe someone else will tell me.

Painting #4