A postcard from 1923

I have a new hobby: I am painting plants and insects on the back of vintage postcards, from the Victorian era up to pre world war II. Some are still blank but others were written and sent.

I love reading the faded words, inspecting the old stamps, imagining the people writing soft and loving words to long gone birthday girls. I place my designs in a way that the name of the recipient of the card is still visible, as well as the sender’s signature and their parting words. The body of the message is usually mundane but the last words often moving. This is where true affection shows itself: “Hope to see you soon now, just two more weeks, with best love”, “With fondest love, Mummie and Daddie xxxxxx”, “Lots of love, Auntie Lizzie and Auntie Pat”.

Were Auntie Lizzie and Auntie Pat two unmarried sisters living together, writing to their niece for her birthday? Why was “Dear little Ivy” far away from Mummie and Daddie on her birthday? We will never know… but they missed her.

I like the names as well: Ivy, Beatie, Ethel, Gladys, Florence, Norah, Ella…

When these cards were sent the image on the front was exposed in the collection or pinned on the wall. A hundred years later, the writing on the back is more precious and certainly more mysterious. The cards meant enough to the recipients that they kept them and they survived for a century. I am hoping that my paintings are giving the words another breath of life, and the inscribed side (with often beautiful handwriting) is now under the glass instead of against the wall. Sweet words telling stories and turning into art.

Sweet so far anyway. I have yet to find one full of insults and bad wishes. If I do, I will use it to paint a venomous spider…

These paintings will be exhibited during my Hampshire Artists Open Studio in a couple of weeks.

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Lazy like a Sunday morning

I know that it’s not the exact title of the song (sorry Lionel), but it is how it feels this morning… I love a lazy, sunny summer Sunday morning breakfast in the garden.

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This 31st of July 2016 is a perfect morning on the South coast of England.

The sky is a flawless intense cobalt blue, and at 10am the sun is not yet strong enough to burn but just enough to warm your skin. There is a gentle breeze swaying the Verbena and scabious but leaving the roses and Hydrangeas as still as in a photograph. The lavenders and scabious are buzzing with all sorts of insects and multicoloured butterflies, all excited at the freshly opened flowers.

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Even the birds look lazy this morning. They perch on the feeder but spend more time looking around, having less than usual frantic conversations while occasionally pecking a seed, more often than not dropping it on the head of the grounded pigeon.

I treasure these fleeting peaceful moments, when you indulge in the beauty of your surroundings and take time to appreciate nature, even domesticated as it is in a suburban garden, in all its exquisiteness and magnificence. It brings to the front the good things in your life, forgetting for an instant the sad and painful times we all have scattered through our existence, as well as the terrible current state of the human world.

This morning my world stops at the garden’s walls and it’s full of sun, filled with a thousand flowers, humming with bumblebees and fluttering with a dozen butterflies, turquoise dragonflies, a few sleepy sparrows, a cooing dove and my dad’s homemade jam.

My little paradise on Earth for a few hours…

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