Jasmine (our African Grey parrot) and I used to go for long walks in the Gex countryside.  We saw all sorts of things and took loads of photos, which have since become a source of reference shots for paintings for the Gex book.  Well, I took the photos and did the walking, and Jazzy sat and climbed around in her backpack cage on my back, eating and looking around.

During one of our jaunts we came across some cows being transported to the fields for grazing.  During the winter the cows around Gex are kept in or near the barn, and during the late spring and summer they’re brought out to the pastures. ‘Cow-Bus’, (13″ x 10″) seems a good name for this painting.

It was fun painting this.  Jazzy and I had a great time out that day.  It was so pretty everywhere, spring was vibrant with bright new flowers, butterflies, bees, insects buzzing everywhere, fresh air, and sunshine.

Jazzy was chatting away as usual, making impressive hawk sounds and generally commenting on things.  She liked to chat, sometimes she chatted in a continuous flow of non-stop, almost unintelligible words.  One time we were sitting at a bench and she was doing this. Someone got out of a parked car and crossed the street to ask if I had a radio on, and then discovered Jasmine.  Of course, Jazzy was delighted because then she was admired and soon someone else came and she had a crowd talking to her.  From then on, whenever she chatted like that (which was much of the time) we called her chatter: ‘radio Jasmine’.

Here you can see a more close-up view of the tractor window.  There’s quite a bit of detail in this painting.

I’ve decided that I like detail, and perhaps more of a graphic-type look, rather than an overt so-called ‘painterly’ look, which often seems to translate to a more sophisticated look. I’ve had quite some difficulty trying to understand what style paintings I want to create, because I admire many different styles.  But I think I do best with a simpler expression, and it has been such a good feeling, almost a relief, to discover this.

This painting was painted using Corel Painter 11.

The thick braided muscles on his forearm tensed as he lifted the axe above his head.  There was a sharp crack as the wood split clean down the middle.  He leaned down to hoist the next log onto the thick tree stump.  Again he raised the axe.  Someone could have marked time by the rhythmic motions of his body and the distinct sounds of the woodcutting.

Tom had wielded an axe since his grandfather taught him when he was eight years old.  Now, at twenty-eight, he could keep a steady, constant pace for two hours.  After a ten minute rest he’d resume his work with the same vigor he’d had at the beginning of the day.

The August noonday sun was fierce, hardly casting a shadow.  Tom paused to wipe his brow across the short sleeve of his white cotton t-shirt.  A few yards to his left, tiny waves lapped against the rocks.  He was so used to the gurgling and sloshing of the river that silence in this place would have startled him.  A strong pine scent wafted from the short, knotted trees in the woods that hugged the contour of the shoreline.  Tom knew this land better than he did the inside of his house.  He spent most of his time outdoors.

He resumed the flow of the work, his mind clear.  Just as the axe reached its peak, held in momentary suspension before descent, there was a loud crack and the blade shivered as something metallic ricocheted from it.  “What the,” Tom swung the axe one-handed down to his side and swiveled round to cover his back, bringing the axe up to his chest, now holding its broad wooden handle with both hands, ready to swing in defense.

Another bullet whizzed past his right ear.  A man stepped out from behind a tree at the edge of the wood.  “Hi Tom,” he held a rifle, casually and confidently, aimed at Tom’s head.  He was thickset, bronze-red hair hanging loose around his shoulders.

Tom lowered the axe, gripping it with his right hand, “Hi Marty.”

“Told you I’d come find you when you came back.”

“I’ve been waiting.  Where you been?  I’ve been here for over a year.”

Marty held the gun steady, “I ought to  shoot you and be done with it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident?”

“That might be, but you were drunk.”

“And you’re telling me you weren’t?”

“I wasn’t in the raft.  At least I had the common sense to know I couldn’t manoeuvre those rapids.”

“You mean you had to throw up and that’s why you got out and jumped on land while we were still moving down river.”

“You didn’t lose your sister and your fiance.”

“You don’t think I’ve been tortured these last five years?  Sally was my girl, you know I was gonna ask her to marry me.  And I’d known Emily since before I quit wearing diapers,” Tom slammed the axe blade into the wood stump and stood up straight to face Marty square on.  “Go ahead, do it,” he crossed his arms, “I’m waiting.”

Marty stood there, frozen, lips pressed thin.  His bright blue eyes were hardly visible his face was so distorted with bitterness.  The two men stood, one longing to pull the trigger, the other calmly awaiting his fate.

Marty threw the gun down.  It fired, exploding randomly into the air, echoing off the trees and rocky terrain.  “Damn you, I wish I could,” he turned and strode back into the woods.  He vanished, the gun on the ground the only evidence he had ever been there.  Tom noticed the sound of the river, wiped the sweat from his face again and picked up his axe to continue his rhythmical chopping.

A trip to the market cafe reveals Bayeaux Tapestry sugar cube wrappers.

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