On waking there are two symmetrical neat circles of fox curled on our neighbour’s shed roof. I inspect the garden and note this morning’s flattened plants, where they lay earlier. I find a totem, lost by someone else. Fox energy is clever, playful, shape-shifting, signifies the ability to observe unseen. Dog chases, myopically barking.
There is a cotton skin between me and the weather. Inside I can hear the percussion of rain, but feel dry. I am less separated from nature, yet swipe at the sides of the tent. I coax a wasp out into brief sunshine, return to my canvas indoors. Spider, beetle, hover fly take cover in my beloved summer palace.
Droplets of water sweat inside the plastic pocket, ink slowly dissolves to turquoise. A black and white cat is missing – lost, injured, dead? I wonder about the untold story, the ending. I wish the neighbourhood was full of posters bright with fresh pictures of found cats. At the miraculous return of one cat I heard about recently, I felt tears rise to my eyes, my breath quickening.
Blackberries need enough rain to swell the berries, and enough sun to sweeten them. This wet sometimes sunny August grows an irresistable prize to pluck from a hedge row. The sharp sweet tang of vitamin C spreads on my tongue.
Under the sign of Leo, at ‘Lion’s Gate’, a lion demands to be bought at Heston Service Station. He feels like an ally, with his open smile and tousled mane. ‘Syrius Blumenthal’ becomes his name. ‘Ginger Girl’ – less easily pleased – makes friends with him. Her eyes also glitter, dark holes at the centre. Two creatures sit side-by-side, ginger fur asking to be stroked, inviting love.
I found a mouse left dead on the pavement. I instinctively swept it deftly into a doggy poo bag. If it has been poisoned it could cause serious harm to other animals if eaten, so I take it home. On close inspection it has been squashed – a blunt force trauma to the torso, but no obvious signs of blood. It’s tiny paws and teeth – so annoying when busy scratching under our stairs – now fill me with awe. I am sad to see its limp lifeless body, admire the way its whiskers glisten in the sunlight.
Tree and Roots’ 2019 Oil on panel 62.5x75cm.
With exquisite attention to detail Julian Perry’s paintings document loss, the effects of rising sea levels and “weather weirding”. His work reflects the passage of recent time, a disappearing landscape through images of specific chunks of fallen coast. Beyond beautiful painted images; his work offers a contemplative commentary on our changing environment. See more of his work at www.julianperry.info.
It’s a sign. Holes bored in a skull by eons of sea washing in, washing out. Socket for eyes, smaller for nose, a comet shaped mouth. Cranium worn rounded but the bone of my imagination is replaced by the waxy feel of unpolished chalk. “The Isle of Thanet in ancient times”, our Air B and B host says, “was known as The Isle of the Dead”. We walk along its shore now full of vigour, picnic and holiday enjoyment, but it was once a liminal place, a resting site for our ancestors.
I am walking on the Kent coast in search of omens and answers. This stone calls me, crude shape of love. A heart of stone, in search of softening perhaps? I hold this stone heavy in my pocket. I feel its comforting elbows as I grasp it. Sand granules gather in my pocket, abrading my palm as they rub off. I am with those I love, I am loved. I carry the stone home, bumping my leg, coat tied round my waist, a signifier of this here now.
Tumbled from a pram? Misplaced? Dropped? I find this rabbit – not yet worn by love – tucked between railings on a wall in Love Walk. I hope that it will be reclaimed…