Well, I gather the storms, this weekend, put pay to alot of holiday plans, but I get a real buzz seeing the sea so wild and messy.

The kids were prised from the sofa, and we all went to sit in the car, at Bamburgh, to watch the sea. The car rocked with the wind, and foam blew onto the dashboard, each time I opened the window to take a picture.

My partner and I ventured out, to lean into the wind. I wasn't as intrpid as some: I watched a figure, tripod and camera at the ready, heading down to the stag rock.

I've never seen the water at Budle Bay so close to the road, and so choppy; small waves carved their way along the bank, which is usually grassy and exposed.

Unfortunately, I lost all of the photos I took, that day, due to a misunderstanding between myself, and my newly repaired laptop. I did visit twice more, though; On Saturday we drove up the coast, looking at Embleton, Beadnell, Annstead and Bamburgh. The wind had dropped, it was sunny and the waves were more defined. I began painting on Saturday afternoon.

I like elements of the sketch: I like the immediacy of the brushstrokes, and oil suits the subject matter, for me. It slicks onto the surface, and I feel I echoe some of the movement of the water.

I want to work more en plein air- these are from a photo, and feel I can get alot of information, about the shapes the water makes, and the texture, which satisfies my need to own these beautiful patterns, but I enjoy the energy and unselfconscious mark-making of the en plein air work. I think the studio studies help me build an understanding of the patterns and shapes made by the sea's energy, but the process of working outside, and even just spending time watching the water, adds the energy to the paintings. I don't want to lose the movement and power, which I witnessed first hand, this weekend.

I've been a bit under the weather. Trying not to bump into too many folk, and have to go into an explanation about my shoulder-in-spasm, (Sounds like an unpopular relation.) as it inevitably forges a pattern for the rest of the conversation...Still, (and I have been, very still.) I'm on the mend, able to put on and remove my own clothes (could have been quite sexy, but for the shrieks of pain- mine, not his, and my insistence on a little attention to detail- 'No, the other way round...)

March, I find, is a funny month, anyway; Nature stirring: lambs, daffs, birds, yet my own sap seems reticent to rise at the same rate. 'Perhaps when it's warmer/less windy/not raining- Oh, is it April, already?

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't done a stroke, this year, but I do feel something has got away from me in the past week; Outside the window, stuff happens- bursts, buds, blossoms, squawks, shags, while I have to content my drug-addled brain with Series 1 of Green Wing and a hot water bottle. with eagerness I anticipate another round of acupuncture; and with less enthusiasm, a round of muscle prodding and shoulder manipulation.

Friends call. (Call yourself a friend? Ringing me up, in my misery to tell me how many exhibitions you're booked to do, how well the painting's going?) I execute a range of moves, set to increase my range of movement, guaranteed to make me look like a duck defending its nest.

Quack.

Never mind, My dear old Ma would say, never mind. How about a nice cup of tea? That'll do nicely, for now.

Wish me speedy recovery, folks.

I went to my friend's this morning. We drank tea and planned a weekend in September for an exhibition:

Natasha will open her garden ,and I will exhibit work, painting in the garden. The weekend is the 13th and 14th of September. We discussed the idea of a private view, on the Friday, but, rightly, Natasha fears for her more delicate flora, the risk of a drunken body tumbling over in the fading light (probably mine).

We have a building, in which the work will be exhibited.It does need a window and electricity, but we are high on the adrenaline of a new project, and optimistic.

It was sketching in Natasha's garden, last summer, that drew me from my studio, and back outdoors, to work again.

Her garden is freshly cut back and weeded, awaiting the new flush of growth that will overtake the narcissi and snowdrops.

Her garden, Fowberry Mains is in the yellow book, and is open this summer, for the first time.

Half term is nearly at an end. I fear I'm about to go into a period of mourning; I spend too long, at the beginning of the holiday, attempting to bravely soldier on- with paperwork, with tasks that come under the title of 'pottering'. It has taken me till this morning, to embrace the spirit and have a jolly good loaf about. I know I've missed my opportunity to recharge my batteries properly

Commissions are varnished; too windy to rouse a family route march, in the name of 'fresh air', I was still in my dressing gown at 10, reading Terry Jones' book on the middle ages, a foot dangling in front of the halogen heater; a pile of dirty dishes in the washing up bowl; a pile of clean dishes precariously stacked on the draining board.

Guilt made me dress, at 10.30am- In my mind, braver souls stay in pyjamas till lunch, perhaps even not stepping over the threshold; Children sprawled on furniture, or gluing the cat onto a collage.

Secretly (till now) I have dreaded the arrival of my Mother-Out-Law, who, with a menacingly cheerful cry, would knock-and-come-in, on her way back from a dawn hike, or after tilling a stony acre before 9am, or having marked a 'solid 'A' sample', from her exam board allocation, before morning coffee.

It is not that she openly criticises my pace of life, but she represents, to me, a way of thinking, set in some women I know.

It has taken me too long, I think, to resist the urge to demure to this workhorse approach to life. I admire my M.O.L. She is an academic, a talented writer, a gardener and all round good egg. She throws herself into her work with enthusiasm, never giving anything less than her best.

I can, at last, (at least, most of the time!) shrug off the feeling that I should be ploughing the same furrow:

No longer will I take pride in having dug the whole vegetable patch. I feel no loss of face that my partner does the lion's share of the hefting, lugging and general heaving of heavy objects. My back gave in long before I stopped feeling like a lesser human, for not being able to carry a sack of coal on my back, or wrestle an ox.

I resist the compulsion to batch bake for charity, which has seen me icing cakes before breakfast, or panic buying bun cases.

I say 'no' to charities that ring and ask me to sell raffle tickets, and feel no guilt.

I step down from the bar, it's simply not my bag; I spent too long, trying to do everything, trying to be everything, an achieving relatively little.I can divide myself into artist, dance teacher, writer & mother, but fit little else into this life. I only spare a little time, occasionally, to regret the time I wasted trying to be.

I meet women very like my M.O.L. who do so much, work so hard, so selflessly, and sometimes detect the whiff of bitterness, or remember my own, wondering why everyone wasn't working as damn hard as me...

Anyway, I think I've said what I wanted to say, this morning, in a round about way, but I really must go and do something, (I think I hear my M.O.L. calling...)

I added pictures to the blog, this morning, after entertaining the possibility that some readers may like to know about THE WORK.

I'm currently working on a couple of commissions, with a couple pending.

I have, of late, made trips to the coast, to paint en plein air. I was really very self-conscious, about the act of painting, but am finding it much easier now, not to rush the process of making work when I feel I may be under scrutiny- (By seagulls?!)

I especially enjoyed a foray to Bamburgh, in the wild winds in December. The experience, in the end, was all process, as the pictures were adorned with cat paw prints before drying out, unfortunately!

I began sketching outdoors again, last year, in a friend's garden:

My kids are now of an age where they are able to feed themselves, argue effectively against going places with Mother, etc. So, I was able to pack pastels and drive over the hill and sit in the sunshine, surrounded by a horticultural vision.I want exhibit the finished work and sketches sometime, perhaps in a building near the garden (It will be open for The National Gardens Scheme).

I will have some work from the garden to show on the art tour, ( details to follow) in the meantime.

I said what..?

So, lovely little party; drinks on Friday, just a few of 'the girls'. Boy, was I looking forward to a bit of social...
It has been a hectic few weeks, starting classes means rehearsing dances and planning- plus a couple of commissions I'd rashly promised for the end of the month.
Yessir, get me out of the old painting smock-and-beret, and into something a little more sophisticated- something a grown-up might consider. something that doesn't sport a dollop of oil paint, pasta sauce, or mud.
Well. I woke somewhat painfully this morning, the memory of me drunkenly announcing- completely out of the blue- to a group of well-to-do and well educted women 'And I got a pasta machine for £3.50 from Boots!'
Ye gods.
Climbing the dizzy intellectual heights once more- someone just lever that wineglass out of my hand and show me the way to the kettle.
Or just keep me in my studio, where I can't hurt myself, or other people.
Crowds can watch from a safe distance, at feeding time.
ho hum.

New Year

Happy New Year! One and all (or, more likely, one and another one.)
'It's all over bar the shouting.' My old dad used to say. Not exclusively about the christmas period, you understand- about lots of different, mostly farm-related stuff. The harvest, for instance, or the sheep dipping rituals.
The saying puzzled me briefly, at each count, for with my dad's particular method of farming, shouting seeming de rigeur at all points before and during whichever task dad had employed himself to complete...
Not strictly true, actually. The shouting usually depended on the attendance, or, indeed, non-attendance of one, or even both (God help us) of my elder brothers.
Such contrasts were not unknown to me, as witnessing my pa, (always a weathered shade of pink, at the best of times), his paternal eye on some grazing stock, enjoying the serenity of the moment, then, in a flash, his head to appear is if to boil from within, the puce of blind rage, fists curled to white-knuckled tension, at, perchance, the sight of a combine harvester dancing across the top of some hedge, issuing it's precious gleening of wheat, alongside the straw; A heedless son attendant to the rhythms of a (New-Fangled) radio. Or sometimes it would take only words; the mere issue of some telephone message; (In the days before mobile phones a farmers wife may have trekked miles to deliver words of wisdom from a vet, or sought out a signature, orworse, a cheque...)
yes, farming out in the open air, the green grass, the blue sky, the blue language...fond memories- dad's little sayings- 'Oi, Buggalugs,' His term of endearment for any family member within earshot (Oh, how my mother suffered.) 'For the want of a nail...' from, of course the famous poem- and Dad's reasoning for keeping every mortal key, nail, screw and old fuse that he ever came across- pick a scrap, go on, any scrap. dad was an expert, a specialist in his firld (and it had to be a big field, because there was alot of scrap- the family, in ill-humoured moments were apt to drop the 's'- possibly in the spirit of throwing away something that was no longer needed.)
...Yes pointto something, anything, (oh, well, maybe not that- the collie killed that, this morning. Dad would proclaim 'That, now that is the longward up-adjuster for a 1936 Massey-Fergusson threshing machine...'
Fabulous, Pa, I bet the rest of it is around here, somewhere.
'And this is the rankle forstwinder for a German FirstWorld War Helmet-Shuffler.'
Somewhere in time and space, some technology would have an application for the kind of brain my Pa enjoyed. Somewhere that didn't really mind where things got put, but, had a need for the identification of randomly placed, unrelated articles. Nevermind Dad.
He landed 'farmer' instead, and a modern farming operation requires more, an eye on modern farming methods, business acumen and a nose for trends...
Oh, you know what? my youngest has turned the telly on, and Simpsons have successfully switched off my mind.
perhaps it's just as well.
I had set out to talk about being ill at christmas, and kids throwing up before opening their stockings, but, maybe there are a million other blogs recounting the same...
Ta, Dad.