Splendid Isolation

 

February I
watercolour & gouache
by Teresa Newham

I recently needed to self isolate ahead of a minor hospital procedure and I thought making art would take my mind off all the medical stuff.  I needed something self contained, relatively straightforward and above all absorbing.

inspiration from the studio window
© Teresa Newham

Back in February I'd taken some photos of snowdrops and hellebores in the garden, which contrasted with a dogwood behind them.  The flowers were still blooming - I could see them from the studio window - and seemed like an excellent subject for a couple of small watercolours.

adding salt to the very first layer of paint
© Teresa Newham

I started two paintings, laying down wet base washes and sprinking salt over them once they had dried to a gentle sheen. Left overnight, the salt revealed some wonderful patterns as it was removed, the crystals resembling the sugar crystals we used to put in coffee when I was a child.

setting out the composition
© Teresa Newham

Next, I laid out the composition, following the shapes suggested by the salt, adding the outlines and foliage of the bright band of hellebores across the centre of each painting and the snowdrops in the foreground.  I was no longer working from the photos but letting the needs of each painting dictate its progress.

letting the layers evolve
© Teresa Newham

I emphasised the flowers with white gouache, but the hellebores didn't really make any sense until I added their soft green centres. Then everything fell into place.  I still can't decide which of the two pieces I like the best!

February II
watercolour & gouache
by Teresa Newham

From Winter to Spring

early signs of growth on the Mahonia
© Teresa Newham

Having tried out a DSLR camera for the first time last summer - and been completely hooked -  I thought I'd better get one before they are replaced completely by mirrorless cameras and smartphones. I like to buck the trends . . .

dried hydrangea flower
© Teresa Newham

As a point-shoot-hope-for-the-best sort of photographer, I was pleased to find that this approach works well with the new camera.  That's my excuse for not yet having engaged with all the aspects of it, anyway!

Winter flowering heather
© Teresa Newham

The first three photos shown here were taken in my garden at the end of January, when most of the shrubs were still dormant, but there was still a surprising amount to see. Using just the automatic settings on the camera, I was delighted with the results.

Tête-à-tête
© Teresa Newham

The next three pics were taken almost exactly a month later, by which time some of the Spring flowers were out and blossom was showing on the trees.  My neighbour's flowering cherry is full of birds at this time of year, and a source of artistic inspiration.

cherry blossom from below
© Teresa Newham

I have snowdrops in my garden that I transplanted from the family home after my Dad died.  Every year they come up in larger and larger clumps - and because he had so many, there were still plenty left for the person who lives there now.

my Dad's snowdrops
© Teresa Newham

In the last few days I've found all sorts of things have sprung up which I didn't know were there, including this little plant. What is it, I wonder? and how did it get into my border? although it's quite possible I may have planted it myself and forgotten about it . . .

something I don't recognise
© Teresa Newham

The hellebores have been marvellous this year. Every time I look out of the window, I see more and more of them - they've almost completely taken over that part of the garden, along with a slightly out-of-control cornus. Must be all the rain we've had!

the hellebores are spectacular
© Teresa Newham

Nature is a great comfort at this difficult time when we are asked to stay at home as much as possible.  I count myself lucky to have a garden, and hope that sharing these photos will help those who don't. Stay safe.

leaf buds on the acer
© Teresa Newham

snowdrops & hellebores

Snowdrops & Hellebores
original watercolour by Teresa Newham

Snowdrops and hellebores are the first plants of the year to flower in my garden.  The hellebores start to push their way up by the end of January, reminding me to tidy away last year's foliage; the snowdrops - a relatively late variety - emerge in February.

source materials & initial sketches
© Teresa Newham

The snowdrops are particularly precious because I transplanted several clumps of them from my Dad's garden a few weeks after he died; they were flowering at the time of his funeral in early March. To me they are a sign of hope and a promise of better (and warmer) things to come.

laying out a design on Arches watercolour paper
© Teresa Newham

At one point our late winter weather was so inviting that I thought it might be possible (with the help of various layers and a pair of fingerless gloves) to venture outside and paint the flowers en plein air.  But then the snow came - several inches of it - and they disappeared completely from view . . .

basic washes of Transparent Yellow, Permanent Sap Green
and Cobalt Blue over masking fluid
© Teresa Newham

To my delight both reappeared again after the thaw; the hellebores in particular seemed to have gained a new lease of life, with so many stems branching up that I had to leave some out when deciding on the composition for the painting.

adding detail
© Teresa Newham

As ever, the final result says more about how I feel when I visit that part of the garden than any photograph could - the delicate snowdrops and the vigorous hellebores glowing as the days start to lengthen and the birdsong increases. Spring is coming!

the finished painting
© Teresa Newham

Just after seven

The mild winter has brought blossom to the trees in central London.  Snowdrops are appearing in the garden, a reminder that we will have the joy this year of discovering exactly what our garden contains.  Ironically we are having a cold snap just as the days are starting to lengthen noticeably - and yesterday morning the birdsong at dawn moved me to write a poem for the first time in ages:

© Teresa Newham 2012

Today a thrush was singing to the dawn
just after seven.  A clear and frosty morning
as though an unseen Hand had spread a sparkling veil across the land.
I wondered: did he sing for joy
or simply to keep warm?
or was he singing to the trees -
calling the sap to rise, the Spring to struggle from its knees?
Today a thrush was singing to the dawn
just after seven.  A clear and frosty morning.
A glimpse of Heaven.