Illustration and story

I wouldn't call myself a storyteller.
Although I did once tell a tale, off the cuff, in the car, to my sons when young, that went down a storm.

About a pig.

A pig who got a reputation for interior decorating and design!?

Inspired, no doubt, by the pig farm we passed on the A303. Not that they showed any design flair.
And the whole story told in a broad West Country accent.......not my own.....I judge by the audience reaction and have to say it was a hit.

But that's largely it.

So, having confided that, I suspect this next confidence shared will meet with a nervous titter.
It certainly generates an anxious feeling in me.







These new paintings keep suggesting storylines.
The characters develop names and characteristics of their own as each painting progresses.
Little snippets of their history and their relationships become apparent.
In short I feel I need to write about them.
Violette and the slouchy hare have sealed the deal.
Although the picture is unfinished it keeps on talking to me, more loudly than those before.



I know it isn't going to be 'once upon a time she met her prince'.
And I strongly suspect it is going to be more an excavation of my own psyche but perhaps it could be more widely fruitful than that.

I am uncomfortably straddling two thoughts about my work:
one that I have never been more vainly deluded
and t'other, that I am drawing (no pun) closer to the crux of it and discovering some real fruit.

So it is in faith of the latter thought and in honour of the more frequently appearing muse that I share the whisperings of my heart.
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