caralockhartsmith

stories and illustration

Silver Water

A long time since I went out and stood on the edge of the Lees, and gazed at the river. The river that has been described, possibly by Burns, as “the silvery Tweed”. There is something about being under the strictures of this virus that has altered the way I inhabit the world around me. There is some curtailment of freedom that gets into one’s marrow. People being up near each other looks somehow strange. So however lucky we are in our own landscape, in our relative lack of stress compared to so many, all the same, something burrows into the mind. When I am out in my studio, there I don’t feel it. The birds come and go. The blackbird, who flew into our window at night several years ago, and looked so peaky last year I thought she was dying, with all her feathers fallen out where she had hit herself, and her bare back of skull this strange bent shape, almost like the head of a snake, and a miserable ambience about her – well, this autumn, she is back, with a new quite pretty ruff of grey feathers round the back of her neck, and is her usual, sprightly, somewhat forceful self. She is so tame, she never flies off when I open the studio door, but just stays where she is. She knows her name, she comes when I call: Miss Ruche, Miss Ruche.

December 26, 2020 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Liddesdale

This is from a few years ago, which is not my usual practice. Lockdown has made me look into imagery, emails, letters – I am sorting out correspondence, turning up such a trove from the past. I know that many people throw things away, but I am not one of them. In a big chest, recently recovered from storage, layers of documents lie, and reading them ressurects something of what has vanished, including letters that my mother left behind when she moved down south; they are all higgledy-piggeldy at the moment, but trawling them throws scintillas into the darkness. There are letters from before my son was born. Maybe it is not healthy to dwell on the past, but then we are none of us that healthy at the moment. This photograph is from the place where my soul still lives, Liddesdale. The River Liddel (Liddle) is one of the Scottish/English rivers, though it is the Liddel Burn that marks the Border a few minutes walk from the old house where I used to live. Now I live in Coldstream, on the Scottish side, still a few minutes walk from the Border Bridge that crosses River Tweed. What will happen if we secede from England? Strange days indeed.

August 24, 2020 Posted by | Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Reclining on the Wall

Memories of a summer in Liddesdale, that seems so far in the past. Is it my imagination, or is there a Lowry painting with the same imagery?

August 24, 2020 Posted by | Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , | Leave a comment

Swan by the Border Bridge

January 9, 2020 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , | 6 Comments

Curled Leaf and Ice

December 26, 2019 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Winter River

December 22, 2019 Posted by | Art, Illustration, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Other Side of the Glass

October 13, 2019 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , | Leave a comment

Bud of Hellebore

October 8, 2019 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fuchsia 2

October 8, 2019 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fuchsia 1

October 8, 2019 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

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