Perspective in art is a glorious illusion, something I’ve been using haphazardly for years in my paintings in a ‘hoping for the best’ kind of way.  But the great thing about teaching something is that you have to learn about it first, so over the last few months I’ve been paying more attention.  Perspective in art is defined as ‘the appearance of things relative to one another as determined by their distance from the viewer’.  Everyone knows that, but what surprises people is the extent to which distance shrinks everything.  How many student paintings have you seen with giant sheep in a distant field, or an enormous cottage on a hillside?

I was trying to explain this in the classroom on Wednesday and, as is often the case, practical examples speak loudest.    We were talking about figures in a painting, and how as they recede into the distance, the eye level remains the same but the feet move in relative to the foreground figures (assuming that all the figures are standing on level ground and are the same height, of course).

Sheila stood at the back of the room; Gill at the front.  There was probably about 30’ between them, so Sheila appeared smaller than Gill.  So far, so obvious.  But how much smaller, do you think.  Have a guess.  Their eye levels remained the same as they were similar height, so if you drew a line along Sheila’s feet, where on Gill’s body did they line up?  Would you believe me if I said that Sheila’s feet lined up with Gill’s waist?  She was exactly half her size, and only the width of a room apart.  To be able to draw, you need to remove your perspective goggles, shut your brain up and treat everything you see as if it was two dimensional. 

That’s enough of that.   I did take time away from the drawing board today for a magical walk around Dinas Head.   Kittiwakes hovered on the clifftops;  I recognised them having spent several days last week studying and drawing seabirds for chapter three.   Why does knowing the name of something enhance our appreciation of it?  I’ll have a think about that one, preferably with a glass of Chardonnay in hand.

busman’s holiday!

There’s something rather depressing about a Travelodge.  Plain and simple and ‘no frills’ is fine, but what was most perplexing was the heated towel rail in the bathroom.  It was disconnected, with a neat tag attached to the end of the lead which said ‘This towel rail has been disconnected for your own safety’. 

It rather reinforces the feeling that you’re in a padded cell for the mentally deranged, because of course you can’t open the windows either, which have been locked for your safety.  You spend the night too hot even under the very flimsy duvet, wondering when all the air in the room will have been used up.

We were enjoying this rather dubious hospitality to exhibit at Beaulieu Boat Jumble last weekend and had an early start on the Sunday morning.  To add to our delight, it was raining first thing – the first rain in weeks on the one day we’re doing an outdoor show.   Perry asked the girl on reception if she had a weather forecast.  She frowned and said ‘no, sorry’…. then inspiration struck.  ‘I think it’s raining at the moment’, she said helpfully.  As Perry had just come in from the car park and his coat was dripping all over the reception desk, the information was not strictly necessary.  Ah well, it was very early in the morning, I suppose.

The day did improve – the sun shone, our new marquee didn’t blow away and the crowds were out in force.  Beaulieu is the largest boat jumble, a wonderful event that flies in the face of all the popular misconceptions that yachting is a posh sport.  Boat jumbles are living proof that most sailors like nothing more than rummaging around in a box of odd rusty shackles and heading home with a cut price length of rope, a pair of mismatched oars and some dubious but cheap antifouling.  In the spirit of the occasion we were doing plenty of discounts, especially on the new log books, and it was a good day.  I was very restrained, I thought, restricting my spending to a pair of dinghy oars (matching) and a dinghy rudder which will be the basis for a piece of artwork.  Eventually.    Here’s the outcome of last year’s Beaulieu ‘bargain’.  Why paint a rudder anyway?  Who knows, I just love the shape.    I could probably find something deep and meaningful along the lines of a rudder giving you direction in life, but perhaps not.  I’ll have another glass of wine and think about that one…..