Working upstairs in the cold, bundled up in layers of clothing and restricted in space to move around the easel (and use its flat-table facility) made me think about my dad.
The only space he could paint in, at one time in his life (there were worse, but this one I saw with my own eyes) was a dark garage in a row of six others. It was completely full of paintings - his life's work, as there was no room in the small house with us kids and an elderly aunt who he cared for as well - and his easel and stool were shoved up against the up-and-over door which had to be half-up to allow light in when he was painting. It didn't matter what the weather, snow, ice, rain, fog, he painted for as long as possible every day. Cyril Hamersma worked his socks off.
There will be a smattering of a bridge, cottages in the distance and who knows what before this painting is finished. But it's starting to feel right already.
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