I’ve clambered on rocky shores with the moonlight on my side many times over. Stopping from time to time, I’ll look up, not only to catch my breath and assess the route ahead, but to absorb the wonder of the pellucid cyan at the crest of an oncoming wave.
‘They can be an irritant,’ my grandmother once told me. ‘They take a long time to dry and are difficult to wash off your hands!’
And so, courtesy of my grandmother’s brief angst towards oil paints, I didn’t touch the medium for twenty years. How impressionable children can be.
Yesterday I found some old oil paints in my friend’s paint box.
There’s nothing quite like painting the ocean. I wanted to be on that ship, with the waves crashing overhead and the taste on salt on my tongue, until I remembered my stomach.