I paint in water colour directly from the live model - and
that’s about as demanding as it can get.
I can only maintain the intense high that is needed for a little over
one hour. However, it takes me an hour
beforehand to mentally brace myself for the ordeal that lies ahead. And let me tell you, balancing one wet colour
against another is an ordeal.
At the end of the preparatory one hour, I’m all keyed up and
ready to go. That is assuming my model
has arrived on time!
Being on time is important.
When my studio was in the England, the prompt arrival of my models was
as good as a time check. One of my UK models
applied to join the armed forces and put my name down as a referee. When the form arrived from the recruiting office
I was at a loss as to how an artist’s model could qualify. Then I had a brainwave and wrote: “If
battle commences at 12.00 hours you can be assured she’ll be there on time!”
Alas, Dominicans are not the world’s best time keepers and
many sessions end before they begin. To
save my frustration I tell my models, it’s better never than late.
Today’s abortive modelling session gave me time to complete
repairs to a 75 year old mantle clock. The
clock was brought to my workshop some weeks ago. Many parts were either missing or damaged and
I almost gave it up as a bad job. But
clock-making is in my family’s blood and I doubt if my grandfather Enoch would
have forgiven me if I had thrown in the towel.
Thanks to his spiritual guidance from the next world, aided and abetted
by my father Albert alongside him, the clock is now ticking and chiming to
perfection.
Incidentally, for the benefit of any clockmakers who might
read this entry, I made a replacement pendulum-suspension-spring out of a
Wilkinson Sword Edge razor blade. I bet
that’s never been done before!
Today’s picture shows the clock mechanism before work
commenced.