A year and a half ago I attended life drawing sessions which were held during the middle of the day. Being so used to night-time life drawing sessions, it was a revelation to draw with natural daylight illuminating the figure.
Eight months ago, I found a 'failed' painting and decided to save it, using one of those original life drawings as the basis. The figure started to dissolve and my memory of the open window next to her, with leaves, trees, fences started to play a bigger part. I did what I could then turned the canvas to the wall, still unhappy.
Fast forward to a month ago. I once again took up the canvas, determined not to hold back. I once again held onto the memory, attacking it with all the materials at hand. I didn't discriminate between pen, pastel or paint. The result fascinated me. Much more fragmented, with the garden memories taking over the picture. Yet I felt it was more real, and more my own voice.
Oil, ink, pastel, graphite, oil pastel, charcoal, and pen on canvas
50 x 50 cm
An earlier version of the painting: