Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be…
Further to my previous post, here’s my current painting after another solid day’s work. I’m hoping to get some more done this weekend, after which it should be almost finished. That’s incredibly fast for me, and suggests that a corner has been turned and that with a new-found sense of purpose and vigour I can finally start taking this art somewhere beyond the back-bedroom of a semi in Bristol.
A new painting is underway, of my favourite animal: the wolf. Beneath are at least two other failed paintings that I wasted most of this month on. All the work you see here has been done in less than 24 hours, which suggests to me that I am at last on the right track. The lesson: paint more wolves.
In an historical sense, we are all to blame for the loss of the wolves. In the nineteenth century when the Indians on the plains were telling us that the wolf was a brother, we were preaching another gospel. Manifest Destiny. What rankles us now, I think, is that an alternative gospel still remains largely unarticulated. You want to say there never should have been a killing, but you don’t know what to put in its place.
Barry Lopez, Of Wolves And Men