A bolt of love from the blue

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I have been writing a story for sometime now about my father, John Frederick Lingard Fowlds, who died when I was a teen. He never got to know how I, or my brothers and sister turned out as adults, or ever got to meet any of our children, and grandchildren. I began writing his story, fictionalised to some degree, to give the wider family some idea of what kind of person he was. Writing about him has been relatively easy, as he was a funny, warm and loveable man. Very artistic too. The hard part is the loss I still feel for him after so long, and maybe the reason I am taking so long to write his story, is that I don’t wish to lose him again. Continue reading

With a little help from my friends

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Sketch Spain group

Sketch Spain group

This post is about others –  the other sketchers whom I was lucky to spend time with on my recent trip to Spain. Why was I lucky? Because I learned rather a lot from them. The group may be surprised by this statement, as many are new-comers to sketching and are rather modest about their outcomes. But they have an approach to their sketching, that I, as a long-standing ‘sketcher’ lack. Continue reading

Third stop: Seville and Flamenco

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rbt

From my sketchbook

The contrasting landscape heading to Seville was amazing: cypress trees dark against earthen buildings, scruffy pine-nut trees, tiny old huts, and fields; where grapes replaced orange trees, then olives, as the train sped past. Undulating hills, the soil darkening to a burnt sienna and white houses with orange tiled roofs. A change back to orange groves as we neared Seville, sun-touched and golden. What a warm welcome. Continue reading