Painting (37) Connemara

So it’s been a while… I’ve really hit the creative doldrums. This painting is the only thing I’ve finished in the past few weeks [or maybe months now? I’ve lost track…] Anyway, hoping to get some wind in my sails and carry on.

The Connemara Mountains can be seen in the distance from my house. But they are especially lovely in the golden sun of late afternoon. Here they are as seen from the West side of them — the side closest to the North Atlantic.

Painting (36) Wildflower Garden

The last several months have been so difficult. Besides the isolation of lockdown, the six weeks leading up to that I was cooped up recovering from a broken ankle. Just when I was getting back on my feet, the pandemic hit. All together my imprisonment at home has lasted since January 14th. Granted, the restrictions are easing considerably but still… Now this would have been the perfect time to get involved in a lengthy project like the novel I’m working on but my productivity has been atrocious. In all this time I have written one page. On the other hand, the one thing I have done is paint. Painting feels like therapy to me and while my skills are still rudimentary, the process has been very enjoyable. Here is one of my latest pieces. Something cheerful, bright and full of color. A Wildflower Garden.

One Beautiful Sentence

“Men who share the same rooms, soldiers or prisoners, develop a strange allegiance as if, having cast off their armour with their clothing, they fraternize every evening, over and above their differences, in the ancient community of dream and fatigue.” – Albert Camus, The Guest, from The Exile and the Kingdom, a collection of short stories.

Having been unable to write as of late [and I am not going to discuss that state of affairs yet once again] I have been spending a great deal of time reading. I acquired recently a collected work by the great philosopher/novelist Albert Camus. Along with Exile and the Kingdom, the collection includes The Plague, The Fall and some of his essays like The Myth of Sisyphus, and Reflections on the Guillotine. Existential crises not withstanding, the work of Camus is most beautifully written.

Born to French parents in [French colonial] Algeria in 1913, Camus spent his childhood and early adult years in that country. As a French citizen, though of the poorer class, he was witness to the treatment of the native population by their French counterparts and many of his works are set in Algeria and concern the two cohabiting cultures of the country. His descriptions of the landscape and the people can be breathtaking. See if you don’t agree:

“She had dreamed too, of palm trees and soft sand. Now that she saw that the desert was not that at all, but merely stone, stone everywhere, in the sky full of nothing but stone dust, rasping and cold, as on the ground, where nothing grew among the stones but dry grasses.” The Adulterous Woman.

“The silent city was no more than an assemblage of huge, inert cubes, between which only the mute effigies of great men, carapaced in bronze, with their blank stone or metal faces, conjured up a sorry semblance of what man had been. In lifeless squares and avenues these tawdry idols lorded it under the lowering sky; stolid monsters that might have personified the rule of immobility imposed upon us, or, anyhow, its final aspect, that of a defunct city in which plague, stone and darkness had effectively silenced every voice.” The Plague

Seems eerily prophetic, reading that passage now… Anyway, I am in awe of this ability to paint such vivid word pictures, to evoke the spirit of a place and a time. So that while I am not writing, at least I am continuing to think about it and to learn from a master like Albert Camus.

Image via Wikipedia