A flash of inspiration

The paintbrush slipped from Greg’s fingers onto the laminate flooring, spraying gobbets of cadmium red paint across the boards.

“It looks like arterial spatter,” he thought, promptly followed by, “I’ve been binge-watching too many true crime programmes. I’ve become a couch potato.”

It was a phrase he had always hated, but now he had to admit it described him perfectly. Since lockdown started, he had spent less time actually working on his paintings and more time watching programmes that had never interested him before and would lose their attraction if and when life ever returned to normal. True he had also stood before his easel for hours on end, but his muse had deserted him. More paint had congealed on his palette than on his canvas.

He retrieved the brush and gazed again at the half-finished painting: a commission of a poppy field that had come via a local gallery. As if on cue he heard the strains of the Stars Way theme reaching a crescendo – another of his lockdown obsessions was changing his mobile’s ringtone.

“Hi. Greg Turner,” he said, as he answered it.

“Greg. How are you?” Suzanne, the gallery owner replied.

“Fine thanks. I was just thinking about you.”

“Good. I was wondering how the painting is coming on. The buyer wants to collect it next week, as it’s a birthday present.”

Greg paused, calculating how much longer it would take to finish.

“Just a few more days. I still need to do the finishing touches. Actually, that’s the problem. I can’t find oomph to do it.”

“Take a break. Go for a walk and see if that inspires you. It always works for me. Look, I’ll speak to you soon. A courier is waiting outside.”

Suzanne hung up, leaving Greg gazing back at the unfinished poppies. Maybe she was right. H needed a change of scenery.

“The beach will probably be busy now,” he thought, remembering the clip on the previous night’s news. More people than had seemed sensible were walking in socially distanced ones and twos along the promenade. They may have been obeying the lockdown restrictions, but only just.

Greg grabbed his camera and a bottle of water and drove northwards, towards a spot that had been recommended to him by a friend. Once off the main road, he followed a B-road until he reached a turning and headed off along a strip of potholed tarmac. He manoeuvred slowly, gradually climbing the hill to a car park adjacent to the South Downs Way.

Greg walked the few metres to the path and gazed southwards, where the sea glistened in the afternoon sun. To the left he could see the Seven Sisters and to the right the bulk of the Isle of Wight loomed in the far distance. The bright sunshine hurt his eyes, so Greg turned to the north, wondering how far he could see across the Weald.

His train of thought was broken by a skylark suddenly flying upward from the adjacent field, singing as it moved. It climbed ever higher until it was lost to Greg’s sight.

Greg began following the path towards the west. A scruffy hedge bordered one side, reinforced by a two-strand wire fence. He glanced over the top and spotted several South Downs sheep sheltering under a tree. Greg paused to take a few photos, before moving on. Several minutes later he noticed that his pace had slowed and so had his breathing. The warm sunshine was making him feel drowsy and he realised he felt more relaxed than he had done for ages.

The open fields gave way to a copse and Greg stepped under the dappled shade.  By now, the temperature was dropping and a breeze was whipping through the branches. Greg decided to turn back and head for home.  Minutes later the birds had stopped singing and the sheep had huddled together more tightly. The clouds were overhead now, hastening their way towards the sea. Suddenly a shaft of sunlight broke through a gap, illuminating a stunted blackthorn. It leant heavily to one side, shaped by the prevailing wind. Small, frothy white blossom smothered it from top to bottom, contrasting sharply with the vivid green turf and the steely grey sky.

Greg stopped immediately and hastily began taking photos, until the sun disappeared and the scene became drab. Spots of rain began to fall and the first peal of thunder rolled across the countryside, sending Greg scurrying towards the car park.

 

Later that evening, he downloaded the photos and examined them. Some were just snaps, others showed promise as the background for a painting and then he arrived at the blackthorn photo. The bush glowed from the screen and Greg knew instinctively it could be a landscape in its own right. He glanced at the clock. It was getting late, but there was still time to at least sketch something out and add some base layers.

 

Over the next three days Greg fell into the routine. He painted a section of the poppy field and whilst that was drying, he continued with the blackthorn bush and vice versa. By Friday both paintings were complete, so he rang Suzanne.

“Hi. Good news – the poppy field is finished. I can drop it into the gallery tomorrow morning.”

“That’s brilliant. I’ll ring the buyer and let her know. So, you got your inspiration back then?”

“Yes, Suzanne. I did what you suggested and went for a walk. You were right. It did help and I’ve been painting almost non-stop since.”

“Have you got something else for me then?” Suzanne asked.

Greg was on the point of saying yes, but one more glimpse at his blackthorn painting convinced him.

“No, but I’ll let you know when something’s ready.”

He hung up and went in search of some picture hooks and wire. The blackthorn was going to hang in his bedroom, as a reminder of a bad year and how a walk in the countryside reignited his love of painting. 

by Josie Gilbert