When the ground moves, my bones shake by anya

Several months ago I was approached by a friend and colleague to paint a picture. I laughed gently and said, “sure, I can give it a go…” in a jokey sort of way. I’m no portrait painter, and I thought this suggestion would simply go away on it’s own.

It didn’t.

My colleague turned up with a photo in a frame – her father. A hunting portrait. A nuggety man, muscled and strong, in the peak of his youth. I stared at the photo, not knowing then that the curve of this man’s smile would become very well known to me over the months that followed.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, protesting that I really didn’t know how to paint likenesses. “This won’t look like a photo.”

My colleague waved me away with an airy hand.

“I’m certain it will be great,” she said.

I wasn’t so sure. The photo sat and stared at me in the dining room for weeks. I examined it closely. Then shutting my eyes against the images and the expectations in my own head, I painted. For days the face refused to emerge, and the shadow on his shirt eluded me. I scrubbed it back and started afresh.

Now, bear in mind I have no training in painting. None. At. All. I simply paint because it gives me pleasure. I do not exhibit. My painting is the natural extension to my words.

Today in my dining room sits a man nearly completed. I have frequently wished throughout this process that I knew how to handle the oils properly, and how to give him weight. I wished I could paint like a photo. But as I sit back and look at this man when he was at his happiest, and realise that his daughter wants to immortalise her father in colour and oil, I am pleased.

I’ll never be a Rembrandt, but know what? It’ll do.

You can see that this is nothing like my other artwork here