Colourful scotland
595 creative works found
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The Glencoe Lochan is always a beautiful tranquil spot. This image was taken during Easter when the daffodils were open, which add a splash of colour in the foreground before your eyes are drawn down the length of the Lochan.
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Looking down the gorge from the lower bridge, Falls of Bruar . I’m particularly impressed by the colours and the smooth glistening rocks. This area is rich in geology (an extension of the Loch Tay fault?): there’s a lot of limestone and other metamorphic sedimentary rocks (layered slate, possibly some schist) and a bit of red sandstone nearby, all folded making rakish angles. Taken on the Shen Hao 5×4” large-format camera with Fuji Velvia (old RVP emulsion) film.
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Porcelain world Series Model: Chalsea Darling
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Porcelain World Series Model: Chelsea Darling
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Water – the most precious resource on the planet – is something we so take for granted in Scotland… what so many people all over the globe would give for even this supply….... I soaked my entire jeans leg taking this as i was kneeling in the swampy run-off from the fields on the hillside above but only noticed later when the freezing march cold began to bite! It’s amazing to me that the sky and clouds can be seen reflected in the flow! Taken in Peebles, scottish borders, below Glen Tress, getting splashed! :) Slightly cropped to remove an annoying grass stalk but otherwise untouched. Taken with a pocket fuji finepx a500
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Hey This is another image im adding to my camping trip of Loch Lomond. Thanks for taking the time to look. Other works from the trip > The Tree of Light Loch Lomond Sunrise Boat Man Loch Lomond .............................................................................................................................................
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Caught ‘up the sware’ (a local viewpoint) at dawn yesterday ( 23/9/08) as the sun rose over the tweed valley just outside Peebles, scottish borders. An especially heartwarming sight after the wet grey summer we’ve had … and it’s straight from my Nikon 4800 coolpix compact camera, untouched. ;))) See also mist in the valley taken at the same time ! and also front row seat cheers all / ding / :))
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Oil on Canvas / original size 50×50cm
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Isle of Barra, Scotland / Oil on Canvas / Original size 50×50cm
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Remote Western Isle of Scotland situated South of Outer Hebrides. / Beautiful beaches and carpets of colourful wildflowers characterize this tiny but perfect island. Home of the ancient MacNeil clan, the island is steeped in Gaelic tradition and heritage. / Original size 50×50cm / Oil on canvas / Featured in the RedBubble home page June 2009 ScottNaismith.co.uk
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Loch Brittle is at the Southern end of the Isle of Skye looking out across the Atlantic Ocean. With the menace of the Black Cuillin hills behind, contrasted against the sea glittering in the sunset, this sandy bay is one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. / Oil on canvas / Original size 60×60cm SCOTT NAISMITH WEBSITE
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Isle of Skye / Original size 30×30 cm / Oil on Canvas Featured on the RedBubble homepage Sept ‘09 ScottNaismith.co.uk
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Original size 40×40cm / Oil on Canvas Featured on the RedBubble home page Aug09. scottnaismith.co.uk
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Dusk colours on e lovely st mary’s loch in the scottish borders after a sunset sail….. Quite a change from the week before Nikon D60 / Nikkor VR 18-200 lens / UV filter f/7.1 / 1/6sec / ISO-200 / exp -0.3 / 56mm slightly tweaked , cropped and inverted Comments most welcome and thanks heaps for looking! / Cheers / ;))
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Original size 30×60cm / Oil on canvas scottnaismith.co.uk
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Oil on Canvas / Original size 30×30cm scottnaismith.co.uk /
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The sun setting over the Isle of Rum with the Isle of Eigg just visible on the left as seen from the Morar hotel. The silver Sands of Morar is one of my favourite, inspirational mainland Scotland locations. Oil on Canvas / original size 80×80cm
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Torridon, Highlands, Scotland / / A Soft Caress of Welcome and the Scent of Old High Places. This spacious light was common in those days. A soft silk gossamer net that would have to fade to become mist. That would whisper across the glens in common history and Alexion’s gloaming myth memories. This and that would hide and seek, would become damp and shiver spider pearls from the Popish brown and purple of the mountain. Always catching the edge of a rough dress made from banned and ragged tartan. That would be secret sought for later remembered images and collapse in upon itself to find regional rural meaning. That would eventually create pictures that will hang in the hunting lodges of the rich and royal, in need of cleaning. It was morning fresh mood and midge covered evening in the latter end of Summer in the west. Alexion’s stories of the glen in her century. The Black house highland cow dung, black chicken pecked, villaged small secret world of the hidden and the regional self aware. The high views that were seen differently and with much less romance than now in this sad century. A wish to climb the highest in her remembered sight with the breathless wonder and detailed knowledge of the way down, but still not wanting to return to slavery. The stories mythical of a childhood in this fastness of black rock and crashing falling water. The black witch prediction watchfulness of a mother that did not care and besotted father who apparently did; but only in negative for his animals and the mountain at his back. The black seasoned preacher, with his genital showing perversion and stealing of nightgown righteousness. The light shafted mist that began and ended each short day of work. These were her words. These were the notes musical that tried to convince me of the strangely impossible. That fascinated my youth with such detail as to seem real and seen, experienced and happening then as even now. That to me were legends. That to her were as real as breathing. These she told across my neck lying sweat stuck together as we waited for our breath to come back from the past. That she shouted in her ghost voice to the moon and the unfaithfulness of man. Waiting for an explanation with hypnogogic understanding from me and extra detailed history from her. A soft caress of welcome and the scent of heather and old high places. The even softer accent of whispered clasping and spooned bodies that did not want to let go, no matter what forces were at play. Suppose you juxtapose this memory history with small, sweet sounds on the edge of hearing. Of cold softness, of the bed sinking from beneath and behind. Feeling the weight gradually, slowly filling. There are no sudden movements, only the gradual awareness of something else. Gradual and strange. A weight, a pushing back of the sheets. Of small arms across my chest. Very warm and pointedly aware of nakedness. The brushing of nipples across back and buttocks. There is always in this a smell, an evocative sense of something, somewhere else. Nothing I can usually or immediately resolve, but it comes anyway. I can remember every time a witches warmness moving slowly down my back, solar centring. Gathering around her madness and pulling me in. A prick scintillating pricking that does not feel like love, rising to a pointed word. The centre of a celtic spiral. This is far more than pleasure… She will then and only tell her stories, after the brief vicious coupling that rang in this present past with inexperience and needy solutions. That salty, like the sea, spurted with premature love and sang with unfulfilled hopes before we finished with each others thoughts and myths. / © 2009 Ken Simm.
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Skye, Hebrides, Scotland / / The Tertiary Colours of a Sad Morning. Bloody minded and cruel, illness and mad laughter that has crazily crossed through the blue wood smoke air of what will kill us. Desperate but depressed to be happy in the mornings. If I am not that person to others then at least I must feel free to free myself. The feel of the season evokes the extraordinary. The dripping pieces of yellow blood red from dead webs. The month blood of trees white and supped sap dry. Haw, Green, Bull, Gold, finches all, chase their own particular seed heads. Making the notion of a holy watchmaker less than happy. A life less extraordinary and under used would be nice they say. Not counting on if I disagree or not. In fact because I am here only for them, ignoring it pleasantly. Teach, they say, work at my universal, you see, notion of employment. They conclude this precise commentary, with certain violent force. You will never do what I want you to do creating pieces on your own in your little sheltered harbour of unthinking happiness. Does this wood peg fit in this hole? Does this shiny steel technology work for you? So then why create your own programme of states? Is it more natural? Why live in a Victorian age of brass piped steam and Science Fiction when this minimal reflecting body works so much cleaner? In the morning depression drips like the musty misty pearls of dead water catching on the sleeping leaves. The dumb edges are rubbed smooth in the sleeping matt mist season and the colours provoke smoky fires in the distance. It is important to have their illusions of adequacy for now and relate only to what they have been shown, in the season, for this reason. Dig, root, smell, loam and fungi, such are the names of the hours and the days. Work for others, think up, not down and be careful not allow thoughts the professionals would not like. Mention not your stories, for they are boring and not what we want. No, you cannot paint. Imagine if you are unsuccessful. Calling you by your first full tutonic name as in some pathetic, patronising game of cures. Understand underestimating. they say, charmingly, and why I am talking down to you. Whilst you must talk and work up some kind of accepted rhythm of the season. No, of course, they say, there is no stigma attached to this season. It is only a lack of the colours you have in your box. We now understand what this lack means for us. So there is no need to feel your guilt gods in the morning when the leaves leave a tea stain of rainbows in the little black puddles saved from the rain, together in the tyre tracks that go away. With a sun dog swaying in the sky. © 2009 Ken Simm.
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More reflections on the river tweed today in peebles in the lovely scottish borders…. f/5.3 / 1/25sec / ISO-200 / 90mm
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Walking along the river tweed in the lovely scottish borders the october foliage looked stunning today in all its reflected glory.. Nikon D60 / Nikkor VR 18-200 lens / circular polariser (rather out of control…LOL) f/5.3 / 1/25sec / ISO-200 / 90mm slightly tweaked
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Commissioned Painting by Andrew and Liz Walker, Surrey, of Portencross castle on the Ayrshire coast, where the sun sets over the Isle of Arran. Oil on Canvas | Original size 60×60cm SCOTTNAISMITH.CO.UK
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Raining at Loch Tay, Kenmore, Scotland, while it shows off its colours of autumn. / featured in Nature’s Wonders / featured in #1 Artists of Red Bubble
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Original size 40×40cm / Oil on Canvas North “wing” of the Isle of Skye SCOTTNAISMITH.CO.UK
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