Painting à la plage

I took myself away for a solo painting trip. 10 days on the Vendée coast in France.

The Atlantic coast of France is where I spent every summer and Easter growing up. That salt-sodden landscape is where all my paintings grow from. The big skies, the distinctive colours, the change in light. Watching the ocean, I let the colour wash over me, sink into my bones. After months in the city, it felt like my eyes were being washed clean, growing in sensitivity to the nuance of colour gradations and fine texture. 

Waking up just before first light, canvas rolled in my backpack with paint and supplies, I cycled to the beach in time to see light crack open over the sea. Sand cold underfoot, seaweed damp from the receding tide. Time to unroll my canvas, get some paint going.

Once the paint is on the canvas, it’s a wait of several hours for it to dry. I explore the beach, peering at barnacles, rock formations, the shell-lines on the sand. I float in the salty water, play with seaweed, allow myself to be pushed and pulled by the tide. I climb across the dunes, testing the teazle and pine cones with my hands.

As the paint dries, I keep returning to it, adjusting it. Laying the fabric on freshly warmed sand, draping it over rocks. Tipping pooled colour to a new area, tinkering with the partially-dried pigment. 

I watch, I wait, I slow down. I allow the landscape to sink into me, and me into it. I have come to trust in this process. If I can let the character of this place absorb me - allowing it to mould my instincts and behaviour - some of that distinctive but intangible spirit will make its way into in the paintings.