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Jeremy Duffield

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Fowey

I sought shade,
made a tricorn hat from 'The Times'
covered my knees with a handkerchief;
the sun burned too hot,
gulls screamed,
across the water boats idly knocked
against the pontoon, yellow buoys,
with scarce a ripple.
 
Du Maurier's house stood white
against the backdrop of trees,
blue doors reflecting brightly.
I angled the camera shot
across the harbour,
framed hills, masts,
the brightness, the heat –
reminder of a perfect day.
 
Now, new to oils,
I feel ambitious –
pin the photograph,
wash a canvas in honey-warmth,
flex brushes, stab colours.
Cobalt Blue, Zinc White, Sap Green, Paynes Grey,
produce an empty landscape
smelling of linseed, turps and oil.

I feel scared to continue
but dot in houses,
eyeless windows,
fine-shape boats, dinghies, yachts,
furled sails, masts, rigging,
people on the landing stage.
From a distance ...
from a distance I am half satisfied ...

closer, I fight the temptation to destroy,
paint triangles, blocks,
waves of colour,
over-emphasise to grotesqueness,
smudge and daub,
impression of Impressionism;
drown a voice saying 'let this painting live
as imperfectly as yourself.’

Page(s) 40

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