Rachael Herman

Tag: Oils

Lilac Wisteria (2013-4), R. Herman

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Hello friends.

For those of you that are interested, here is my latest piece of art: a commission entitled, ‘Lilac Wisteria.’ My client intends to hang this artwork in their kitchen; a light and airy space, perfect for this large, statement piece.

My next project is a portrait. I am tremendously excited to start this, as portraits are indeed my fave, so watch this space…!

Rachael.

P.S. Apologies for the low-budget photograph; I have not yet had the chance to take one in the bright spring sunlight due to painting it over the dark winter months

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Unique (2013), R.Herman

'Unique' (2013) R. Herman, oil on  canvas, 30 x 50 cm,

Unique, Rachael Herman (2013), oil on canvas, 30 x 50cm

Considering I painted this piece way back in October, this post is a little late off the mark, but here it is anyway…

This painting depicts a 16.1 Dark Bay Dutch Warmblood (or ‘quite big dark brown horse’ to those of us who are equinely challenged) and was a (slightly belated) present for the horse’s previous owner, Cat. Unfortunately the lovely horse, Unique, had to be sold, so the painting was intended to be a sort of commemorative piece. A pretty horse, I’m sure you’ll agree!

Rachael.

At Rest (06/2012), R.Herman

At Rest, Rachael Herman (2012), oil on canvas, 500 mm x 500 mm

At first glance, one could perhaps be duped into thinking that these here limbs are just a run-of-the-mill pair of horse legs, and yes, to a great extent, they are. However, what struck me as unique (the horse is in fact called ‘Unique’. See what I did there…) about these particular equine appendages is the stance in which they are positioned – a rather dainty ‘quatrieme devant’ in fact – so much so I simply had to recapture the moment in oils.

Invasion! (05/2012), R.Herman

Invasion! Rachael Herman (2012), Oil on canvas, 406 mm x 305 mm

Adversary of the humble hay-fever suffer, this fiendish yellow flower has become the source of inspiration for my most recent painting. Entitled, Invasion!, this piece serves to commemorate that time of year, around late Springtime, when East Anglia is subject to a sudden onslaught from this seemingly unsuspicious beast. Noses astream and eyes ablaze from scratching, this foe sure a sinus’ worst nightmare.

Such a shame, as it is rather a delightful colour combination: the cadmium yellow against that azure sky.

Hugh Todd Naylor Gaitskell (1957), Judy Cassab

Hello there bloggers, I’ve missed you. So, here’s a bit of news for you artistic types who may or may not appreciate this little success story of mine: I have finally been accepted onto the Art History MA that I have spent the last twelve months working towards. Happy days! It appears that all those posts waffling on about paintings may actually come in useful. Perhaps… Anyway, now that the mood is light and the time is right, I shall proceed by introducing to you the painterly stylings of none other than Mrs Judy Cassab, whose study Hugh Todd Naylor Gaitskell (1957) – who henceforth will be referred to as ‘Hugh’ or ‘Hughie’ for the sake of my sanity – will be the subject of this evening’s scrutiny. As usual, I will commence with a brief bio of said artist before diving head-first (or more likely bellyflopping) into discussion of the painting itself.

Hugh Todd Naylor Gaitskell (1957), Judy Cassab, oil on canvas, 914 mm x 756 mm, courtesy of npg.org.uk

Judy Cassab, born Judit Kaszab, was received into 1920’s Vienna to Hungarian parents. Now upon reading this, I was consequently certain that there had been a vital error in Wikipedia‘s information, as Cassab had been labelled as an Australian artist. How hilarious, I thought, that they have confused Austria with Australia. Bless their little encyclopedic socks. However, after further research (the National Portrait Gallery website) into this apparent geographical misdemeanour, I have in fact discovered that I had been a tad hasty in my mockery of our favourite online information station, and for that I must apologise. It seems that Judy emigrated to Australia in 1951, after studying painting in Hungary, to make a name for herself as a portraitist. During her stint Down-Under she held over fifty solo exhibitions, debuting at the Macquarie Galleries, Sydney in 1953, and was recipient of several awards, including the prestigious Archibald prize (she won that twice, as you do).

In 1957 Judy was to paint the portrait that eventually made its way to London’s National Portrait Gallery in 1972 and, probably her greatest achievement to date, onto my little blog here another 30 years later ;-). The sitter, Hughie, was a British Labour politician, whose role within his party ranged from Chancellor of the Exchequer to Leader of the Opposition (1955 until his death in 1963). It is apparent that he was a popular political protagonist, even regarded by some as “the best Prime Minister we never had”. His untimely death put paid to his ever becoming Prime Minister though, as I mentioned earlier he never saw past the year 1963 due to the tragically abrupt onset of autoimmune disease, Lupus erythematosus, Awful stuff.

Close up of Hugh Todd Naylor Gaitskell (1957), Judy Cassab, oil on canvas, 914 mm x 756 mm, courtesy of npg.org.uk

What strikes me most about the painting, as with most examples of portraiture come to mention it, is that heartening semblance of sincerity conveyed through the eyes of the sitter. This, in my opinion and I am sure that this is the general consensus, is a mark of a truly great portrait. To display such an obvious degree of warmth and approachability in the countenance of a political figure is naturally considered to be against the norm. In addition, the casual stance and playful tilting of the head, like that of an inquisitive puppy, team up to enforce this idea of honest charm.

 Moving on from the head to the shoulders, knees and toes (minus the toes), and in particular to Hugh’s relaxed downward pointing left hand contrasted with the firmness of his right, we can see a body abundant in symbolism. Taking a closer look at the aforementioned hands, we can read a man with two sides to his personality: a relaxed and casual left accompanied by a steadfast and controlled right. Furthermore, the composition of the hands, with the left being higher than the right (left hand denoting left-wing), could indicate Hugh’s political standpoint as he was viewed to be on the liberal end of Labour. His cross-legged seating arrangement is indicative of a preference for privacy; a closed-off awkwardness in being under the careful scrutiny of the portrait artist. More discomfort is present in the aslant positioning of the body, no doubt due to the unorthodox way the subject is seated on the chair, and again in the tie laying catawampus across the abdomen.

If we next turn our attention to the background of the piece, we can see that Cassab’s choice of yellow could again be interpreted as a nod to Liberalism. Likewise yellow, the shade of positivity and springtime, has a darker side to it: bearing both the burdens of illness (think jaundice, and decay) and yellow-bellied cowardice. In the case of Hugh Gaitskell, however, I believe the former to be true as opposed to the latter, mainly due to his popularity within the political realm. The other prominent colour featured is green, which in my mind equals prosperity when talking affairs of the state, and thus nods to Hugh’s time as Chancellor of the Exchequer. It is interesting to note, on the subject of colour symbolism and its reference to political preference, that there is no direct nod to the Labour party, ie. there is no real visible use of red in the painting. Strange.

Clara Serena Rubens (1618), Peter Paul Rubens, oil on canvas, 370mm x 270mm, courtesy of wikipaintings.org

In summary I think it is fair to say that Cassab’s understanding of colour is enviable. All she needs is the mere hint of a brushstroke in a particular shade and she has constructed a perfectly formed hand. It’s sickening. Each piece is alive with colour and movement, with every stroke placed only under the utmost care and consideration. For some reason Cassab’s style reminds me of a piece by 16th century Flemish artist, Peter Paul Rubens. The one I am talking about is what I would class as his most well known portrait, and it is the study of his then five-year-old daughter, Clara Serena, pictured above. Perhaps it is the similar expression on their faces; the twitch of a smile playing about their lips and the genuine innocence in their eyes, together adding to the whole child-like demeanour present in both subjects. Or, more than likely, it is the same attentive manner in which the sitters have been painted. As far as my own work is concerned, I hope to embrace this dynamic way of painting and to place more importance in the composition of the face and body, as this is very revealing when it comes to audience interpretation.

Thanks for listening.

Diana and Actaeon (1556-9), Titian: The Norwich Edition

Being somebody who is paid to teach children the very basics in literacy – with the most recent focus aptly being on those darned VCV words – AND something of a Renaissance-worshipper, the fact that I have been calling today’s featured artist ‘T-ee-tian’ – as opposed to the phonetically correct ‘T-i-tian’ – is no less than mortifying. I can only beg for your forgiveness and ask that you take me seriously for the rest of the impending spiel.

Norwich has undoubtedly upped its game in terms of artistic offerings. I mean a Titian, in sleepy, backward Norfolk – the communication black hole of the UK – amazing. (How did they physically organise this when the mobile phone reception and broadband connections are practically pre-historic?! ) But then, let’s be honest with ourselves, what else can one expect from the self-professed ‘Fine City’; the Venice of England? The painting itself, Diana and Actaeon was kindly on loan from the prestigious National Gallery, London to the more humble setting of the Castle Museum, Norwich. The Castle Museum is much loved by all in Norfolk, being a favourite destination for school trips, therefore the news of Titian’s attraction being temporarily housed inside those medieval walls filled me with unbridled happiness. I simply had to take a peak…

Diana and Actaeon (1556-9), Titian, Oil on canvas, 185.5cm x 202.2cm – courtesy of artfund.org

Determined to leave the masterpiece until last, I busied myself with the exhibition filler, which firstly provided a bit of background for Titian’s work; and secondly supplied alternative interpretations of Ovid’s great Metamorphoses. One of these alternatives was London-based photographer, Tom Hunter‘s recreation of the mythical scene, featuring a scantily clad Kim Cattrall. Classic Cattrall. Now I’m not really one for casual nudity but I must admit, however, that I did find the comparison between the attenuated figures of Hunter’s recent piece juxtaposed with the voluptuous forms of Titian’s age thoroughly engaging. A stark look at how the attitude towards beauty has undergone a dramatic transformation in the last 500 years.

As far as the background on the work was concerned, we were fed with the details on Titian and also the original poem that the piece had been derived from. For the benefit of those not so well-aquainted with the Roman poet, Ovid, I shall give a brief rundown of events. During a usual day’s hunt, Actaeon (just your everyday Roman chap) happened to stray from his hunting party. In doing so he stumbled across the secret bathing place of Diana, virgin goddess of the hunt, a most unfortuitous mishap. Now Diana, aka Artemis, did not take too kindly to this intrusion; so much so that she bestowed a wonderful punishment upon dear Actaeon, one that would involve his transformation into a splendid stag if he ever spoke again. For a huntsman, you can imagine that this would be quite inconvenient: the hunter taking the place of the hunted. Another lesson learnt for all of us there, courtesy of those barmy – almost wrote balmy there, whoops – Greeks. Saying that, the only lesson I can see here is that either Diana/Artemis was what some would call an ugly beast, therefore was inspired by humiliation to punish Actaeon; or more likely, Actaeon was not worthy to cast his eyes upon a beauty so divine, so pure that if he ever spoke of this encounter to anyone, it would be the last thing he ever did. Except for safety’s sake, Artemis extended the silence to any word that he spoke about anything, you know, just in case.

One of Actaeon’s hounds that would later turn on him, Diana and Actaeon (1556-9), Titian, Oil on canvas, 185.5cm x 202.2cm – courtesy of artfund.org

Once I had had my fill of the pre-painting palaver, I finally (and tentatively, for there was an oddly tense atmosphere surrounding the painting) sidled up next to an elderly lady who appeared to be the guardian of the painting. She was a heavily-cloaked creature whose nose was hovering mere inches away from the 450 year-old surface – as if sharing in a whispered secret from the oils themselves. Seeking to imitate this apparently satisfying method of painting perusal, I too peeked and craned as far as my little neck could manage from the spot I’d rooted myself to, near the left corner of the piece (I wasn’t as brave as the aforementioned dear in strolling casually in front of the painting, perhaps due to the bench of judging eyes behind me, regardless of how captivating the moue of Diana happened to be).

The painting itself was every bit as beautiful as I’d hoped. The highly saturated colours and angelic forms, painted with the utmost of grace and ease, are just two of the trademarks typical of the Venetian legend. Looking more closely at the colours present in the piece, we will notice that red is certainly one of the predominant shades, linking both protagonist and antagonist. We can interpret this to thus signify the impending bloodshed of Actaeon, as a result of his transgression against the divine lady.  Next we turn to the periwinkle enshrouding one of the nymphs which, reflecting the true blue of the sky, we can interpret as a clear representation of the purity and femininity present within a crowd as chaste as this. These blue hues, paired with the crimson, present quite a startling contrast against the neutrality of the earthy sepia and ochre.

Close-up of nymph, Diana and Actaeon (1556-9), Titian, Oil on canvas, 185.5cm x 202.2cm – courtesy of artfund.org

One aspect of the piece I personally deem to be the most interesting is the inclusion of the black female tending to Diana, hastily tugging at the cloth to ensure the goddess regains her modesty due to being uncovered. One wonders why Titian made the decision to paint the female attendant amongst Diana’s naiad-like aides, and the resultant significance this had on the Renaissance world. This calls for a separate essay methinks… In addition, the interaction between the pup yapping furiously at the heels of Diana and the haggard hound belonging to Actaeon provides a great paradigm of hostility and affront: the overall themes of the piece.

Close-up of Diana and female attendant, Diana and Actaeon (1556-9), Titian, Oil on canvas, 185.5cm x 202.2cm – courtesy of artfund.org

On the whole, it was a great privilege to be able to view a genuine piece of Renaissance mastery, and at somewhere so close to home. But to the neatly placed comments book, inviting us to simper a grateful thanks for our stay at Hotel Titian, I must say no thank you. It’s true that the Castle Museum should be applauded for their efforts in managing to eke an entire exhibition out of this one great painting, however, I do not wish to kiss their medieval bottoms over it. Maybe that’s a bit harsh… One thing that did make me chuckle, though, were the twenty people clinging to the only seat in the room – as if walking around such a small exhibition required this agent of respite – appearing  as an island of middle-age pretenders amongst a sea of Renaissance finery.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1840), Richard Rothwell

Here we are again, folks; another weekend, another long and boring post about a painting. Ah, I’m only kidding, I promise this one will be shorter! Today I will be guiding you in the way of Dublin Society School graduate and Royal Hiberian Academy member, Richard Rothwell. His works consist primarily of portraiture and genre pictures, but the work I will be focussing on is his study of novelist Mary Shelley, which can be viewed below. As usual I will provide you with a little background on the subject, followed by an analysis of technique, content, context and relevance to myself. All very lovely.

Shelley, despite having achieved such literary acclaim by the tender age of twenty three with her magnum opus, Frankenstein, had a woefully tragic life. She outlived three of her four children and her husband, poet-cum-philosopher Percy Bysshe Shelley, before finally facing her own mortality in the guise of a brain tumour, aged an equally tender fifty one – this is one woman who knew pain and knew it intimately. Upon reading her lengthy biography on that fine site Wikipedia, I will admit I was close to tears. I’m serious, this extract from her despairing husband’s notebook after the death of their third child is so agonisingly heart-felt it hurts:

‘My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,

And left me in this dreary world alone?

Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—

But thou art fled, gone down a dreary road

That leads to Sorrow’s most obscure abode.

For thine own sake I cannot follow thee

Do thou return for mine.’

After that dreary introduction, we’ll get down to the artwork itself. The painting above was completed by Rothwell in 1840, a year after Mary started suffering from symptoms of what was later discovered to be a brain tumour. Although those fresh, rosy apple cheeks of hers hint at youthful beauty; the haunted pallor, complemented by mournful, sunken eyes, serve as the testimony of a woman forced to live under the curse of perpetual mourning, and following that, personal affliction. This is perhaps reinforced in the way that Mary is holding herself, which appears to be quite awkward; her right shoulder hunched above her left forcing her to hold her head and neck in a somewhat serpentine ‘S’ shape. Not an unattractive woman, her slight, birdlike features – the gently pointed nose and swan-like neck – emerge from the gloom as if a rare and exquisite nocturnal creature. The overall eerie feel of the piece does bare resemblance to the literary stylings of the subject, whose repertoire includes gothic tales of dark, experimental science and apocalyptic sci-fi.

When addressing the colouring of the painting, it is easy to first notice the predominant black appeal of the outfit – undoubtedly referencing the succession of unbearable losses that Mary has had to endure – as well as the humility of the muted surroundings; presenting themselves to the audience under no pretence of opulence or grandeur – perhaps signifying the poverty of her latter years. The dark russet waist-band again signifies sorrow and seriousness, and being an autumnal colour, the subsequent ‘autumn years’ of the sitter. The flame red and vermillion tones of the chair could signify her political seat -one of Romanticism and Liberalism -as Mary was well-known for presenting her political views across in her writing.

Rothwell’s style creates an expressive yet careful rendition of the human form, with hints of Classicism (in the study of the face) and the burgeoning influence of Romanticism (shown through Rothwell’s choice of subject – a major player, not only in Gothic, but also in Romantic literature), which was starting to gain a strong hold over the arts at the time. This is particularly true if one views Mary as the heroic figure: an intelligent and strong female overcoming the trials of a tragic life in order to emerge triumphant as a literary genius. Or something like that. Where tremendous care appears to have been taken in the portrayal of Mary’s delicate face, half of that care is evident in the representation of her attire. Prime example being the joining of the flesh with the dress, where we can see a rather faltered marriage of paint with canvas, and no matter how firm I set my mind against it, my eye inevitably strays over to and pauses at this artistic misdemeanour. And now yours will too. Sorry.

If I am to learn anything from Rothwell’s approach to painting, it would be how he uses colour and earnest facial expressions to evoke a sympathetic and sincere atmosphere about his subject, thus causing the viewer to feel warmly and gently beckoned into the company of his sitter. Well, that’s what I think anyway.

Madonna del Cardellino (1507), Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino (Raphael)

I have got it into my little head that I would like to talk to you, kind soul who is listening, about my favourite pieces of artwork. What I intend to do is pick a piece –  from any period, in any medium and from any artist, subject to my very refined taste, naturally 😉 – and then (briefly) prattle on about its historical background; generally agreed interpretation and its relevance to my own work. I hope it proves to be of vague interest in any case…

To kick things off I have decided to take a peek at this sepic beauty by Raffaello Sanzio – Raphael to his mates – entitled, Madonna del Cardellino, which literally means Madonna of the Goldfinch. The subjects can clearly be seen as the Virgin, John the Baptist and Christ, placed in triangular formation with the central focus being on a small goldfinch: the object of interest between the two holy infants.

What is the symbolic relevance of this seemingly insignificant bird? you may chirp. Well, according to the RSPB, the humble goldfinch is one for rooting around in thorny hedgerows and thistles in order to find a nutritious seed or two. In my mind, there is an instant connection that can be formed between the habits of the goldfinch and the Parable of the Sower, Mark 4:3-9. The seed that fell amongst the thistle patch was an allegory for the word of God being heard but overshadowed by the temptations of the world, likewise the seed that the goldfinch is feeding on … Hmm, where am I going with this…? Right, yes the more obvious reading of the goldfinch is that its thorny habitat is a direct nod to the humiliating crown of thorns the unbeknown infant Jesus was to later endure, heads up courtesy of Johnny boy. (Actually, He must’ve been ‘beknown’ as according to Christian belief He is God and consequently privy to the master plan, therefore the kind heads up from John wouldn’t really have been necessary, but instead a kind, cousinly gesture…).

In addition to the goldfinch, the book that is delicately held in the Virgin’s left hand provokes a certain degree of inquiry in itself. In this case it is seen to signify wisdom, thus attributing the Virgin the title of Sedes Sapientiae; the Seat of Wisdom; the Mother of God. In other words, she’s in on the whole thing; deep down, she knows how things are sadly going to pan out for her son.

The painting itself has had to undergo a fair amount of restoration in order for it to look as it does today. No doubt this has been partly down to the wear and tear that comes with the territory of a 500 year-old existence, however, the main contributing factor would have to be the fact that the building it was housed in collapsed at the end of the 16th century due to an earthquake; breaking it into seventeen pieces. The building in question was the home of Lorenzo Nasi, a friend of Raphael to whom the painting was gifted  as a wedding present. What an amazing present! Although, I don’t envy Nasi the daunting duty of having to tell Raphael that his masterpiece had just been creamed by an earthquake.

And now to the symbolism found in the colouring of the Virgin’s clothing. Here we see red, the colour of passion and love – a palpable reference to the love shared between family members, the most natural of them all being the unyielding bond between mother and child. Also, the red could connote the blood that was to be shed by Jesus, linking to the crown of thorns reference from the goldfinch. The blue denotes a sense of calm and stability – a reflection of the natural surroundings we find the Virgin in – as well as the obvious: royalty.

In terms of how this relates to my own practice, I would first like to highlight the technique employed by Raphael. Yes, he was very much influenced by the heavyweights, Michaelangelo and da Vinci – noticeably with his use of da Vinci’s sfumato method – however, there is something that one simply cannot deny Raphael and that is his representational view of beauty. This beauty is discovered in the way that he composes his figures – their playful yet exquisite interaction with one another; his understanding of the tenderness shared between mother and son – just look at how the barefoot Jesus stands gently on top of the bare foot of his mother, such a subtle form of closeness; and, most prominently, his use of graduated sepia tones that melt together to form the perfectly soft skin of his subjects. An altogether wonderful combination that I have repeatedly tried to recreate; whiling away hours blending and blending and blending again my oils in an attempt to reach skin-supremity. But alas, I have not reached it. Yet.

Leonardo da Vinci, Painter At The Court Of Milan (1482 – 1499)

The exhibition that had been 5 years in the making; comprised of over 90 pieces, borrowed from 30 separate institutions and collections in over 21 different cities worldwide. Who’d’ve thought it would take this much doing to get this amount of Leo’s artwork together in one room? (And that’s not even all of it). Being a massive fan of the big man, I decided to pop along and have a look for myself (courtesy of the generous yet unsuspecting boyf)…

Skipping up the famous front steps of the National Gallery – with ticket in cold, clammy hand – it was only feverish anticipation that was running through my mind for an exhibition I had been waiting for what seemed like a decade to finally see. Having been kindly bought a ticket, I was confident that nothing could get in between me and my precious Madonna of the Rocks (Paris version, of course), however, it so transpired that I had misjudged this somewhat. Not only did it take us a good ten minutes to reach our supposed goal – involving careful negotiation of the heavily-coated, typically slow-moving tourists, interspersed with a frantic exchange of whispered directions from me to the boyf – but once we had reached it, it was only to be met by a kind-but-tired-faced guard who regretted to inform us that we were in fact in the wrong place. Where we needed to be meant retracing our steps back into the claustrophobic main gallery, before taking a few lefts, a few rights, some stairs and you’re there. Simple.

15 miles below the surface later and we had made it to da Vinci’s underground extravaganza. First impressions were pretty good and perhaps enhanced by the fact that we were able to breeze past the queues of fools who forgot to pre-book – also making up for the initial confusion of finding our way. The information leaflet told us that the exhibition itself comprised mainly of da Vinci’s work completed during his time as the court painter of Ludovico Sforza – the ruler of Milan – spanning from 1482 to 1499. Venturing in, we were enlightened as to exactly how much work that was. Reams of buff-coloured pages taken from his famous sketch-books paved the way through the semi-darkness – perfect conditions for viewing such delicately handsome artwork – pausing only for something grander and more colourful, those majestic paintings of his. I won’t spend my time nattering about each individual painting and sketch, as that is what the guide book is for – and frankly, you probably couldn’t care less – however I will provide a small lowdown on what I would consider to be the top three pieces.

At number three we have Saint Jerome (1488-1490), which provides that all important insight into the painting process of Mr da Vinci. The unfinished picture not only shows the master’s first laid darkened shadowy areas, but the beginnings of the desperation depicted in the penitant expression on the face of the Saint, sufficiently haunting the viewer even in its incomplete state. In addition, the physical contact that our subject has with the rocky setting makes direct reference to da Vinci’s obsession with nature and the way that it is so clearly mirrored in humanity. (For more information see Oxford World’s Classics, Leonardo da Vinci – Notebooks.)

Lady with an Ermine (1489 – 1490) came in at a close second. Here the immortalised-in-oil sixteen year-old, Cecelia Gallerani – a favourite mistress of the Duke of Milan himself, Ludovico – is seen to be clutching a pristine, white ermine. One can only marvel at the way Leonardo manages to nothing more than excel in his efforts to interpret the true innocence and exquisiteness of youth, using his famous sfumato technique. Slightly more in depth dissection of this piece can be found at, you guessed it, Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lady_with_an_Ermine

My favourite piece, though, had to be, The Burlington House Cartoon (1499-1500). This softly captivating charcoal and chalk sketch was a major source of inspiration for me during my Sixth Form years, where my foray into portraiture really began. Again, the sfumato technique so often employed by da Vinci undoubtedly leaps to the fore. There is veracious beauty to be found amongst the burnt charcoal, smokey sepia and ochre tones; the fluid movement of the drapery and the tender thoughtfulness of the composition – altogether portraying perfectly the unyielding bond shared between mother and child.

Disregarding the fervent jostling for position one was required to take part in in order to see the masterpieces on show – one would assume that the idea of the ticketing system would allow for more than a glimpse of the corner of a caption for a painting – the exhibition was well worth a visit. The sheer quantity of Leonardo’s sketches alone is enough inspiration to shake any complacent artist out of their stupor, not to mention the blindingly brilliant skill he had for capturing the very essence of the human form. I, for one, now vow to paint more and procrastinate less.

Ishia

This is my latest project: a portrait of one of the inhabitants of a village in the Gambia where a friend regularly makes charitable trips providing the local school with teaching material, buildings for staff and seeds for self-sufficiency.

One of the pupils at this school is a girl named Ishia and she is, I believe, 10 years of age. Her piercing gaze and beautiful headscarf were two major influences in making the decision to paint her.

The piece is 65cm x 45cm and is oil on canvas board.