My childhood was spent in the countryside, but I have lived and worked in the same house in London for many years. On reflection, I realise that almost all my paintings have derived from the trees growing in the garden. There are not many: an old and in one case, dying Pear, an Apple, a weeping Birch, a Bay and a self-sown Holly. The delightful Magnolia Stellata is a more frivolous newcomer.
I like to paint what I know and have cared for. I enjoy the precision of a growing thing- the branches in winter as they grow jerkily towards the light and form an orderly tangle as they do, the fruit as it swells, ripens and falls. Spring is daunting for an artist, as is any subject of great moment. I can’t shirk the responsibility to give form to the young leaves as they emerge and are illuminated by spring sunshine or the innumerable petals of the blossom which just for a short time, hold light within them. Later, it is the old leaves which demand to be noticed as they take on the strongest colour in the garden - red or gold - before they fall and decay. Winter trees have their own beauty and allow the paintings to move at a slower pace.
I paint these things as they happen, inside or out. From the moment my brush touches a fresh canvas, I am keenly aware that although these trees are familiar, I don’t really know them. Standing on the same spot I spend as much time as it needs before the season moves on. As I try to give form to what has caught my eye, I am strengthened by the many poets who have used the natural world and trees in particular, to comment on our humanity. They know that by looking closely and feeling their way towards the right words, for them nothing else is as important.