I discover as I have been languishing indoors swallowing antibiotics, the plants in my garden have been moving on at an astonishing pace.
One glimpse at my fully blooming poppies, and budding roses, is enough to tell me that we are already hurtling towards mid-summer.
These exotic silken flounces, with their velvet purple- capped centres, and dusting of of black could almost have been designed for a flamenco performance.
At present the euphorbias can be as dainty as these tiny blooms peeping between the foxglove leaves, or as big as the identical looking ones over- shooting the white rhododendrons.
Perhaps the showiest I have is the fiery variety which you can see growing through the ruby red lace of the acer.
While my garden has been so productive I couldn't resist letting loose in my half sorted studio.
Sometimes when I haven't the energy to tackle a "real" piece of work I leave my brain on a hook behind the door, (which some think I may not find too difficult), and just set to with no thought but to keep making marks so that colour, composition, and any thought of schema is left (literally) out of the picture.Technically this is called automatism, but it's really the ultimate in simply playing.
What do you think?