#65: Edge of Camp 2

#64: Edge of Camp (Charcoal, Chalk and Watercolor, approx A3 size)
#64: Edge of Camp (Charcoal, Chalk and Watercolour, approx A3 size)

This is a larger version of the oil painting shown in my previous post, this time in a charcoal and chalk over watercolour. I started this with a broad colour washes to establish warm and cool, light and dark  areas.

Once I started work on the sky I quickly obliterated what was left of the watercolour, and the paper is almost entirely covered in chalk and charcoal, which perhaps makes the work look a bit – well – chalky. In the dark areas toward the foreground you can still see some of the warm watercolour shine through.

The image is very dark, representing – if anything real – the very last light before darkness closes down the day. I sprayed the work with fixative and it darkened the picture further, but not to the extent where I dislike the end result, which is what is shown above.

I continue to enjoy my play with charcoal and chalk. With any other medium, there is always a setup and cleanup time needed (especially in oils). This generates some resistance in me to just play around when I have a quick 20 minutes to spare.

With charcoal and chalk, I find almost no resistance in myself to just hang an A3 pad over my easel, draw a rough frame and play away. If my wife calls for dinner I can drop tools, wash hands with soap and water and go! Below is one outcome of a quick 10 to 15 minute play session. This may just turn into a painting one day.


Thanks for visiting my blog. I hope you are having a great weekend, and that you have joy and contentment in your life.

A poem for you about the dark hours of being. This is from Rilke’s “Book for the Hours of Praying”.


I love the dark hours of my being
In which my senses drop into the deep
I have found in them, as in old letters,
my private life, that is already lived through,
and become wide and powerful now, like legends.
Then I know that there is room in me
for a second huge and timeless life.

But sometimes I am like the tree that stands
over a grave, a leafy tree, fully grown,
who has lived out that particular dream, that the dead boy
(around whom its warm roots are pressing)
lost through his sad moods and his poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly
from The Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke


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