Still life. Nature Morte. My dad used to paint still lives because they were good for you. Like barley malt or Lane’s Emulsion, a ghastly fish-tasting concoction from New Zealand that was forced down my throat as a child. Ah, happy days.
So, stuck in the house still suffering from the lung ailments the emulsion failed to cure and unable to hike much further than the front gate, I grabbed some blossom branches from an apple tree that stands stubbornly and fruitlessly in the wrong spot in our garden and painted them. In a vase. Nature morte. The green stripe at the bottom is a tribute to Alberto Morocco, perhaps my favourite tutor at art school.