The heart of a thing.

The heart of a thing.

The wind whipped up great dark clouds, blowing them over the hills. They spread and stretch over the low tide, sky reflecting beach. Rain drops fell heavy, sparse, with splat on my face and I rushed running across the shore. I looked back to see following footprints in that storm brew sky, then pushed on and came across a painter sat on a box.

He worked paint, slash and stoke, curling oil hairs over the scene. He wore a hat on his head and a wet proof boiler suit with wellies on his feet. I knew the beach and the look of the sky and recognised the colour of storm.

‘There’s bad weather coming in.’ I told him, ‘it’s going to lash it down.’

‘I know.’ He said. Then looked at me and recognise surprise, turned back and began painting again, having to catch now and then the easel and canvas, acting like sail. The wind got stronger and he raised his head into it, full face, feeling the cold wet fresh of the rain.

Then he held that look, filled the brush with oil and painted, transfering what he felt.

Then said. ‘Without the feeling, you just can’t, can’t find the heart of a thing.’

I captured, then left him there.

 

 

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