I went on a painting session prior to Christmas with Jakk, he has sent me this short piece for our enjoyment.
Starbreed
I watch him. The painter is aware of my presence, but has his back to me. He is used to larger audiences, however today; ice and snow have conspired to make the coastal cliff path at Wembury too treacherous for spectators. The sea breeze makes light work of my inadequate winter outfit. Nevertheless, I continue my vigil. The painter doesn’t feel the cold, lost in concentration, documenting his vision.
To his right a naked Hawthorne bush is disturbed, branches part to reveal a Robin. This rotund flycatcher hops from branch to branch; his feathery brown jacket overshadowed by the glory of his red waistcoat. I marvel at how such a portly little fellow could be supported by those matchsticks legs. The opportunity proves too much for the painter who feels the need to photograph this solitary visitor.Far from being afraid of this camera wielding artist, the Robin comes closer, appearing to perform before the lens.
Perhaps being best friends with Batman has afforded this diminutive specie sufficient media exposure in the past. I don’t know, but I cannot believe how close to the camera the robin is, a feather length from his beak and unconcerned by the foreign tone of the clicking shutter. This unfazed Ruddock nonchalantly turns its head from side to side. It is at this point, I secretly name him Starbreed; for this bird is a real celebrity.
The painter curses for he has no food to give the creature. I too in hindsight wish I had brought something, anything. I am so enamored with the small bird, I would gladly hand him my shoes were he to enjoy the consumption of leather.
Eventually, the robin departs as fast as he appeared; no doubt disappointed his performance brought such little reward. Unbeknown to that particular animal, he would later be immortalized in the painters work, but it was probably little consolation as it foraged for food in the harshest winter for years.
On returning to his studio the painter examined the photographs. He had indeed been close to the robin – his reflection could be seen in the darkness of the Robinet’s eye.
It was indeed a simple but magical moment and for me, one I will never forget. Some say the Robin was stained by the blood of Christ, while others insist he was a harbinger for the God of thunder. For myself, his association with the red colour of the Victorian postal service is more apt; he delivered us a gift that day.
Starbreed
I watch him. The painter is aware of my presence, but has his back to me. He is used to larger audiences, however today; ice and snow have conspired to make the coastal cliff path at Wembury too treacherous for spectators. The sea breeze makes light work of my inadequate winter outfit. Nevertheless, I continue my vigil. The painter doesn’t feel the cold, lost in concentration, documenting his vision.
To his right a naked Hawthorne bush is disturbed, branches part to reveal a Robin. This rotund flycatcher hops from branch to branch; his feathery brown jacket overshadowed by the glory of his red waistcoat. I marvel at how such a portly little fellow could be supported by those matchsticks legs. The opportunity proves too much for the painter who feels the need to photograph this solitary visitor.Far from being afraid of this camera wielding artist, the Robin comes closer, appearing to perform before the lens.
Perhaps being best friends with Batman has afforded this diminutive specie sufficient media exposure in the past. I don’t know, but I cannot believe how close to the camera the robin is, a feather length from his beak and unconcerned by the foreign tone of the clicking shutter. This unfazed Ruddock nonchalantly turns its head from side to side. It is at this point, I secretly name him Starbreed; for this bird is a real celebrity.
The painter curses for he has no food to give the creature. I too in hindsight wish I had brought something, anything. I am so enamored with the small bird, I would gladly hand him my shoes were he to enjoy the consumption of leather.
Eventually, the robin departs as fast as he appeared; no doubt disappointed his performance brought such little reward. Unbeknown to that particular animal, he would later be immortalized in the painters work, but it was probably little consolation as it foraged for food in the harshest winter for years.
On returning to his studio the painter examined the photographs. He had indeed been close to the robin – his reflection could be seen in the darkness of the Robinet’s eye.
It was indeed a simple but magical moment and for me, one I will never forget. Some say the Robin was stained by the blood of Christ, while others insist he was a harbinger for the God of thunder. For myself, his association with the red colour of the Victorian postal service is more apt; he delivered us a gift that day.
