Just booked tickets to see 'David Hockney RA: A Bigger Picture' in a few weeks time.
Since watching Andrew Marr’s documentary of the exhibition I feel as though I am permanently immersed in one of Hockney’s canvasses. Rural Suffolk, where we live, bears so many resemblances to H’s East Yorkshire... from little hedge-lined lanes that bleach to lilac in the sunlight, and blasts of luminous oilseed rape blossom to dramatic silhouettes of winter copses against heavy skies.
And the sky couldn’t have been heavier for the past couple of days. Even the snowdrops refused to shake out their skirts, and the chickens, hunched under the bay tree for shelter, seem to have shrunk to half their normal plumped up size, sodden feathers clinging to their backs like ill fitting raincoats.
Last night a lustrous full moon painted deep indigo shadows across the garden. This morning a sunny sky washes the landscape with Californian colour. And my feathered friends have resumed their perky perambulations. I should really shut up and dash outside with my paints. Hockney would.