I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.
St Ives/ undated
I seem to have brought the rains with me to this sleepy little town by the seaside but the rains here seem friendlier than anywhere else. It is no wonder every settler I meet tells me about how they came here and never went back. And those who are the local inhabitants of this place cannot leave this town without carrying a large chunk of its earth in their hearts, which keeps pining to be reunited with its motherland – and they are finally drawn back to it like the call of the wild. It’s heaven this place, not just because its sea is Paraiba tourmaline and sapphire, glinting alive everywhere; not because when clouds lour over it, burying little islands in its misty sheen, magic grows out of form and colour; and not so much because every alleyway, cobbled and narrow disappears into its own fascinating land of art and artists whose passion paints the air around them – but this place is heaven because its people make it so.
This town reverberates with the spirit of the artists who have lived and worked here over the centuries and do so now. Turner extracted his rainbows from its waters and the light reflected on them, Constable played with the masses of clouds collected over the chimney tops, Hepworth sculpted its granites and drew out its soul. It’s a place where the world stops still, learns to breathe.
seas have abated,
you hold the sky in your palm
now – shall we start back?