INK

During the coldest months, the natural colour palette is stripped back to monochrome. Therefore, texture becomes everything. Trees that stand black against the looming skies glisten silver in the low Sun. Bracken shines bronze alongside ochre and umber hedgerows.

   

I think of silhouetted crows, scavenging in snow-covered fields; ink drawings on Manila paper, and powdered faces emerging  from ebony frames of seventeenth-century Dutch portraits. The black mink hat, and ivory silk, reveal themselves when seen by candlelight.