You, me, my sister and Matisse

“If we were on the submissions panel for the Summer Exhibition it would be fabulous wouldn’t it? Just think of all the brightly coloured wonderful paintings we’d choose!”

So Frances wrote to me yesterday. An excellent painter herself, she’s been collecting my paintings for a while now and loves to surround herself with art that gives her joy.

“Yes,” I wrote back, “the happy ones, the wild, gorgeous, flamboyant ones. The subtle gentle colours too. All the ones that make hearts sing and soothe troubles and stress.”

And yes we’d select some abstract work that asks questions and stretches the mind, but we’d also have lots of paintings that some (most?) people relate to more easily. Painterly of course, and perhaps impressionist, but with recognisable subjects. Wild flower meadows in full bloom where you feel you can walk right into the picture and lie down and look at the sky and breathe in the scent and dream; and forests in the snow where you glimpse a stag, watching you, and feel the cool, crisp air on your face – and, oh, a hundred beloved scenes that transport you there in a heart-beat. A celebration of our astonishing planet, and the beauty of people and all our animal friends and wildlife too.

Every painting a little bit of magic.

And that’s how it is in my home and I hope yours too?

Every painting here in my study and in all the rooms – for every inch of my place is my studio and gallery – does that for me. Some I’ve had for years and are so familiar I don’t always notice them daily – but when I do, like the new ones (some still wet!) they give me a jolt of pleasure. Old friends and new, it’s good to see them and be around them, to feel that resonance.

A hug, a blessing, a dream, a welcome. A happiness.

Real paint, painted with love. Art we love. Art that gives us joy.

I wish you all this with every painting you choose, every painting you live with, every painting that is somehow special to you.

See you on the panel? Wouldn’t it be fab? Yey!

With love and light, Jenny, dreaming on . . .

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