Tales from the Riverbank

Mayflies, demoiselles and the ebb and flow of creativity

Welcome to Still Sketching. The following post is a strangely prescient one and I wasn’t at all sure it was going to appear this morning. On Tuesday, Diss, in South Norfolk where I live, experienced the most unprecedented storm causing flash flooding. Although I live on a hill, the water swept by with the force of a river, pushing into the house and below, in the garden, into my studio. Then the power was lost until late last night, so it has been a rather testing couple of days. Below, I hope, offers a more serene view of water, of the beautiful River Waveney, on a perfect late spring day.

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This weekend, easing myself back into drawing after some while, I visited a stretch of the River Waveney, at the nearby village of Brockdish, a place I had discovered one cold day last winter and suspected might be the perfect spot for some early summer sitting and sketching.

The stark landscape of draping willows was now transformed into a burgeoning mass of green. In the next field, cows lifted their heads in vague curiosity at my approach, as I squelched through the still sodden meadow and clambered over stiles with my ridulously laden rucksack, full of kit that was the result of much indecision.

In spite of the idyllic scene, I was feeling a little anxious. In the gap of just a few weeks, the incessant rain followed by warm, sunfilled days had changed the soft, fresh green of spring into the vivid brightness of early summer, a season I felt much less comfortable in drawing. But I pushed aside my doubts, ploughed on and planted myself under the shade of an elder tree at the river’s edge and gazed out at the glaucous wheat fields and crack willow. It was all so green.

I spread out my watercolours, my coloured pencils and a box of Unison pastels, a sure sign of a sense of unease. How should I approach this? I seemed to have forgotten what to do. I began making tiny drawings in my A5 sketchbook, my eyes following the forms of the distant trees with my pencil, but on finishing each one, I felt dissatisfied with the result. Undeterred I kept going, but the strong light and contrast, just felt brash.

It took some while before I paused and reflected that sitting in front of the perfect scene doesn’t necessarily result in a drawing that sparks. I was drawing the scene because I felt I ought to, and that is not a good reason to do so. I was still feeling below par, coupled with guilt that I was not producing new work, and this was hovering over me as I put pencil to paper.

Drawing is a way to be still, to see and observe what you otherwise might have missed. It is a way to slow down, breathe in nature and the landscape and to notice the subtle shifts in the seasons. It is not a stick to beat yourself with.

Creativity is not an abundant, constant source: it ebbs and flows, there are periods where everything you see captivates, is vying for attention to be captured and leads to an outpouring of ideas and sketchbooks filled, but then there are times when everything appears flat and fails to arouse your imagination. I used to rail against times like this, banging my head against a proverbial brick wall in the hope that I would capture that sense of wonderment again. As the years have passed, I have learned to adopt a gentle acceptance and not push too hard.

I think the term “creative block” quite unhelpful: it sounds like a hurdle to be commandeered. I do think creativity can be nudged into life again by seeing fresh new art, by reading, by walking or simply by playing with my materials or processes, but without any expected outcome.

“when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.”
― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

Back on the river bank, I packed away my kit and decided instead to just watch the life that danced in front of me. I gazed at the clouds of banded demoiselles skittering amongst the reeds, flashing wings of the purest cobalt blue and gauzy black. A mayfly skated on the surface, rising up into the air for their day of life and then a pure, trill swept by as a kingfisher darted upstream through the bathing willows.

Sometimes you don’t have to draw to see things, you just need to sit.

Something to listen to

A Cigarette on the Waveney by Roger Deakin

Close your eyes and spend half an hour drifting along to the sounds of the river Waveney with the writer and ecologist Roger Deakin. I shall return to Roger Deakin in a future post, but this is the perfect taster of his writing. In this programme from 2016, he travels on a canoe called Cigarette, named after Robert Louis Stevenson’s vessel, describing the places and wildlife he encounters along the way. Although I am familar with the places he describes, his perspective takes us through an unseen world of reeds and willows. I especially love his incantation of local names. Let me know what you think.

River Man - my linocut print available on my website

Something to read

The River of Green Knowe - Lucy M Boston

In December I featured “The Children of Green Knowe” and now seems the perfect moment to mention this sequel. You can read more of Lucy M Boston, and her extraordinary house, in @AnneKennedySmith’s post here which I heartily recommend. In writing this piece I also came across this podcast, Nighttime on Still Water, nocturnal tales from a narrowboat called Erica, that is aimed "especially at everyone who used to listen to their transistor radio under their pillows”. How can you resist? I certainly couldn’t. The episode on “Green Knowe” is here.

Mouse on the River - Alice Melvin

I love picture books. This is the sequel to the exquisite “Mouse’s Wood : A Year in Nature”. Watery willows, dabbling ducks and peeks into tiny houseboats are revealed behind secret flaps as mouse rows towards the sea. It is exquisitely illustrated and is the perfect book for young children and for those, who like me, are a child at heart.

And finally…

As I was writing this, I suddenly remembered a childhood programme that enchanted me. Here is a brief clip to remind you, or to discover.

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Enjoy the rest of this lovely month of May and I look forward to seeing you again in a couple of weeks.