“I went to Worthing by train and to the house by taxi, and to the interest of the neighbours set up my easel at about the place where the front gates would have been, had they not been unhinged and transplanted by the firemen. The gates themselves lay flat on the lawn, one of them still pathetically bearing a neat painted nameboard. ‘Treasure Holme.’ Poor Archie. Poor Maisie. I worked over the whole canvas with an unobtrusive coffee-coloured underpainting of raw umber much thinned with turpentin...e and linseed oil, and while it was still wet drew in, with a paintbrushful of a darker shade of the same colour, the shape of the ruined house against the horizontals of hedges, shingle, sea and sky. It was easy with a tissue to wipe out mistakes of composition at that stage, and try again: to get the proportions right, and the perspective, and the balance of the main masses. That done and drying, I strolled right round the whole garden, looking at the house from different angles, and staring out over the blackened stumps of the tamarisk hedge which had marked the end of the grass and the beginning of the shingle.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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I've just read three successive Francis books in which the hero had his shoulder blade broken. It shows a definite unevenness of imagination, some of which i excellet and others mere repitition
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