Mists and mellow fruitfulness


Today is the equinox. Which is of course the day when we stop complaining about the heat and start complaining equally about how cold it has suddenly become. The journey to the train station now involves walking down into the morning mist which hangs over the Avon. The cygnets have grown and can often be seen carrying out down-maintenance and feeding next to the weir.



Avoncliff. 9 a.m. 21 September.


I climbed through woods in the hour—before—dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost—making stillness,
Not a leaf, not a bird—
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood
Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness
Till the moorline– blackening dregs of the brightening grey –
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:
Huge in the dense grey –ten together –
Megalith—still. They breathed, making no move,
With draped manes and tilted hind—hooves,
Making no sound.
I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments
Of a grey still world.
I listened in emptiness on the moor—ridge.
The curlew’s tear turned its edge on the silence.
Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted
Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue,
And the big planets hanging—
I turned
Stumbling in a fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops,
And came the horses.
There, still they stood,
But now steaming, and glistening under the flow of light,
Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind—hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them
The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped,
Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys, in the red levelling rays—
In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place
Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.

The Horses by Ted Hughes

In the gallery we have our ongoing ‘Art of Silence’ show.

Painted Mackerel, Acrylic on Board 35 x 35 cm (framed 57 x 57 cm). £925


Any painting with a sea-themed subject matter is ripe for a little Herman Melville…

Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.
Consider all this; and then turn to the green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return.
-from ‘Moby Dick’

And of course we still have the brilliant Jack Doherty’s porcelain on display..

J24. Conical Vessel, Porcelain, 11 x 13 cm. £380


The British Art Fair begins next Thursday (runs until Sunday) at the Saatchi gallery and one of our featured artists is the inimitable Akiko Hirai, whose forthcoming show at the gallery begins on 14 October. Below is two sides of the same fantastic moon jar…




Akiko Hirai  Extra Large Moon Jar  67 x 55 cm.  £12,000

Please contact the gallery for details/ tickets for the fair.  The Akiko Hirai pots will be for sale to attendees only.

Besides Akiko there will be new work on show at the British Art Fair by Nathan Ford, Helen Simmonds, Nichola Theakston, Beth Carter, Anna Gillespie, Bobbie Russon, Andrew Crocker, Harriet Porter.


And finally…

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Song for Autumn by Mary Oliver.


Cast Test, Oil on Birch Panel 122 x 170 cm. £12,000


Thank you as always for reading.
Please look our current exhibitions webpage to see all the artists exhibiting in the Art of Silence exhibition.
Please click on the images above for links to webpages.

Contact the gallery by phone or email to purchase, or for any further information.
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Best wishes,