Weirdly, this picture I painted of sheep wending their weird and weary way did not sell, even though it is two foot six square and was boldly hung in a local shop window. Such is the life of an artist. Hope, quickly dashed by disappointment.
I have now fully recovered mentally and physically from the exertions of the first Crowborough Arts Festival in which my weird sheep picture was but a miniscule part: a lone little pixel in a full colour chart. Artists, actors, musicians, photographers, sculptors, adults, children, all were involved. I shared a garage studio with a talented American photographer - a garage that was lent to us by kind people for the two weekends of the Show. My now-very-old husband and I nearly froze to death in that wondrous place on the last Sunday as an icy North wind blew leaves in to twirl around us. This demise was averted however by hot soup provided by our garage hosts and an hour's reprieve by our daughter who took over so that we could warm our ancient bones. Picture, print and card sales were made, so hope prevailed, and, what's more, friendships were forged - which was the major intention of the Festival.
