Portfolio

Walking past the Diocesan School for Girls (DSG) on a winter afternoon during the school holidays, I noticed the library from Worcester Street. It was a beautiful old building. The cold shadows cast on the white perimeter wall contrasted with the warm shadows cast on the red brick of the library’s facade. Purples gave way to reds. In front of the library was a lytch gate, flanked by two aloes. Being winter, they were in bloom. The sky was clear. All was still. All was silent except for the crackling of dry leaves under my feet as I walked away.
She sat in the corner of the room with a black cat sleeping next to her. The balcony doors were open, letting in the breeze off the ocean and the sounds of the busy street outside. She was sketching. Tentatively, I asked her if I could see her drawing. She showed me. She was illustrating the cover of a handmade gift card. “It’s for a friend” she said. I smiled and left her to finish it. I liked what she was doing but it took me days to figure out why. Then I realised; it was the absence of a cellphone. She sat quietly with a cat, just drawing. There was nothing but the feedback from the page and her pen strokes. It was simple and beautiful.
On an afternoon in June, Steve brought his dogs to play. Two of them were pointer dogs. He explained that they were rescued. Ruby, standing in front of the verandah, stood tall and alert.
A schoolboy rugby match was being played at my old school in Grahamstown on a Saturday afternoon. I remember those days, as a child, going down to watch the First XV on Lower field. You could always tell how much time was left on the clock by the length of the shadows across the field. This match was near its end. One of the final acts was this conversion kick, after a try. 2018.
I painted this impression of two schoolboy rugby players from St Andrew’s College in Grahamstown during the team’s last home match of the 2018 season. This was after the closest player had scored the final try of the game, in the corner of the field. He had just touched town and was retreating with his team mate, both of their heads bowed. Backlighting doesn’t always work, but I liked how these two tired players accompanied each other at the end of the game.
This painting (an impression of an aloe in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa) was purchased as a wedding gift.
I painted this aloe in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa. The aloes bloom in winter. On this particular afternoon, a cold front had moved through leaving clouds smeared across the horizon, remnants of the cold weather.
In Grahamstown cattle and donkeys use the city’s infrastructure. Late one winter afternoon, on a walk, I came across this one horned bull wandering down the side of the road. It was bright and clear; one of those brilliant Eastern Cape days. The setting sun behind the trees flanking that road created shadows across the tar and on the bull’s coat. I tried to reproduce the tones of that light with the bright colour – like bubblegum pressed into the canvas.
The clock tower of my old school, St Andrew’s College, is a familiar sight. Sometimes at night you can hear it toll, when all is quiet. On this winter afternoon the evergreens surrounding the tower looked as though their leaves were changing.
I love bee eaters. They have beautiful colours. On a game drive through Hwange in February 2017, this carmine bee eater followed the game vehicle, picking up insects which were disturbed along the road. Every time we would stop, it would land nearby. Then when we would continue, it would follow us again. This painting was gifted to Jan and Lawrence Mallen, a generous couple. They have helped me during numerous transitions in my life.
Like its carmine companion, the white fronted bee eater is attractive. They can be seen nesting the the river beds.
Zanzibar. A storm was coming. A fisherman began mooring his boat. I was anticipating the storm with curiosity. The wind rose, tussling his hair and ruffling the boat’s flag. The cloth streaked red; the only bright colour I could see. I liked that the turquoise water was dull under the dark sky. It was unusual and beautiful, I thought.
In southern Maryland in spring I remember having an early dinner on Solomon’s Island, on the shore of the Chesapeake Bay. It was still and hot. You could hear the cicadas. By six o’clock the sun dipped behind the clouds and below the bridge linking the towns of Lusby and California. It made many colours. I watched them change.
March 2015. The back-end of the summer. The veld was green. But you wouldn’t know it from this painting. It had been another hot day and the sun was setting into the dust on the horizon. The bushveld in southern Africa has tremendous sunsets and sunrises through the dust haze. A small watering hole caught the colours of the sky. It’s difficult to see, but there is a different shade of purple around the water, as opposed to the rest of the land. That was a clearing. When the light was good you could see the animals emerge from the thicket into that clearing. They cautiously approached the water, checking for predators. If the coast was clear, they would drink.
I grew up in the former Transkei. My childhood holidays were spent at the Wild Coast. The roads were bad. It often took a long time to travel a short distance. But when you finally saw the sea behind the grassy hills, it was all worth it. I visited Hluleka in November 2017; almost three decades since I was a child playing on those beaches. Shepards still kept cows and goats on those hills. Rural life in the Eastern Cape should not be romanticised; it’s poor. But on a clear day, with a calm ocean, the breeze whistling and the cow bells knocking, it is good.
This fine baboon was sitting in the road as we were on a game drive one evening. I’ve depicted him as being alone, but in reality he was surrounded by his troupe. I liked the way the sunlight illuminated his face as he ate a piece of fruit.
Cattle on the grassy hills of the Wild Coast are a common sight. Watching them graze, whilst listening to the waves breaking in the background, is restful. I saw this bull on a walk one morning at Hluleka. He watched me wearily at first but allowed me quite close.
I painted this in autumn 2017, whilst walking my dog, Odysseus, in Hydes – just north of Baltimore. Maryland, in general, is beautiful. Every season is distinct. This is especially visible in the woodland. Off Hartley Mill Lane, there is a stream which runs over rocks and under a bridge. Standing on that bridge I observed how the near bright yellow leaves gave way to pastel colours further in. It reminded me that the colours in Maryland are often very rich. It’s a nice contrast to the subtle tones of places like Namibia.
One morning in May we went for a walk with three lions in Limpopo Province, South Africa. We were part of a group of about ten people, with four guides. We all carried walking sticks and kept closely together. We were told that this practice would make it safe for us to be in the company of lions. So it proved. However, at one point the lions, while playing with one another, split. Suddenly I felt vulnerable. I couldn’t see where two of them were; they had seemingly vanished into the long grass. In reality, they are just perfectly camouflaged. They stalked one another and sprung out playfully. Their huge paws hit one another’s ribs with deep thumps. I was awed by their power and, at that moment, felt my place in the food chain. When I painted this, I tried to remember how well they were camouflaged. Their coats were almost indistinguishable from the grass.
We saw these four ostriches on a game drive in Hwange in February 2017. I loved their long necks darting back and forth as they walked, like pliable periscopes.
My garden in Harare, Zimbabwe. Late one afternoon in April, I watched the shadows of the syringa tree lengthen across the lawn. Every autumn the peach tree would bloom with pink flowers for a few weeks. The setting sun made their colour especially striking. For some reason I’d left the gate open, leading to the parkland beyond. It seemed free.
These elephants strode toward us on a June afternoon. At the distance depicted, they stopped and stood still. After a minute or so, we realised we were in their path. We drove forward a few meters and they continued on their way, crossed the road behind us and disappeared into the bush. It was a silent protocol. There was no commotion. We simply yielded – almost politely – to one another. Life need not be conflictual; if we take our time and are mindful of others, we all can coexist. I gifted this piece to the Zimbabwean jeweler Patrick Mavros.