Gathering of the Harvest, near Glinton, Peterborough, acrylic. I took up painting in 1998 and have been successful in selling a few paintings during the years. I was originally brought up in the village of Murrow, Nr. Wisbech. I have always loved art and during …
Walking home at night as Autumn turns to Winter, the colder evenings are bringing mists and giving us opportunities for some atmospheric photography.
From our contributor:
“I like a depth of field that puts areas out of focus where possible, as narrow as I can. I realised that without my glasses, that’s what things look like. There’s been a lot written about how eye problems and illnesses affecting vision impacted certain artists, so I think that’s why I find them pleasing – because it replicates what I actually see” – @Bouncybhall
by Amy Wormald
29 September – 11 October 2020
Open daily 12pm – 4pm (closed on Mondays)
Waterside – Ely – CB7 4AU
Gallery opening times: Tuesday – Sunday 12pm – 4pm
Amy Wormald is a contemporary painter living in Ely whose colourful work is inspired by the Fens, construction and growth. The exhibition brings together paintings inspired by urban and rural landscapes within a 20-mile radius of Ely. Her work ranges from small studies of colour in nature, to large canvases of building sites and roadworks.
Amy was winner of the Cambridge Open Art Exhibition 2018 and shortlisted for the D-Contemporary Painting Prize in London in 2019.
The exhibition brings together original framed works in oil and acrylic to browse or buy. Entry to the gallery is free and all are welcome.
Here, there is clarity. A raw, persistent
truth – a cold disparity – hidden beneath
these tessellating fields. Fields stitched
by ditches to a muddy canvas. An after-
thought, a lost and lonely landmass.
Marshes marred by the harshness of
weather-worn trees. Each movement
of their aching limbs born of necessity.
That seasickness, which rises when
tracing that unaltered horizon, will
never fade. It is the price we pay to
come and stare into the eyes of gods,
to see ourselves, scratched and scattered
across unending skies and be reminded
just how much it mattered. The paling
moonlight dies, submerged and sinking,
but never fully sunk. No dampened way
of thinking, drunk on every part of these
wild and weary, sun-smeared fens. I’ll walk
each lonesome plough line, now as then.