Scottish landscape and winter storms

Scottish landscape and winter storms
13.01.2016

Cliff Foot   acrylic on board   ALAN S.WATSON

 

THE WEATHER has very much been on our minds since the New Year. Well, when is it not? But this time it has been exceptional. The wind and rain and storms have not been quite of biblical proportions but it has seemed as if the rain would never stop.

Yet, landscape artists dislike bright sunny days and cloudless blue skies. Rather, they are human so they enjoy them as much as anyone else, but not when they are working.

Each season brings challenges but for most Scottish landscape artists, summer is the worst; the flat light of high summer is dull and uninteresting. When the sun is at its height there are no long shadows, no light and shade. The changing seasons and the unpredictability of the weather in Scotland stimulate and inspire artists — winter storms can provide stunning subjects and dramatic paintings.

 

Loch Scavaig by Tom Shanks RSW RGI PAI

Loch Scavaig   watercolour and ink   TOM SHANKS RSW RGI PAI

 

Landscape Study - oil painting by Kirstie Cohen

Landscape Study 6   oil on board   KIRSTIE COHEN

 

Sunshine and Showers by Moira Ferrier RSW

Sunshine and Showers   watercolour and gouache   MOIRA FERRIER RSW

 

Rhythm of the Waves by Patricia Sadler

Rhythm of the Waves 3   acrylic on canvas   PATRICIA SADLER

 

Winter storms also inspire poets. In 'Spate in winter midnight', the Scottish poet, Norman MacCaig, brilliantly expresses a winter storm in the Highlands.

 

Spate in winter midnight

 

The streams fall down and through the darkness bear
Such wild and shaking hair,
Such looks beyond a cool surmise,
Such lamentable uproar from night skies
As turn the owl from honey of blood and make
Great stags stand still to hear the darkness shake.

 

Through Troys of bracken and Babel towers of rocks
Shrinks now the looting fox,
Fearful to touch the thudding ground
And flattened to it by the mastering sound.
And roebuck tilt and leap sideways; their skin
Twitches like water on the fear within.

 

Black hills are slashed white with this falling grace
Whose violence buckles space
To a sheet-iron thunder. This
Is noise made universe, whose still centre is
Where the cold adder sleeps in his small bed,
Curled neatly round his neat and evil head.

 

Blog by Joan Ross