enamel, acrylic, sap on aluminium
60 x 60 cm
framed in solid English Oak
“Made under my tree in Autumn, these two paintings bare the stain – quite literally – of the changing seasons. Loaded with the unavoidable influence of atmospheric permutations they are a reflection on cloud, on water, music and death. I made these in the rain, the sun and the wind, opening up to the inevitability of forces that dwarf human endeavour.”
– Brett Weir
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
– Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare