Andrew Cranston

It's pretty much the view I wake up to: an arched window looking onto a wall of lime trees, densely green for a third of the year. I see it, framing it, recording it, squinting my eyes to simplify it and understand the tone/colour relationship. Our walls are light but the walls of this book gave me a dark and dilapidated patina. We're up in the sky amongst the trees, and squirrels and birds are directly across from us, all of us looking for some privacy. At night I've seen the hunched dark shapes of pigeons on a branch, seemingly asleep. Once I saw and heard a woodpecker.

It's an attic room that reminds me of a particular Gwen John painting.
It's an old book, I forget the title - Wilson's Tales of the Borders? Or maybe ti was a Bible? It acts as a Rorschach test. I see things in it.

A blast of framed green, positioned centrally which was helped along by a indentation, a sort of decorative crest.

Working on the dark red/brown ground of a book this image slowly emerged. Dark grounds give you a kind of dream space to invent and imagine.

It's a dark like the darkness of a very old cave, and what you find in there is something to do with you.