Burnt wood and fingers

I stand in the shade of an oak tree
burnt wood in my hand
conjuring shapes from the past

The cairn at Dyffryn Ardudwy. On a hot day in May, circling the dolmens, their apron of stone, I looked for the best view — the sun ushered me into the shade and I drew.

Charcoal, if worked with the fingers, has a magical quality. I generally begin a charcoal drawing by blowing charcoal powder onto the paper and rubbing it in with the tips of my fingers, the palm of my hand. The paper becomes ground - more approachable than white. I then take the long side of a stick of charcoal and work it flat so to speak over the surface of the paper, building up tone. Shapes emerge. If it is a face I am drawing, the shape is a ghost.

I recall a self portrait. Call being an apt verb. From the blended tones a face appears — not mine. Shaggy, lionesque hair, a Turin Jesus. I add more tone, blend it with my palm and the face disappears. I work in its sockets, shape the cheeks, the hair, and a woman appears through the grey cloud. Not me, these conjurings, but something that the fingers feel rather than what the eye sees. I worked on more charcoal — to the eyes, the brow, the chin and a third face appears. Not me either, but close enough.

The magic is that these things come to be. From paper, burnt wood, dust.

And here I am, a hot day in May standing at my easel in the shade of a tree. I’ve marked its bough on the paper, vague shapes for the stones, am lost in the moment of what I’m doing. And then I see what I’m doing: holding a piece of burnt wood, drawing it down the paper, blending it onto the surface with my finger tips, much as artists in caves once did on walls of stone, and I standing drawing stone.

A holy moment with no god in it
shared with a ghost from the past