Still Life by Ros Davis

Remembering Margaret Jackson, fine Artist.

The artist’s brushes tightly crowd the jar, stilled.

But they are only resting, ready for the familiar touch, for those familiar fingers, to fit again into the hand they know – her hand.

That one, with its long, soft strength, its straightness, will sweep with bold, certain strokes, precisely releasing its colour as it moves.

This one, a deep, flat-topped bowl, or this one – barbered to a chisel shape: what visions will they dance into being? Taking their measured loads, will they flatten or bulge; slip or skip, even glide or slide -  or,  with style - swivel or swing?

Will they subside back to rest, leaving this stiff, tight, straight-sided soldier to bring discipline and control? Or does he, guided by her touch, have a gentler, more intricate purpose – to dab, to barely touch, alighting here and there like a butterfly kiss, adding light and suggesting shadow; deepening, broadening and sharpening?

And here, this one – she is goddess. She is elegance – soft, sleek and curving. She is a fat flower bud bursting with promise: she is a candle flame in a breeze. She is a lily flower sleeping. She is the dolce vita.

Imagine her flowing form in movement. Squares, angles, straight lines are not for her. For her is liquid – lissom – lithe. In her dance is grace, there is fullness and finesse. She laughs; she glows; she’s in your face, full-frontal. And as suddenly as blinking she is swept away – leaving only a fine, faint trace.