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Tide dropping, pipits on the rocks. April 2014.
Mixed media on wood panel. £8000.


Sitting outside my boathouse on the Cape engrossed in my scribbling and daubing, the sea provides the sound track – that constant murmuring and whispering, an ambient wavering noise that the Cornish language refers to as mordros. There is no man made sound but there are the occasional bird calls – a gull, an oystercatcher out on the rocks, a chattering wren in the roof of my hut.

The sounds that do pierce the seas clamour and continual moan belong to the pipits with their squeaky tweeting – sharp, high pitched and urgent. They flit around in front of me chasing the seaweed flies and each other; flirting, courting and ignoring me. Rock pipits. They only live on the coast; subtle brown unassuming birds that merge with their surroundings like small fast flying rodents amongst the granite and greenstone. They are usually my only companions here on this exposed bit of rock sticking out into the Atlantic; the only characters to witness my occasional comments and mutterings of frustration in my daily battles with this subject matter.


Kurt Jackson 2014