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Mending the Nets by Meg Lewer

Signed on the front.
This artwork comes with an external frame

A row of little stone cottages stand sentinel under a stormy sky with fishing nets waiting to be mended.
Collage, ink and acrylics on wide edge canvas with oak frame.

I love poetry and art. They just sing to each other. This painting reminds me of my time in beautiful Cornwall where time seems to stand still.

‘Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.

The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.

All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.”

Elizabeth Bishop “At the Fish houses”

Mending The Nets

Meg Lewer

AUD$910
Size: 40w x 60h x 3d cms
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Additional Information

Mending the Nets by Meg Lewer

Signed on the front.
This artwork comes with an external frame

A row of little stone cottages stand sentinel under a stormy sky with fishing nets waiting to be mended.
Collage, ink and acrylics on wide edge canvas with oak frame.

I love poetry and art. They just sing to each other. This painting reminds me of my time in beautiful Cornwall where time seems to stand still.

‘Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.

The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.

All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.”

Elizabeth Bishop “At the Fish houses”