It's not even just the trees - bracken, bare hedgerow, moorland, they're all at it, with splashes of cornfield yellow and heady wine red, flamboyant pumpkin and speckled apricot. I'm even caught up in what I reject - caramel and toffee, flapjack and syrup all too sticky; grilled grapefruit, for all it captures a colour perfectly, and the toasty edges, doesn't feel right. Cinnamon works, foxy not; plum yes, aubergine no. But the irritating truth is that words are failing me. That there are so many blended, perfect shades out there for which I find it impossible to pin down any kind of helpful description. As a word person I find it hard to accept, although as a colour lover I'm happy to gaze at, say, the peachy, brackeny, auburny tones of the japanese maple in my garden and enjoy their nameless colours while they last.
It's mid-November - they'll all be gone soon enough. Already there are as many pools of leaves on the ground as leaves on branches (though when they're below as well as above it can double the colour spike) and soon all will be subtle browns and forgetfulness. That's fine - I love the starker land of winter too, and meanwhile, what a show there's been this year. What. A. Show.
Pinning down now why I enjoyed the show so much is proving difficult.Some of it was to do with colour combinations, some to do with the way each style of work really did complement the other. Most of it was that the collaboration was energizing, buzzy. For the first time ever I found myself wondering whether collaborating with an artist you trust might be surprisingly liberating.