Want to Travel? The Significance of Residencies: Nicholas Tsoutas

Carrying on a business as a professional artist - a tax perspective

Heavy frost this morning. Solid white lock on the land. The earth beats warm beneath. Waiting. Biding.

It is the middle of winter now here in the New England. The trees are bare and the branches reach through the silvery morning mists. There is a sense of waiting. Just as we await warm weather so also do the trees wait to be enlivened. The Spring will be so much sweeter for this waiting. So very sweet for the warmth and for sun reaching throught the branches to bathe us in gold.

The golden light will draw long shadows down the back of my garden. My garden backs onto a paddock with a hill in the distance. I have recently put up a studio in my back yard with a large glass door. Working in there I will see out over the garden.

The beautiful thing about the place that I live in is that the seasons are so distinct. When I lived in Moree and Tamworth there was Summer and Winter but living in Uralla and Armidale there is such a dramatic Spring and Autumn as well. The winter is harsh.

"Now we come to the Autumn of our lives". I suppose my father was in his Autumn for many years. Now it is Winter. He has had his Winter and is resting in the cold cold ground. He is in Canberra while I am up here. Down there it is a bare Winter landscape now. He and I both are wait in the bare cold.

Perhaps winter paintings? Or do winter paintings in Spring when the sap flows again? Will the sap flow again? Wondering.