Louise McClary, Artist

Walking into Louise McClary’s studio, it begins to speak. Tales of the nearby creeks, the secrets of the luminous mud flats, and of the emerald tide. Tales of the knotted, twisted trees, the wind-swept fields and of the birds in bright flight. Here, in the studio, beats a silent heart, yet one with such a loud voice, and with such powerful emotion, it is as if it speaks for the world itself. The walls and floorboards are daubed with colours, thick and dancing, yet they whisper a fragility as I move through the room. Splotches of heart-heat grow out of jars and slide down sinks. Remnants of ideas and observations migrate like snail-trails down table legs, legs groaning under the weight of poetry books and of expectant paint brushes. All around, the walls flutter with postcards and clippings held dear, faded, but still feeding the invisible butterflies, the cobwebs with names, the light flickering in the beams, the air that hangs heavy with creative meandering. And there she sits in the midst of it all, the canvas dreamily absorbing the words in her fingers.