there is not a habitation in sight. The valley is peopled with its trees—elms, Lombardy poplars, willows, aspens, limes, and ashes. And in between them the river and its full ditches glint perpetually. And if you will raise your eyes a little you may see the chalk country that lies behind these things, fold on fold of the green down-land, with the Seven Clumps at the Great Stones, the Seven Beech Clumps that mark the way for anyone who crosses the Plain from the south. And over all, in this fine north-westerly weather, the great clouds sail, throwing their shadows upon square miles of it.
That is what I am painting.
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I have now used all my new colours except the Italian Pink. But there was nothing Italian in the landscape except the garden at Beaulieu, and that was not pink. Moreover, Italian Pink is not pink at all. It is a sort of yellowy brown. Perhaps there is some mistake. I must ask my instructor.
And still the result is not satisfactory.
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Not even my wife's praise can make me wholly satisfied with my picture.
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