There is something special about North London on a summer’s afternoon. It’s the weekend and the heat is rising, and with it the scents of tar, brick, roses and cut grass. I explore a street I do not know and view the backs of town houses, seemingly burgeoning from a patch of greenery. An oddly […]Read Post ›
There is something special about North London on a summer’s afternoon. It’s the weekend and the heat is rising, and with it the scents of tar, brick, roses and cut grass. I explore a street I do not know and view the backs of town houses, seemingly burgeoning from a patch of greenery. An oddly […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
There is something special about North London on a summer’s afternoon. It’s the weekend and the heat is rising, and with it the scents of tar, brick, roses and cut grass. I explore a street I do not know and view the backs of town houses, seemingly burgeoning from a patch of greenery. An oddly […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
A languid French summer, when the bees hum around lavender and honeysuckle, and the crickets whisper, an old house bakes quietly in the sun, as it has done for a hundred years. Flowers hug its pink, marzipan walls, a fusion of flower and twig and plaster. Inside the floorboards creak and expand, and a faint […]Read Post ›
Andrew Reid Wildman, Scottish Artist living in France 
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