Art Without Obligation

It was a quiet day when I found myself standing at the bank of Duck’s Bridge. A watercolour pad in one hand, brushes and paints in the other, I looked at the old stone arch rising out of the stillness. How many people, I wondered, even realise this packhorse bridge still stands?

As I set pencil to paper, I began to imagine the stories it could tell. The clip-clop of horses pulling carts across the worn path, the footsteps of people travelling between villages, the sound of voices carried over water. The bridge sat alone in the middle of nowhere, yet to me it felt alive. Sketching it gave me a sense of calm and understanding, as though by drawing I was reaching into its history.

For me, art has become more than creativity — it has been part of recovery. Living with PTSD and the brain injury means my mind often wants to drag me back into old patterns and memories I’d rather not relive. But when I pick up charcoal or watercolour, I can place myself in the present.

Standing at that bridge, all I could think of was the texture of the stone, the weight of the brush in my hand, the movement of water below. The noise in my head was quiet for a while.

Later, back in my studio, I returned to the scene with oils. Time moves forward — days become years, places change — but in that painting the moment is held fast. My picture cannot move on. It stays as I saw it, as I felt it. And that, to me, is enough. There is no obligation for anyone else to want it, to hang it in their home. Unless they too have stood on the bank and looked at that same bridge, they may not feel what I felt.

The same happened with Bank Top Kilns. Standing there, I knew I was capturing something that belonged to its own time, something easily forgotten as life presses on. The drawing is mine, my record of standing in that moment. Few would recognise it unless they had been there, and that makes it all the more personal.

That is what I mean by art without obligation. I create because I can — because the act of painting or sketching not only connects me to history, but also steadies me in the here and now. Some may never understand, but others might catch a glimpse of their own memory, their own home, their own belonging in what I’ve made.

And so I carry on, capturing these places and moments in time, knowing there will always be more stories waiting quietly to be told.

View the bridge as I paint it. https://youtu.be/EAZIdhrogjo