Wallis

Wallis

’I pass through the gate, pass the brown tree I used to climb, the grass is springy, is damp and I catch the salt air like a sail as I face the sea for the first time. I’ll weave my way down, touch a tile - palm flat - superstition, a pilgrimage, something I saw my mother do. She’d whisper, thanks, Alfred Wallis, then wander into town. Stone path, stone walls… I’ve left Barnoon. I’ve left St Ives. But all day I will be thinking of perspective, of lighthouses as jaunty as sailors, of what a sweet, raw talent he was.’

Ella Frears

Tate, St Ives

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