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An ordinary hawthorn hedge, no different from countless millions of similar ones planted throughout the country’s road for centuries past. It seemed to be vibrating, resonating to the force of the west wind yet, gripped and rooted securely, enduring for centuries the worst that the weather could throw at it. This was painted from a pencil sketch and photographs - the wind was too strong for conventional outdoor painting and anyway, to paint this exact viewpoint, which was crucial to the composition, would have meant me squatting in the middle of the road. This I refuse to do, even for art.
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