Frances Palmer Artist

When the grandchildren are given free rein to be creative ❤️❤️❤️

View from the office today

Framed by the dark, ancient boughs of the cedar, the world unfolds in a silent expanse of gold and green. Here at The Wilderness, the heavy needles act as a living lens, drawing the eye past the sun-warmed crest of the hill and deep into the rolling canopy of the Forest of Dean.
​Beyond the dense, whispering tide of treetops, the landscape opens into a patchworked tapestry of fields and gentle ridges, where the River Severn winds like a ribbon of molten silver under the haze of the afternoon sky. It curves through the valley with quiet grandeur, tracing the edge of time and geography, while overhead the dark silhouette of evergreen boughs stands guard—a cool, fragrant shelter offering an timeless gaze across the heart of Gloucestershire.

Crazy stocktaking session. Seem to have sold out of Christmas bats and octopuses 🦇 🐙 🤣

After extricating this emerald miniature from my fruit bowl and depositing it back outside, this Speckled Bush Cricket holds court on the velvet blooms of lavender. Its colossal, glossy eyes—wide and luminous—drink in every shift of shadow and light, tracking the world in sharp, widescreen detail. Sweeping vast above its delicate body, two impossible antennae, twice the length of the cricket itself, arch through the summer breeze like sensitive whips, sampling the air for the faintest whisper of movement or scent.
​Beneath its intricate, pollen-dusted markings lies a masterclass in kinetic grace. With astonishing agility, it coils its long, spring-loaded hind legs, ready to transform a serene rest into a lightning-fast leap across the swaying stalks in a fraction of a heartbeat. Silent, precise, and effortlessly limber, this tiny acrobat turns a simple lavender sprig into its own majestic stage.

Today I had the pleasure of a visit from this emerald aviator, flying into the house making the most incredible whirring sound, natures ultimate aerial architect. This masterwork of biomechanics—a creature built from three hundred million years of unyielding design refinement settled on the curtain long enough for a captured image of it's elegance.
​Look closely at the fuselage: a sleek mosaic of vibrant emerald plates interlocked with dark obsidian bands, tapering into a segmented tail that acts as both rudder and counterweight. Above it rises a cockpit like no other, dominated by towering compound eyes that curve around the head to drink in the world in near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree precision. Thousands of microscopic lenses register motion with a speed that renders human flight computers sluggish by comparison.
​Then there are the wings—four delicate, shimmering sails constructed from a latticework of stained-glass venation. Each cell in that translucent grid is an engineering marvel, designed to flex under pressure, withstand turbulence, and channel air currents with zero friction. Driven by powerful flight muscles, these wings do not merely flap; they rotate, hover, reverse, and pivot independently, granting this creature complete mastery over gravity.
​Perched motionless on the metallic curtain ring, it rests like a fighter jet refueling on a tarmac, its delicate spined legs gripping the ring with effortless anchor precision. It is at once ancient and futuristic: a living blueprint of grace and raw predatory perfection, waiting for the briefest twitch of air to launch back into the sky.

**Possibly a Southern Hawker **

In life as with this rose, when the stem weakens and the heavy head bows to gravity the true spectrum reveals itself. Here, in the quiet collapse, the violent pink surrenders to a parchment gold, soften to muted lilac, and bleeds into the warm, tea-stained tones of memory. The edges curlicue like antique parchment, paper-thin and brittle, holding the ghost of the water that once sustained them.

There is a serene honesty in this descent. Fresh blooms command attention, but fading ones invite contemplation. Decay does not destroy beauty; it simply strips away vanity, trading the sharp brilliance of life for a softer, more complex elegance—one that could only be painted by the patient brush of fading light.

Yellow ! Tonight I picked these beauties from my allotment. Basking in warm golden amber and canary hues, this harvest looks less like simple produce and more like a collection of sculpted sunlight. The long courgettes curve with sleek, teardrop silhouettes—their smooth, polished skins glowing with the rich warmth of liquid butter. Resting beside them, the rounded courgette sits like a miniature globe, ribbed with delicate cream-colored meridians that radial out from its star-like green stem.
​Each piece is crowned by a cap of vivid forest-green jade, creating a striking sculptural contrast where rich soil meets pure summer light

With Kiwi Underglaze – I just got recognised as one of their top fans! 🎉. As soon as I do a glaze firing I will show you these amazing colours !