I don’t often get commissioned to do a portrait of a duck. In fact, the more I think about it, I don’t think I ever have been commissioned to do a portrait of a duck. Odd, and perhaps, if you get to the end of these ramblings and see the finished portrait, you’ll agree with me, that it’s something of a crying shame.

Perhaps I wouldn’t be so militantly pro-duck, if I hadn’t come across this particular one – not in person, I haven’t had the pleasure, if it would be a pleasure? There is something a little unreadable in this duck’s expression that may, or may not, bode well. Another duck, one presumes, would know what to make of it, but I am stumped. There’s humour, certainly, but also steel – and I can’t decide on the proportions of each. Anyway – he has become something of a poster boy for the show in my mind, and has been staring at me from my fireplace, all month whilst we waited for the show to start. The show? well, I’m glad you asked – it is in Cafe66 in Barnes, and has just started to universal acclaim (well, David and I were very pleased once we had got it all in place. It takes longer than you’d think).

Anyhow, to my accidental poster boy. It wasn’t a commission, obvs, that was a misdirection at the start, unless my wondering about birds, and deciding on a duck for a subject counts as a commission. But doing a show meant I could pick any subject I wanted, and that day I wanted a duck, especially this one, if only I could find enough blues and yellows in my threads – there’s not much call for them in my day job!

Here he is at the very start, and even at these early stages I loved it, loved the playfulness of the stems and seedheads standing in for plumage: floral for feathers. I don’t think a single section of material ends up visible in the final piece, so I could obviously start with a plain navy or black fabric, but maybe the extra depth in these early stages keeps me going. Besides, I can’t resist how it looks. One of these days I will break free of my literal bonds, and leave it here – scraps, and a little fabric paint – maybe I’ll throw in the pins for good measure. One of these days, but at my core I’m more construction than deconstruction – and you can’t fight your core.

I knew the stitching would work brilliantly for feathers, but I was worried that it might get in the way on the bill – I loved the yellow-welly look of the untouched fabric. But you can’t have half-measure, it’s got to be all stitches or none. I think so, anyway – and I had enough yellows, too.

And here he is:

It really is all about colour, this one.

When I was young, I swear you could buy any amount of old, sun-faded velvet curtains, in the loveliest of colours, from a stall on the Cambridge market. Ridiculously, I think I only did this once, and made a patchwork throw of muted greens, duck eggs and yellow. I should have dressed myself head to toe in the stuff ( I clearly had no soul). Well, stirred to action by this memory, and the thought that bright jewel-like velvets would be rather eye-catching if one were, say, looking into a cafe, I started looking to buy some old curtains. It is not as easy as you think – firstly, there is the problem of scarcity. Have we, as a society moved on from velvet? I hope not, and yet when was the last time I saw any out in the wild? There were one or two old and not too expensive panels out there, and a few more enormous beasts, that from their size, must have emerged from the stately home end of the market. These were beyond my price range, and brought with them the obvious hazard that I had been trying to ignore all this time – storage. To have any range of colours, one would need at least four or five curtains, and all the good colours in true Ark fashion, seemed to come in pairs.

And then I turned up every textile-lover’s fantasy, a true treasure trove, a hoard of old-curtain velvet, sun-faded and hand-dyed, offered up by another textile artist in order to control her stash. It was the most precious find, heaven-sent, just when I had given up hope, and now it is mine, all mine, my precious. So the picture that is all about colour – the myriad shades of blue in the feathers as they catch and reflect the light – the depth of the shadows, and shining of the bill – found its background.

I think we all know which one I chose, right. I don’t think it was the possibility of a punned title – though I can’t swear to it, words are my thing.

Duck à L’Orange.

And here he is, out in his natural habitat: