"About New York" (see my blog list) had a lovely photograph on a few weeks ago, showing a view of the road and the Autumn leaves from a window.
It struck me, looking at the picture, that the window frame made a kind of art and that the scene within the frame changed by the minute.
I love art of any kind, but particularly beautiful paintings and my walls are covered with examples; I know them all intimately as I look at them every day, examining a particular section, a favourite patch of colour, a method of adding paint to the canvas. I see bits of them in a new light each time I study them. But when I sit and look through any of my windows on to the outside world I see a similar familiar scene but it changes constantly so that it always a surprise. A different bird lands or takes off from the bird table, a sheep wanders in or out of the picture, a clear sky one minute changes to angry black clouds on a blustery, showery day, the leaves come and go on the trees, the light falls in a different way.
John Nash, the artist, did many of his woodcuts from inside the house in inclement weather. He called them his indoor work. These exquisite works either framed within the window space or sometimes with glazing bars added, show snow scenes, garden scenes, pheasants in the field. Sometimes he adds a vase of flowers on the inside window sill.
My favourite window picture is probably in my bedroom window, where I can see the sun rising this time of year when it is a bit tardy, while drinking my morning cup of tea (the farmer has been well-trained to bring me a cup of tea every morning).
I see the sun, often a ball of fire at this time of year, the clouds tinged with an incredible array of dawn colours, never the same two days running. The icing on the cake is that suddenly the window will be filled with a thousand rooks as they make their way from roost to feeding ground. But then I think of the view from my study window as I write this and I know I am spoilt for choice.