DOI Artikel:
Rix, E. Hilda: Sketching in Morocco: a letter from Miss Hilda Rix
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.43457#0056
Sketching in Morocco
SKETCHING IN MOROCCO : A
LETTER FROM MISS HILDA
RIX.
[Miss Hilda Rix is a young Australian artist who
like many other artists reared under the Southern
Cross has come to Europe to perfect her art.
Some examples of her work have already appeared
in the pages of this magazine, and our readers will
be interested to see the more recent examples we
now give and to read the account of her experiences
during a visit to Morocco, of which she has brought
back many interesting impressions in coloured
chalks. Miss Rix had arranged to hold an exhibi-
tion of her work at the Ryder Gallery in St. James’s
Street, London, this October, and the exhibition
was to have included the drawings executed by
her in Morocco as well as a series done more
recently in France, but just before going to press
we learned that there was some doubt about the
exhibition being held at the appointed time.]
Dear Mr. Editor,
I’ve come right up on to the roof of the hotel
to write to you. It seems
like a strange dream to be
in Morocco again. I am
high up near the sky and
looking down and around
at all this crowded town
and peaceful country, now
bathed in the orange glow
of the setting sun.
To-morrow is big market-
day and the “ Soko ” down
there below is a seething
mass of people. The
country people have come
in with their loads, carried
for long miles on their
backs, or the backs of their
weary little donkeys. And
to-night there will be hud-
dled groups, camped around
the faint lights of their
lanterns, to be ready to
start market early to-morrow
morning.
There ! The big glow-
ing half-orange of the sun
has just dipped behind the
mountain’s edge to my
left, leaving the sky a
pinky gold—and the dips
between the mountains are hung in rosy veils.
The sky on the horizon’s edge melts upwards into
a lemon blue—then on to warmer blue in the
hollow of the “inverted bowl,” and down again in
a powder-blue mist to the sea. Above the sea in
the sky opposite the sunset is a great hand of pink
clouds stretching forth and reflecting the happy glow.
Below me, beyond the big garden of this hotel,
with its huge palms, bamboos, roses and mimosa
all abloom, there is a ceaseless passing up and
down of my beloved fairy-tale people. To-day
there has been a European fete, and a mad rollicking
car full of carnival revellers has hurried up the
hill below me, laughing and scattering before it to
all sides donkeys, Arab men and women.
A party of Arab women have just mounted the
hill bearing enormous loads of faggots on their
backs; they look like huge snails bent forward to
their toil, but nearly all are cheerful and many
pretty, beneath dirt and charcoal-dust. Then-
tired donkeys, also heavily laden, trail slowly behind
them. Beyond and below in the twilight of the
Moorish cemetery quiet forms are hovering over
the graves, tending them noiselessly.
“An ARAB BOY.”
FROM A DRAWING IN COLOURED CHALKS BY E. HILDA RIX
35
SKETCHING IN MOROCCO : A
LETTER FROM MISS HILDA
RIX.
[Miss Hilda Rix is a young Australian artist who
like many other artists reared under the Southern
Cross has come to Europe to perfect her art.
Some examples of her work have already appeared
in the pages of this magazine, and our readers will
be interested to see the more recent examples we
now give and to read the account of her experiences
during a visit to Morocco, of which she has brought
back many interesting impressions in coloured
chalks. Miss Rix had arranged to hold an exhibi-
tion of her work at the Ryder Gallery in St. James’s
Street, London, this October, and the exhibition
was to have included the drawings executed by
her in Morocco as well as a series done more
recently in France, but just before going to press
we learned that there was some doubt about the
exhibition being held at the appointed time.]
Dear Mr. Editor,
I’ve come right up on to the roof of the hotel
to write to you. It seems
like a strange dream to be
in Morocco again. I am
high up near the sky and
looking down and around
at all this crowded town
and peaceful country, now
bathed in the orange glow
of the setting sun.
To-morrow is big market-
day and the “ Soko ” down
there below is a seething
mass of people. The
country people have come
in with their loads, carried
for long miles on their
backs, or the backs of their
weary little donkeys. And
to-night there will be hud-
dled groups, camped around
the faint lights of their
lanterns, to be ready to
start market early to-morrow
morning.
There ! The big glow-
ing half-orange of the sun
has just dipped behind the
mountain’s edge to my
left, leaving the sky a
pinky gold—and the dips
between the mountains are hung in rosy veils.
The sky on the horizon’s edge melts upwards into
a lemon blue—then on to warmer blue in the
hollow of the “inverted bowl,” and down again in
a powder-blue mist to the sea. Above the sea in
the sky opposite the sunset is a great hand of pink
clouds stretching forth and reflecting the happy glow.
Below me, beyond the big garden of this hotel,
with its huge palms, bamboos, roses and mimosa
all abloom, there is a ceaseless passing up and
down of my beloved fairy-tale people. To-day
there has been a European fete, and a mad rollicking
car full of carnival revellers has hurried up the
hill below me, laughing and scattering before it to
all sides donkeys, Arab men and women.
A party of Arab women have just mounted the
hill bearing enormous loads of faggots on their
backs; they look like huge snails bent forward to
their toil, but nearly all are cheerful and many
pretty, beneath dirt and charcoal-dust. Then-
tired donkeys, also heavily laden, trail slowly behind
them. Beyond and below in the twilight of the
Moorish cemetery quiet forms are hovering over
the graves, tending them noiselessly.
“An ARAB BOY.”
FROM A DRAWING IN COLOURED CHALKS BY E. HILDA RIX
35