I imagine Ethel sitting on the beach, hearing the continuous sound of wind and water; the tide in tune with the ebb and flow of her thoughts and her hand. I imagine her husband, Emanuel Phillips Fox, sitting beside her, creating his own version of the scene; the beach now smelling like impressionism, like being submerged in the ocean feels like surrealism.
In her art and life we see the same perpetual restlessness — of things rising and falling — forming and reforming — with a brilliant sense of colour; and a thin, blue horizon, steadying the eye on the receding water’s edge.