On Places We Carry With Us | The Sunday Journal No.12

There are certain places we know so well that we almost stop seeing them.

The path through the woods where the dog always runs ahead. A bend in the river glimpsed from the road. A familiar stretch of coastline where the weather seems to change every five minutes. They become part of the rhythm of life rather than destinations in themselves.

 

Al Bell, Still On My Mind, 2026.

 

Spending time with Al Bell's new exhibition, Places, I found myself thinking about just that.

Landscape painting has often been associated with dramatic views - the mountain summit, the famous loch, the postcard moment. Yet Al seems to be searching for something quieter. In his artist's notes he writes about being drawn to "a scene that may not at first seem to be the 'headline act'" - an old path disappearing through the trees, sunlight catching the surface of a river, or simply the edge of a woodland.

I rather like that.

 

Al Bell, The Gateway, 2026.

 

It feels like a reminder that beauty isn't always waiting at the destination. Sometimes it's found in the places we pass every day.

Al's paintings occupy an intriguing space between realism and abstraction. They begin with observation. He returns to the same locations, sketching and photographing them before heading back to the studio. But he isn't interested in reproducing every branch or blade of grass. Instead, he paints what lingers.

Looking at the work, I found myself wondering whether landscape painting is really about geography at all.

Or whether it's about attention.

As we move through life, we don't remember every detail of a place. We remember the way the light fell through the trees. The hush before rain. The stillness of water holding the reflection of a passing cloud. Memory edits, simplifies and leaves us with atmosphere rather than fact.

Al captures something of that beautifully. His paintings feel familiar, even when you can't quite place where you've seen them before.

 

Al Bell, A Change in the Weather, 2026.

 

One line from his notes stayed with me:

"Clouds… they write their own rules. I just try to follow."

It's such a modest observation, but it says something larger about painting itself. However carefully an artist plans, nature always has the final word. Light shifts. Shadows move. Clouds gather and disappear. Painting outdoors demands a willingness to respond rather than control.

 

Al Bell, Where Earth Meets Sky, 2026.

 

Looking around Places, I realised I recognised many of the paintings, despite never having stood in those exact spots.

Not because I knew the locations.

Because I knew the feeling.

We've all walked towards a shaft of sunlight breaking through woodland. We've all paused beside still water to watch reflections ripple and reform. We've all rounded a corner wondering what lies just beyond.

 

Al Bell, A Certain Way, 2026.

 

Perhaps that's why landscape painting continues to resonate.

Not because it tells us where we are.

But because, every so often, it reminds us how it feels to really look.