64 Triple Scoop

Some decisions only feel important when you are a child. Choosing an ice cream was one of them. You would stand there, barefoot and impatient, scanning the list of flavours as if the future depended on it. For me, the answer was always the same: a triple scoop in a double cone. Hokey pokey on top, because it deserved the highest place. Raspberry ripple and orange chocochip side by side underneath, pressed together like rivals forced into friendship. It was excessive, impractical, and absolutely perfect.

Triple Scoop captures that moment just before the first lick, when anticipation is still intact. The ice cream stands upright, improbably balanced, freshly made and untouched. There is a confidence in its posture, as if it knows it will not last long. The textures matter here: the rough crunch of the cone, the soft folds and ridges of the scoops, each flavour distinct yet part of the same indulgent tower. This is not restraint; this is summer saying yes.

Just visible at the edge of the painting is the old-fashioned caravan, the kind that seemed to appear every summer as if by magic. It was never permanent, never guaranteed. One day it was there, the next it was gone, leaving only tyre marks in the sand and a vague sense of disappointment. These vans were portals. You stepped up to the counter and stepped briefly out of time. Coins were exchanged, wrappers discarded, and for a few minutes the world narrowed to melting ice cream and sticky fingers.

The setting does a lot of quiet work. The beach stretches out, calm and open, with the sea rolling in gently. The colours are warm but measured, sunlit but not harsh. Long grass frames the foreground, hinting at dunes and familiar paths worn smooth by summer feet. Off to one side, a striped umbrella leans, already slightly askew, suggesting that the day is past its peak. The clouds tell the rest of the story. They are gathering, heavy and painterly, beautiful but unmistakable. Change is coming.

That is the tension at the heart of this painting. Ice cream is joy with an expiry date. It melts, it drips, it disappears. Summer does the same. The clouds hint that the sunny day could be coming to an end. Soon, the umbrella will be packed up, the towels shaken free of sand, and the slow journey home will begin. The cone will be finished, perhaps too quickly, leaving only the taste behind.

But this is not a sad painting. It is forward-looking. There is comfort in knowing that this moment will return. Another hot day, another caravan, another impossible choice of flavours. Childhood teaches us to look ahead without overthinking it. Always looking forward. Until next time.