66 Your Turn

This could be any street in any town. That is part of Your Turn’s quiet confidence. A familiar footpath runs alongside a gently curving road, bordered by clipped hedges and evenly spaced trees. Nothing announces itself as special, yet everything feels loaded with memory. The scene is early morning. Overnight rain still clings to the asphalt, and the road catches the low light, turning it into a ribbon of gold. Long shadows stretch across the footpath, reminding us that the day has only just begun, and that there is time.

The trolley waits. It is parked slightly off-centre, angled as if it has only just come to rest, or is about to move again. For anyone who had a trolley as a kid, this moment is instantly recognisable. These things were never solitary machines. You needed a friend. Someone to push, someone to ride, someone to swap places with when legs got tired, or tempers flared. The unspoken rule was simple and fair: your turn, then mine. The trolley carries that agreement within it, as much as it carries the child who once sat inside.

A long footpath was the prize. Not too steep, not too short. It needed enough run to feel fast, but not so fast that fear took over. This was where you learned. Before the big hills. Before scraped knees and shouted warnings from the end of the driveway. This was practice ground, a safe place to test courage and trust. The painting holds that pause before action, the moment when the trolley is still, and the next push has not yet come.

Colour does much of the storytelling here. The wet road glows, reflecting the warm light of early morning, while the grass feels thick and alive, still holding moisture from the night. The footpath cools the scene, grounding it, balancing warmth with calm. The trees cast shadows that stretch and overlap, marking time and direction. These colours are not decorative; they are emotional cues. They tell us how the air feels, how the morning smells, how quiet the street is before the rest of the town wakes up.

There are no people in the painting, but they are everywhere. In the trolley. In the empty footpath. In the shared knowledge of taking turns. This absence makes space for the viewer to step in, to remember who pushed and who rode, who always wanted one more go. The painting does not rush. It waits, just like the trolley does.

Your Turn is not about speed or risk. It is about learning, about trust, about the small negotiations of childhood friendship. It captures that brief window when the world felt manageable, when a wet road could shine like gold, and when the biggest decision of the morning was who would climb into the trolley first.