Alice pauses at the edge of the pool, front paws stretched forward, head lowered, nose almost touching the water. Below her, the swimming pool opens into a cool blue grid, tile by tile, descending into quiet depths. At the very bottom sits a single tennis ball, glowing softly, its familiar green dulled by water and distance. It is no longer buoyant. Alice has seen to that. One well-placed chew, a small crack, just enough to let the air escape, and gravity does the rest.
This is not an accident, nor is it a mistake. Alice knows exactly what she is doing.
Dogs are meant to fetch. That is the contract, the understood order of things. A ball is thrown, the dog retrieves it, tail wagging, eyes bright, waiting for the next command. But Alice has rewritten the rules. She has discovered that by altering the ball ever so slightly, she can change the entire game. The ball sinks. The game pauses. And now, instead of action, there is contemplation.
What now?
The pool water is impossibly inviting, a shifting mosaic of turquoise and light. It reflects the surrounding foliage, dense and tropical, greens layered upon greens, pressing in from all sides. This feels like a private world, enclosed and calm, where time slows down. Alice is framed by this lush backdrop, her pale, curly coat standing out against the deep greens and blues. She is still, but alert. This is a moment of quiet control.
Alice does not dive in. She could. Other dogs would. They would plunge without hesitation, splash and paddle and proudly return the ball, dripping and triumphant. Alice waits. She understands patience, and more importantly, she understands people. She knows that one of her human friends will notice. Someone always does. The ball will be retrieved, towel-dried perhaps, and handed back with a laugh. And then, gently, deliberately, Alice will push it back into the pool.
Down it goes again.
The title, What Now?, hangs in the air like an unspoken challenge. It is not directed at the ball, nor the water, but at us. We are the ones being tested. Alice has turned fetch into a game of observation and dependence. She has learned that sometimes the greatest power lies not in action, but in refusal. By not jumping in, she invites intervention. By waiting, she controls the rhythm.
There is humour here, but also something quietly philosophical. The painting captures that suspended moment between cause and effect, between expectation and outcome. It is about small acts of rebellion, about gently bending the rules, about knowing exactly how far you can push before someone steps in. Alice is content. The ball is where she wants it. The game is working perfectly.
So she waits, eyes fixed on the prize below, tail still, thoughts unreadable. The question remains, floating just above the water’s surface.
What now?
What Now?, Oil on Linen 125 cm x 95 cm
