In these paintings by Charlotte Verity the seasons’ ebb is marked. They are a calendar, a series of poems tracing one full moment and then another. The colour and light of the sky is translated, brought within bounds. These paintings are alive to structure. There is a matrix of twigs and stalks and branches and stems. These lines have always been present in her work but now the skeletal is coming into view, becoming a subject in itself. These branches are lines of thoughts, of nerves dividing again and again. Calligraphies, dendrites, a kind of musical notation, markings on a wall, into a wall, in mid-air. The teleology of flowers and fruit-the appearance of the first snowdrop and the unfolding of each petal, the reddening leaves of a pear-afford metaphors for the movements, hesitations and pauses of life, the pulse of existence. As so often in Verity’s canvases, the blue of the sky has descended, intimating the persistence of hope.