Lets find some joy …
Before I retired maybe ten years ago, I spent the day in Leicester with a graphic designer and typographer who taught me how to make a booklet using his press ( a beautiful beast whose name escapes me) my type high lino cuts and his type from a selection of many fonts and sizes.
We made some booklets that I have since sold.
We have remained friends and I have continued to make booklets and cards using a similar technique with my much smaller Adana Press.
However, I have found that using desktop publishing software (with guidance from another friend) and my drawings I can make booklets or Zines I like to call them. With interesting recycled card and paper I have a pleasing result.
The subject matter is pertinent to my mood and place in a world that is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me. While I don’t want to dwell on the hardships I want to celebrate the good and the honourable in my life and that of my family. Mainly my parents who for all their shortcomings and I could wax lyrical (or not) about that. Instead champion the part they played directly or indirectly in my life. My experience with teachers in school as child was not one, I really want to celebrate so lest said the better. However, I do want to pay homage to teachers and facilitators more recently, like Nick and Michael who have helped me so kindly often with little or no payment … helping me find a way to become an artist.
Besides that, I want to remind myself of the beauty in this fragile world … no more wasting time with grievance, shame and regret … but seeing the joy.
Back to the Sacks …
This week I received a parcel containing a coffee sack, an unusual gift except this was from a friend who understands my passion for sacks. This attachment started when I first went to Brazil in 2012. When I noticed the way in which hessian and sacks were used in traditional craftwork and in general use for door and window covering. They were not always decorated but some were beautifully stitched. So, I took some sacks home to begin a project that would continue until 2020 and beyond. I select sacks that are undamaged and with minimum documentation. I understand the freshly harvested beans are transported in sacks that have been stitched closed and taken to the next stage of their manufacture. At this stage the sacks are opened. Seemingly, for expedience the sack is stabbed with a knife and the beans poured into vats to be roasted. The sacks are discarded rendered useless. If on the other hand the sack is carefully unstitched, the sack is undamaged and can be reused.
These are the sacks I prefer. I unpick the other seams to reveal an ‘open canvas’ to be stitched, painted and appliqued to make wall hangings or lately to make back drops for stop motion animated films.
Another consideration when selecting a sack is the documentation and the farmers emblem while it is vital information for the industry. To me it is another thing to cover up or enhance depending on the look I want. Using the reverse side is an option but some lettering or motifs still show through.
There is one good thing about the knife damaged sack as it remains in almost pristine condition only having been used once. The sack opened more carefully has been repurposed and therefore shabby or perhaps pleasing in other ways. So, there are pros and cons.
So back to my gift it was from a dear friend and kindly intended and I am deeply heartened. However, there is a nasty slash and some stab wounds. There is a lot of documentation relating to its content saying where the beans were harvested etc. etc.
While I was delighted with the gift I was at a loss as to what I could do with it. I laid gently, as it was a precious thing. Why I did that remains a mystery it’s a sack representative of a complex industry where human rights abuses are overlooked in all stages of its production.
I touched its wounds held them together, stitching like a surgeon with his needle and sutures making little back stitches as if the encourage healing and minimise scarring. It was a tender moment when I decided to repair the sack as if it were beloved. A symbolic gesture rather than open up the sack in an undignified way but to heal it and give it back some life. I will in time embroider it , not to hang it on the wall or give meaning to a film … but to express gratitude to the torn sack which is token of an industry that has given so much but also has caused environmental destruction and despair to poor farmers and enslaved workers.
I am truly grateful to my friend who unbeknown to her has given rise to a tender work that will aid my own repair.
a bunch of flowers every so often …
My mother rarely went to town, and I mean made the journey to Southampton to do shopping. It was 10 miles away and although the fare was only 1/9 return it was a long trip and a quite a chunk out of the 30/- (give or take) she had to spend on the essentials she needed to buy. She only did the trip at Christmas and a little before the summer holidays. My mum didn’t work (for the man that is) so any extra came from my dad and his trips to the scrap man or ‘work’ on the side that might amount to an extra £2 or £3 for Christmas gifts or sandals for the summer holidays.
So, while there was no wild expenditure we looked forward to her return with maybe a treat for tea.
One thing I remember that on these days she would bring herself home a treat. I remember it was tiny bunch of flowers some mimosa or freesia with the loveliest perfume. They were gently placed in a vase and took pride of place until their petals dropped.
When we moved to a house in 1960s, we had a garden, and my mum enjoyed and endured many hours growing flowers, fruit and vegetables to feed the family and spent most of her life as a jobbing gardener. She was reluctant to pick flowers from the garden … it seemed harsh to cut them so unceremoniously and shorten their precious lives.
I have a garden, and I grow flowers, I too am reluctant to bring them indoors. I rarely buy myself flowers they have become so expensive … or have they? I don’t know how much flowers were comparatively in the 1950s. So, my reasoning is probably not valid.
I am trying to address this and give myself a treat too. However, it is difficult to find a supplier that can meet my sustainability needs. So, I think I will have some fun researching. This bunch was not expensive and seemingly the supplier is ‘committed to making long-term positive change for our community and the world around us’
This bunch lasted much longer than I expected and came by Royal Mail and posted through the letter box. Looked lovely and smelt divine and now, much depleted and without water I think will continue to delight!
School …
My early life at home was not always comfortable, warm or dry. It was sometimes unsafe, and I was allowed more responsibility than was healthy for a child. Personal hygiene was not a priority. My parents sometimes neglectful and harsh. Nonetheless, it was my home, and I was protected from the outside world which for me was to be so much more hazardous. Looking back and now I am parent myself, under the circumstances they tried their best. School on the other hand was by far worse the teachers were judgemental, intolerant and without empathy. The teaching methods repetitive, monotonous and deadly dull. They used spiteful punishments for even the most trivial misdemeanour. My parents for all their faults taught me the skills at home, directly or indirectly that have stood me in good stead as healthy and creative person, as a parent, at work and socially.
I did get 6 GCSEs, BA and MA and have had a rich and fulfilled working life. But my experience at school was traumatic. I have an inherent fear of teachers and the schoolroom situation. Since, I remain a curious and eager to learn I approach learning with trepidation. Often, I teach myself, but I am a horrid taskmaster so while I don’t wield a whip, there must be a cake not so much a carrot!
Always time for tea …
As I child I did the weekly shop, and the story engraved on my heart, is told in a previous blog. Top of the list neatly written by my mother was 1/4lb PJ tips, 2lb sugar, Fussells condensed milk etc. Tea and the making of it was traditional and heart warming, as soon as we were weaned a cup of sweet milky tea was accompaniment for every meal, and often in between with a biscuit to dunk if we were lucky. To this day it is a ritual I continue although now it is without sugar and milk. Also, I have a preference to Chinese tea, and the accoutrements are a little less utilitarian. Nonetheless, the memory with the gentle meditative routine is one I wish to continue.
Whiteknights Studio Trail
In a few days I take up residency in the home of my benefactor for the Whiteknights Studio Trail. This blog is seen across the world so I will not bore you all with the background of this event. It is enough for me to say for me in Reading UK it is a huge privilege to be accepted and take part. For two days in the streets that surround the vast Whiteknights Campus of Reading University, homes and studios of artists and creatives of all genre become massive gallery of works of art. Artists display their recent collections to neighbours, friends and family, who wander from home/studio to home/studio with a view to browse, buy, listen, chat or partake in refreshments as they go. I am a local artist reluctant or unable to describe my art coherently or in a few words.
Two years ago, after I graduated from University with a MA in textiles, I began a venture into stop motion animation and storytelling. Using my textile skills, I made 1:6 dolls with coat hanger wire, sculpted them a little with felt and designed costumes so that they could potentially enact stories. I began writing when I was an artist in residence in the Turbine House, Reading Museum in 2023 and 2024. During both these occasions I was joined by filmmaker Matt Hulse. Fortunately, I was ‘spotted’ by a local charitable fundraiser who encouraged me to make an application for a grant to make a film and publish a book. The application was successful, and the book(s) and film have been completed. The illustrated stories document the lives of an imagined family who may have lived in Reading by the Thames and Kennet and Avon Canal in 1850, tells the story of how they coped with the coming and arrival of the Industrial Revolution and it wasn’t always a happy story.
The film while does show some of the stop motion sequences made during the last 2 years, it is much to do with my ‘magical’ world as an artist and my relationship with river life in the 1950s. Highlighting the cultural differences between town and country and coming to terms with peace, where there had been so much devastation and the subsequent rebuilding of homes. Going on to show how I found solace in doll making then and now as I look towards life as an elderly person at a time when the world is not so kind.
I would like to thank RGSpaces for their financial support in this project, Annette Haworth who has kindly allowed me the use of her home this coming weekend. Also, Matt Hulse the filmmaker and Anne Nolan the book publisher who have worked relentlessly with me dragging me into a world of art and social interaction which is nor always comfortable for me.
Always something to learn …
My parents got together immediately after 2nd World War in Essex where they both lived. My father recently out of the Merchant Navy was keen to continue his boat building skills. With some like-minded souls he towed some boats including his own little sailing boat around the east coast of England to the Solent particularly the Hamble River. Here, the yachting industry that was flourishing before the war needed investment and skilled workers. It was an arduous journey. My dad lost his boat, tools and all his belongings he survived, and they continued with a ‘fleet’ to be converted into homes or sailing vessels. This story was documented among others in a book called Black Water Men by Arthur and Michael Emmett [page 81]
My dad arrived with no tools and the clothes he stood in; my mum joined him later. She proved no less resourceful and helped him make a home for me to come their first child in 1950. Between them they built at least 3 houseboats the first a Motor Torpedo Boat (MTB) called Heron and the last a converted Landing Craft (LCA) called Miscellany. During these early days my dad bought home a Singer sewing machine, from the scrap man, for my mum which she made good use of for many years. She taught me dressmaking and embroidery giving me independence and joy and more recently a successful further education and now a flourishing career in textiles. My mum was scholar before the war and continued to write and educate not only in the school nearby but at home. Reading and writing was actively encouraged. Very early in my parents’ relationship my dad came home after one of his sorties into town with used 35mm camera I can remember it clearly it was never far from my mother’s hand. A beautiful thing that had a distinctive click and whir as she used it daily to record and document river life, boat building, sailing and our growth in all the senses of the word. There were no mod cons on the houseboat, but she did make herself a makeshift dark room where she could develop the films, printing them was not an option. I remember clearly going on the bus with the negatives to be printed, in a camera shop called Parkers in Woolston. It was a stone’s through away from the floating bridge across the Itchen to Southampton. A week or so later we returned to collect them so that they could be stuck in a black photograph album with tiny hinges and narration added with a fountain pen with white ink. I was given a camera of my own in due course from the same source I assume which gave me immense joy along with the passion of writing.
Again, I can look back through the mist of dissatisfaction and see that opportunities were there albeit somewhat clumsy. Now I honour their diligence and foresight.
Work Boots
As I continue to reflect on my life in the 1950s and incidents that happened then and have a vivid impact on my everyday life now. Anyone who knows me will have not noticed that I wear, regardless of time of year or indeed continents remember I frequent South America and Europe, I wear lace up work boots or shoes all day and every day.
As previously mentioned, my dad would take regular trips to the Scrap Man AKA Rag and Bome Man to get a return on his bag of scrap metal. Sometimes he would return with a little extra in his would-be empty bag. On one such visit he returned with what looked like a pair of lace up brown leather shoes that seemingly would fit me. Now this was quite a turn up. We lived in a houseboat moored against a riverbank. There were no ‘made’ or ‘metal’ roads or foot paths. Pedestrian links were at the mercy of the change of tides that happen there twice a day. Footwear was always a careful consideration. My sisters and I would wear buckle shoes or sandals or sand shoes AKA plimsols or pumps dependant on the seasons. Wellington boots were an option but these were often as wet inside as out! Enough to say shoes were not a fashion accessory more something to protect your feet and any given moment.
So back to the shoes in question, child size brown leather lace ups. On closer inspection they were not a pair. Yes, there was a left and a right and the same size but the was a subtle but recognisable difference in the design of each shoe. In those days shoes were hung beside the door outside the shop on string. One from each pair while its ‘other’ stayed in the box inside the shop. It would seem the two shoes, a likely pair had been stolen leaving an unmatched pair in boxes indoors. The shop keeper unlikely to sell the remaining ‘pair’ got a price from the scrap man who in turn made a deal with my dad.
A convoluted story but I remember the delight in a comfortable pair of shoes that might withstand the rigours of river life.
Any old iron …
Over the last decades I have reflected on my life particularly my experiences in post-war Britain. Tending to consider the hardships and the negative effect they had directly or indirectly on my life, presently.
Without wishing to get into a psychological or philosophical debate as to whether this was a healthy or wise way to come to terms with those harsh times, I would like to think it about more kindly.
Some of the incidents happened as a direct result of the hardships, yet, had positive results and powerful effect on my life now and will continue.
My dad was boat builder in a boat yard beside the Hamble River, also he salvaged broken crafts that were found at sea or washed up on the beaches. Using his skills to build new boats for pleasure boating or for homes, that were still required since Southampton and Portsmouth had been flattened during the recent war.
In his explorations and because of his workmanship he accumulated spare scrap metal. This was a vital source of cash for him as a father and home and boat builder. In Southampton beside the Itchen River lived a man whose business was the collection of scrap metal, initially for the war effort of the previous years. People would bring ‘any old iron’ or he would collect regularly in the city streets, before the days of garbage collection.
While he no longer needed to provide this service scrap metal was still a valued a commodity for people for like my dad.
Every so often, perhaps 2 or 3 times a year my dad would fill his canvas bag, which incidentally he had stitched using fragments of damaged sails, with copper, lead and iron. Taking the bus to town. While the Itchen River was not far as the crow flies, with a heavy bag the circuitous bus journey was necessary and oh so worthwhile.
Obviously, the cash input to our fragile economy was vital. However, for me I enjoyed the gifts that my dad returned with in his now empty bag!
One such gift was a sewing machine for my mother who went on to make clothes and household items for her growing family and later teach me to sew. For me, a bike, unable to bring this in his bag and on the bus, he rode it home! The bike was very old, no brakes, a fixed wheel and solid tyres nonetheless the bike and subsequent replacements have been my preferred form of transport to this day.
So, these items potentially ‘old iron’ and destined to smelting pot became catalyst to my journey that still goes on.
As young as you feel …
Having reached a significant milestone in my life last month I felt the need to put my house in order and consider how I spend the next couple of decades. I am reasonably fit and healthy for my age and my creative path is pretty much on course.
My youngest daughter who lives in Brazil was suggesting that perhaps I needed to have care or at least consider some measures to make my live easier. However, for the time being I think otherwise.
Not convinced, she come home with a friend to ensure that my house and garden is fulfilling my needs for now and the coming years.
My home and particularly my garden are my delight, so I have no plans to move but both need regular upkeep. So, I have employed a gardener and considering a cleaner to help with heavy and awkward tasks.
So, with this in mind, the friend pointed out some immediate shortcomings and kindly underook the necessary repairs mainly to steps, stairs and fencing.
While we did receive visitors and enjoy some sightseeing these last two weeks have passed productively and joyously.
Furthermore, my daughter and friend did join me at a Book Art Fair in Winchester, it was a significant 2-day event that proved to be a vital opportunity to show my book art which is quite different from my Coat Hanger Dolls and meet noteworthy makers.
Meanwhile we were able to discuss the coming Whiteknights Studio Trail which is another kettle fish. No less important, it is an annual weekend local event that attracts a lot of visitors. This time I will be showing my book and film soon to be published that culminates a body of work undertaken with the dolls over the last two years.
Although I am ready to go and the path has not be without difficulties I enjoy the journey … the idea of such an event fills me with dread so I welcomed my daughters advice and will welcome her home again to help me when the time comes in June.
My girl has returned to her home now, and I hope knowing that I not going to the grave yet.
Coat Hanger Doll's House 