Space is a gift
For Christmas last year I was given a book to ‘alter.’ It was a beautifully handmade book with lots of space for me to add to. The intentions of the maker and the giver came from their hearts to me who was suffering from anxiety and depression. The book was for me, to cheer me, to encourage me and lift effects of such illness. At first, I was delighted with the generous gift and for a while it did cheer me.
Soon, the pristine pages became seemingly untouchable and beyond my reach.
It was then not immediately but gradually that I realised that I had spent far too long, aching to please others and my mother who was particularly difficult and often cruel.
When I retired when I was in a position to please only myself I thought I would be okay and for a while I was in a honeymoon state. However, in time I became the bully, the very one who blighted my working life. Making demands for perfection, high expectation and false hope, striving to make the best, being the best, it was exhausting and not any fun. I was not seeing that if I disregarded the rod of tyranny and applied kindness, I might have found a different way.
The healing process was not immediate there was no divine intervention … recovering from a lifetime of anxiety and depression is not the aim even if it were possible. I had to learn to live beside ‘it’ like a faithful friend and dissuading gently the sadness, anger and fear and the other side effects that can thwart the healing process but sometimes inspire the artist within.
So, I remain truly thankful for that.
So back to the book, as I look at the leaves of perfection and love. It was a gift made by a friend given to me another and they want me to cherish it. Like I would any gift and that was hard. It seemed to represent something unattainable.
I had to find tools and find a place where I could be me. The muddle minded and skew-whiff person and be happy with that.
So for the next days and weeks and then months I made tentative marks on the each of the pages. Sitting with myself, with pens, pencils, brushes, paint and inks for a few or many minutes each day, I allowed my mind to let go of thoughts whether good or bad as if I were meditating and utilise the energy that ensued to add shapes and colour. It has been a long slow process and not always joyful and it isn’t finished yet …. but it has proved to be a perfect gift … Thank you
Circle of life …
I was born in the winter of1950. While it was 5 years since the end of WW2 the country was nowhere near recovered. There were still food shortages and rationing and many people displaced without adequate housing.
My family lived in a community who had taken up residency on boats on the Hamble River since Southampton had been badly flattened during the blitz. As the rehousing programme began families gradually moved back to the towns and cities.
However, my family remained on our houseboat, not a palace, but it met our needs, considering something more comfortable was less affordable. Also, my dad was a boat builder and was able to find work in the growing yachting industry. Nonetheless it was poor, and we had to make do and mend in the true sense of the words … it was what we did.
In time my mum and us children left my dad and moved to a tiny cottage that was more convenient to school etc. and was a little more comfortable for a growing family. Without the support of my dad, my mum worked hard to make ends meet and making do and mending was the norm.
Learning all the time ways to stretch the economy for when I married and had children of my own. While I was better provided for, when the children arrived in the early 70s so did political unrest, stringent economic cuts, 3-day week and electricity cuts. So, my early education came in useful.
Moving on, the country recovered in the 80s I remarried and had a third child with more political upheavals. Pole tax, withdrawal of married man’s tax allowance and other problems that lead us to negative equity and unable to make ends meet.
Our draughty little house needed floor covering particularly in the bathroom. I collected scraps of waste materials from other projects and old sheets and made a rag rug … and for over 30 years on my bathroom floor a constant reminder in more ways than one, of the circle of life …
Sadly, it was beginning to show wear and the warp threads were no longer fit for purpose … the weft fabric was in tack. This week I took it apart and remade it and with luck it will last another 30 years … and out live me!
Wood cut vs wood engraving …
I began my printing journey while I was working as a rare book cataloguing assistant in Special Collections at Reading University Library. Amongst the collections there are endless fine examples of early printed works dating back to 16th century. However, it was a contemporary collection that I enjoyed more, in particular the work of the late Peter Hay a local artist and activist, his works with engraved erasers are gems and tell stories of local history and events to delight and enlighten.
I began to experiment myself with erasers and didn’t quite make the grade, but wood engraving and lino cut became a more serious pastime until I retired.
During this time, I visited Brazil regularly to visit my daughter and was able to visit printing studios and learn wood cutting. Unlike wood engraving where the block used are much smaller and cut across the grain and the tools and technique quite different and therefore more akin to lino cutting. Furthermore, in Brazil wood cut illustration is prevalent on the street it is a time-honoured tradition. The wood used is not fancy pants Japanese plywood but solid reclaimed wood old doors, shelves and building offcuts. No expensive finely honed tools, but those made from the spokes of broken umbrellas, again another product of the environment. Yet the fine work is produced in little print studios and serves the local community in the streets of Rio beside the coffee bars, restaurants, supermarkets, department stores not far from the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema with old printing presses the type you might see in museums and picture books that are as busy as any other industry making books and booklets to sell on the street hanging on string for a few pence. … long story to explain that I have decided to ignite that brief learning experience and to make booklets maybe not traditionally Brazilian, but I will find my own style with wood from skips until then plywood is good to practice on.
Feeling groovy …
It has been a while since I posted. There is no one reason that I can think of or at least explain clearly. So enough to say there is much going on and more to think about. One thing is blatant but not open for discussion. I am getting older, and time is passing quickly. As a result, I feel like returning to old loves and previous creative experiences. Particularly those I began with at my first flush of retirement or when I was preparing for it. When it seemed urgent to learn new things and be extraordinarily creative. When completion and perfection were so important. Now a decade passed and a great deal of further education and overwhelmed with stuff, I am exhausted. All very wonderful but I need to slow down as the song goes …. ‘Slow down don’t move so fast we’ve got to make the morning last …. Feeling groovy’
To observe the here and now and celebrate imperfection, and impermanence.
Lots to think about …
After many months perhaps years since I graduated, I have reached a point where I have to decide … hobby or professional?
After two successful residencies at Reading Museum and an amicable collaboration with a publisher and filmmaker I am in a position to create something viable … a film and two books.
The Reading Museum have tentatively agreed to make space and time to show the film and market the books but there will be no funds. While this came as no surprise it did draw my attention for the need for me to consider how I actually finance such an event.
The books require professional production, and the films need expert editing, also my costs need to be considered … all of which cannot be funded from my retirement pension.
My plans were thwarted, unless I begin a fund-raising exercise. This is the language of professional artists and alien to me.
After finding a potential benefactor I have begun the process. It has been arduous and alarming. I was blissfully unaware of the costs of professional procurement and indeed my own costs.
Financial needs aside the emotional input is also astounding. Putting a price on the endeavours of anther person is one thing, thank goodness they provided me with fair estimates of the work involved. My funds, described as research and development costs was so much more difficult to reconcile.
However, with all this understanding that I may become ‘professional’ there is a sense of hope. Thinking that I may yet be rejected with some constructive feedback, with newfound knowledge I may find myself on a platform to apply again it would be churlish not too.
Business as usual …
Finishing my residency was a bit of anticlimax. However, this worked in my favour for day while caught my breath before my next project or rather ‘business as usual’
Today’s story is about Clarice.
The post office was formed during the 17th century, but it was not until the late 18th century when uniformed post men and women were walking the streets and making daily delivery of letters and parcels. Out of town the post office was part of the village shop. One was able to buy stamps and post letter or parcel or money orders while buying other supplies. Those who wished or were able could open a savings account with the initial deposit of a shilling (5p).
Clarice, the shepherd’s daughter worked in the post office and part of her duties was to take a satchel of mail and deliver it to the further community in all weathers she trudges the countryside. While she undertook some clerical tasks it was the postmistress with more experience took overall responsibility. This job was probably more desirable for one who was good at written and mathematical work. Clarice was clever and hoped to be a postmistress one day.
All good things …
My time in the Turbine House is coming to an end. It has been an extraordinary time; all things considered.
Including the closing of the Public House nearby, for reasons I know not.
The beautiful historical building had served the town for 150 years or more as a pumping station. I am not sure of its usage (and without internet I cannot check the facts) but enough to know it was an important part of Reading’s rich heritage.
The pumping station and its surrounding buildings became redundant when the machinery was superseded and the site became a museum and a glorious snapshot of a bygone age.
In time the main building became a restaurant, and the other buildings remained a riverside museum and gallery space and attracted many visitors, local and some from further afield.
The restaurant was a popular place almost famous, but its client group was corporate and privileged far removed from those who built, worked, and lived in the locality of the pumping station a century or more ago.
When the restaurant closed, it was taken over by a London brewery and became a public house, one hoped that it might become part of the public domain where locals and visitors could find sustenance and a shared interest in visual and performing art, the museum and consider a bygone age. Be served a reasonably priced pint of beer and seasonal food fairly produced and traded. All this while looking at Reading as it forever grows and meets new technology whether we like it or not.
Sadly, my hopes were dashed, the brewery removed the glitzy fixtures and replaced them with more of the same giving the effect of a costly Weatherspoons with overpriced craft beers, gin and wine etc. and a menu to match. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing I later learned. The other buildings on the riverside site are used for artist’s events and exhibitions, so the pub did serve as an added incentive to guests and passersby not just the catering facilities but the seating outside and of the ‘comfort break’ amenities all vital for an artist wanting to reach a wider audience.
Then, a calamity the pub closed! The brewery hasn’t vacated the property, so it has been maintained by a ‘watchperson’ who opens the gates at 10 am and closes them at 6pm each day. This hasn’t so far been consistent, consequently I have been locked out and more seriously locked in. With the pub locked, the toilet facilities are now confined to a Portaloo, that is one step up from better than nothing. From that point of view my time here has been a little uncomfortable and at times unpleasant.
On the other hand, my space in the Turbine House is kind and familiar, I have spent time here before as an artist and visitor and the joys outweigh the hardships hands down. I have made myself comfortable with a makeshift tea/coffee station with a kettle precariously placed breaking rules of health and safety, I am sure. Notwithstanding a couple issues with filmmaking, the exhibition of my dolls has been more than adequate.
The natural light in the Turbine House is by nature is not stable and the electric sensor was equally troublesome, so the films have some interesting flashes. So, with some newfound knowledge and a reliable producer I/we can repair anything untoward.
When I first realised that the Turbine House is without Wi-Fi, I was a bit perturbed seemingly disconnected with the world. That misconception was short-lived, and I enjoyed the space and time to watch the world about me and connect with the environment I had been reading and writing about during these last few months.
Unfortunately, due to the aforementioned unforeseen locational and social issues passing visitors were fewer. However, those who did make the effort were a joy very welcome. Much progress was made regarding a ‘proper’ film and accompanying books. To prepare for this event was not without concern, working alone is not always preferable but each day has bought an element of delight sometimes miniscule but today my last something more exciting, when someone suggested a source of funding. At a time when artists struggle to finding exhibition space and are running out of ways to exhibit their work in the community, in a world where the owners of empty property are only interested in profit, a little bit of funding goes a long way to widen the opportunities. For this I am grateful.
May Day … Worker’s Day
Today, the Turbine House is open to the public. I have had some visitors so that has been nice. The sun is shining which is welcome after yesterday when it rained non-stop all day. Unfortunately, there is a lot of cloud and filmmaking has been hampered. Then the light sensor in the building is super sensitive … there will be a lot of edits!
The dolls did dance round the May Pole to celebrate May Day as it was called until 1st May 1891 when it was designated International Worker’s Day. The day that for centuries had been a day to celebrate spring, flowers and fertility was to become a day of political agitation. So, while the local families enjoyed the dance around the May Pole and the tomfoolery of the Chimney Sweep, the workers were addressing their political needs.
The workers were acknowledging the end of the Second Industrial Revolution when communities shifted from an agrarian economy to a manufacturing economy. Previously workers who had worked the land, made tools, built homes, roads by hand are now replaced by machines and industry. This led to increased production, efficiency and regular income.
While many workers and employers celebrate on May Day the achievement of industrialisation others are marching in the streets demanding better pay and improved working conditions.
Today … the Shepherd
Today is Sunday and I took my dolls and the equipment required for what is going to be my living and working quarters from dawn until dusk for the next week. It seemed like a mammoth task toing and froing with boxes of stuff. Now complete I am pleased. The real work starts tomorrow when I turn what is essentially a pump house suspended over a mighty weir into a studio. It is far from home comforts, its noisy and not conducive to film making. Yet it is light and airy and has a beauty only experienced when experienced if that makes sense. So, my dolls will find the space a joy too I am sure.
Once have set up my studio and placed my dolls I will return to my stories and the individual characters and the roles they will play in little animated motifs.
Last week you met Margery today it her father who is a shepherd who is one of the most skilled and respected members of his community. He works for the local farmer who would have to trust him implicitly before entrusting him with a flock of sheep whose welfare depended on him.
It was a lonely experience but while it was poorly paid it was a regular income and during lambing time, he could earn a little more. Furthermore, if he killed a sheep he was entitled to its hide and the head and liver etc that could be boiled and made into a stew and a welcome treat for his poor family.
Shepherd families in the villages and tiny hamlets where our family lived continued for many generations, handing down rural skills and methods building up a good reputation with farmers and neighbouring shepherds providing medical advice and cures.
John was fine looking man, his gait like many whose work is restricted to tending sheep is free from swaying and rolling movements like those used to walking with a plough. With a smock flowing gracefully behind him, with a crook on his shoulder and a dog at his heel he would walk majestically with steady even pace, head thrown back with his sheep following it was a picturesque figure in the landscape.
All this aside, farm work was long hard and poorly paid, and the family lived mostly in poverty. There were few ways to relieve it, but they are mostly illegal and harshly punished but it seems that most families had to take the risk. Poaching for instance John was not averse to bringing home a hare or a rabbit under his smock if the opportunity arose.
John and his family were near the river side where there was a supply of water for washing and cooking. He spent most time on hillside in the meadows away from the marsh land and increasing urbanisation. He would spend the winters at home and attend the market and festivals when necessary.
Coming soon …
As I make plans to transport my precious family to the Turbine House, I consider them carefully. I have well over a hundred and each one has its own character, while they don’t all have names, they all have history and a story to tell. Given the opportunity I would wax lyrical ad infinitum about them as if they were my over indulged children.
I sculpted their bodies and clothed them to the finest degree.
This doll is called Margery she 6 years old and is a Goose Girl, she wears no shoes, and her frock is a hand-me-down and repaired again and a again by her granny. Each day after she has searched the hedges and hideaways for eggs, she takes the geese on to the heath to graze, in all weathers this is not an idyllic as it sounds. The heath is common land but increasingly the nearby landlord fences off areas and makes it private. Should Margery stray or dare to ‘trespass’ the punishment is very harsh; deportation to Australia is not unlikely.
Later in the day when Margery returns home, she goes with her mother, granny, and little brother to pick stones from the farmer’s field. The removal of the stones improves the soil, and the stones are used to repair the roads. The income from this back breaking and tedious task is minimal but goes a long way to help Mother buy clogs or pay for the repair of some hand-me-downs for Margery when she goes to school … very soon she hopes.
Coat Hanger Doll's House 