share

SHARE - my word for 2016. Simple. Happy New Year x

alone

Without the green of the forest I don't know how I would have turned out. Crossing the road from my house and entering the wood did not scare me, it was simple. 

This summer I created new work and entered the woods alone once more. This time I experienced fear and trepidation. I was nervous. While sitting on a fallen tree amongst a copse of young birches it dawned on me that this was my first time alone in Epping Forest since childhood. My fears about being vulnerable, unprotected, far from others were present.

Still, close to the forest floor, I breathed in constancy, timelessness, rootedness. No one disturbed me, not even a dog walker. On some unseen path beyond my trees children pelted through the wood on bikes, voices raised in excitement. As I arranged my work Army of Me by Bjork played in my head and I thought of my twenties and my friend Marianne. 

Hand stitched arms, 2015
Wanstead Flats, London

This image is a prelude to the work mentioned above. I wandered over to the Wanstead Flats and found this secluded spot to test my idea. 

sign

sloe

For years I've wanted to make sloe gin. While collecting sloes near my sisters house in Aylesbury a lady approached and mentioned sloe whisky... I'd picked enough sloes for 2 litres of alcohol, so this was meant to be! Roll on christmas 2016!

drawn into existing

When a passerby glanced at her she wondered what they saw. She sensed her face as a blank space, a fuzzy unformed 'thing'. If pressed to describe features she floundered, flustered in confusion, concerned at what the questioner might read in her embarrassment.

During childhood she looked outward, her gaze not met in any kind way she remained unreflected in the eyes of others. She looked outward to prepare herself, to understand the lay of the land. Her skin became exquisitely sensitive, a receptive layer picking up shifts of mood, the feelings of others. Where did she start and they begin? Skin was no barrier, it held her together while allowing all manner of unwanted-ness in, it stopped her insides spilling, but just.

Decades later she chose to look into her own eyes, to draw a self portrait everyday for 28 days without judgement. In charcoal, in 2B pencil, in graphite she observed and drew. A conversation between mirror and her surface, reflected. The graphite an anchor, proof that she was here. Night after night she masking taped paper to drawing board, mooring the drawing with softly sketched lines, intuitive measurements. Then, always beginning with the eyes she began to plot the face, layering pencil line, smudging charcoal, rubbing away mistakes. More often that not the face that emerged was not quite hers, or her, but marginally rearranged. Every night she taped the drawing to the living room wall and was greeted by a crowd of faces each morning.

In drawing she began to understand, gazing with soft eyes she saw herself. A face not arranged for others, eyes brimming with sorrows and an unguarded remarkable wonder. She gazed with a mothers love, and within this the eyes that met hers became steadier, surer. She learned about the curve of her cheek, the almond shape of her eye, the upturn of her nose, the enviably beautiful ear. With each pencil mark she became solid, formed, drawing herself into existence.

parents

The only little girl in the woods, she liked it that way. Young, very young, safer here than there and not recognising the tragedy of that yet. The forest provided clear sight lines and space above her head, the opposite of hemmed in. Her fledgling mind was safe there. Not that she had thoughts of safety, this is the adult retelling, reframing a natural inclination for a calm environment.

The green-ness felt as home, her favourite colour in so many shades and textures, cosseting her tender body. So small, so lost and yet settled within herself in this place. When older she was told that green was her grandmothers favourite colour and that she would have liked her. By this time she was tall, startled at her woman's body, so much did she feel that small girl inside herself.

There were no rules in this space. The earth beneath her feet did not ask anything of her. The trees stood in their places, unchanging, their moods stable, predictable unlike anything else she knew. The forest was constant and her heart needed that.

Her mothers leaves shimmered in the slightest breeze, she was slight, delicate, glowing silver in the forest. Her skin smooth, pale, her trunk easily encompassed by small arms. The girl felt shy with her, tender, careful. Her father was tall and broad, he touched the sky. Cracked and fissured, her arms when pressed against him held his texture for a time, he impressed her skin. The canopy he provided was a home, a shelter. She did not marvel at his great age, his acorn beginning 300 years before hers, before the estate was built, before anyone living was a twinkle in a long dead eye.

magic

Magic happened on this walk from Matlock to Cromford. These were life affirming miles inhaling leaf mould and woodland scents, marvelling at bright berry pops of colour, becoming absorbed by bark textures and centring myself on slippery mud.  

High Tor

Arc of berries

Steep path out of Matlock Bath

Cromford

My favourite bookshop

time to look

Gave myself time to look at art today, not with any plan but with a wandering attitude. Wanted to see what captured my interest and then to think about why. Artists who captured me were Artur Zmijewski and Harun Farocki and I revisited familiar (and magical) work by Rebecca Horn and Giuseppe Penone. These images are from my walk from St Paul's station to Tate Modern.

washed up

rainbow on my floor

name label

First day of school?

coast to coast

From the 5th to the 16th of August I walked 192 miles from St Bees in Cumbria to Robin Hoods Bay in North Yorkshire. The Coast to Coast was created by Alfred Wainwright and he saw the route as a suggestion and inspiration for others to find their own way from the Irish Sea to the North Sea.

do that

stained glass

Yesterday I visited York Minster, there was so much to see - architecture, stained glass, memorials, metalwork, needlework and more, and these are the last photographs I took. The reflections of stained glass upon the stone floor caught my eye but my camera was unable to capture what my eyes perceived  The blue glass reflected purple on the floor, but when I looked through my camera it was the same blue as in the window. Something was disrupting light and colour, my eye/brain perception and the camera lens. I'm currently reading a book called Colour: Travels Through the Paintbox by Victoria Finlay and unsurprisingly my colour awareness is heightened and this set the tone of my wonderings around the Minster. The book is fascinating and explains the skills involved in discovering and capturing colour throughout the ages, the trail, error, alchemy, science and trading that brought powders, dyes and pigments to and from our shores. 

new work

Army of Me, 2015
Large Format Photograph
Epping Forest

doreen

In the 1970's my Auntie Jessie lived in Clapton and it was a two bus trip to get there from Loughton. We changed buses at Bakers Arms and on the return journey our bus stop was opposite a shop called Doreen. I remember waiting for the 20 in a shoe shop doorway and gazing across at Doreen, it was special because it's my mum's name and we though that was the bees knees! Its getting on for 40 years since I made this journey and Doreen has remained a landmark over the decades and I've marvelled that it was still going strong. Its displays and shop front were dated and I wondered about the clientele, today I googled and discovered it was one of the first shops to cater for transvestites and is famous. 

Sadly, after 60 years the shop has recently closed, I saw cardboard boxes in the empty windows when I passed on the bus this week and went back today to photograph the shop front before it is dismantled. My mum will be 80 in a few months, we made these journeys when she was in her 40's, as I am now. I can't wait to tell her about the shop. So goodbye Doreen, you have been a constant since my childhood and I'm so sad to see you go.

kin

London Underground trains rattle and rumble along dark tunnels and its fun to look at the distorted reflections of passengers on the curved windows opposite. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye I see someone knitting and have a mini jolt of excitement! Thrilling! What are they making? Only to discover, on furtive second glance, that they are untangling headphones. Mixed with a heart sink of disappointment is laughter at myself because this has happened on countless occasions. I'm tuned into the makers, the menders, the stitchers, subconsciously searching for kin, as we all are.

haddon hall

It must be close to 20 years since I first walked the wonderful circular route from Bakewell, through the grounds of Chatsworth, past Rowsley and Haddon Hall before returning to Bakewell. The walk is varied, with forests, modest climbs, verdant rolling landscape, stately homes, quaint stone houses, tea rooms and the memories of people I've walked with over the years. For these reasons it's a favourite of mine but in all those years I've never taken the path to Haddon Hall, well, last Saturday I did! Roaming the hall and gardens with my sister and struck by the feeling that this is a lived in house rather than an exhibit I wondered in what films the hall had featured. Back in London that same evening, holiday over, I tuned in to watch Jane Eyre and was stunned to see the hall and garden populated and full of life on the screen. How exciting to see the same pink blossom I'd photographed that morning! Below are snippets from my visit, things that caught my eye. I'm being a tease so no views of the building, you will have to go and see it for yourself.