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?