A Path through Time

Trainers. Pencil. Carole Day

Geranium on the Windscreen. Felt tip and brush. Carole Day

Strange Objects
Every so often in my life I have come across strange objects in unexpected places that cannot easily be explained. I find these encounters puzzling but also stimulating, and, of course, some artists make these the basis of their work.
Perhaps one of the most curious of these occurred when I was living in Twickenham and travelled to and from work on the 65 Bus. I was travelling home one day, on the top deck, where I liked to sit and enjoy the view, when the bus stopped, and there, on top of the bus shelter, was a fully decorated birthday cake, complete with candles (unlit) but untouched and looking to be in perfect condition.
How did it get there I wondered? Maybe some disgruntled birthday celebrant had thrown it there from the top of the bus or from the adjacent houses – although this seemed unlikely, surely it would have been damaged. Perhaps in a drunken stupor, or for a bet, a birthday guest had scaled the shelter to place it there – who can say?
Closer to home, I left the house one morning to drive to work in my car, a Mini Clubman my brother had given me. Inexplicably I found, wedged behind each windscreen wiper, a geranium plant complete with the soil ball but no pot. Who had put them there and why, and where they came from, I had no idea. A well-wisher who knew I loved gardening? Who knows, I never found out.
A similar incident occurred whilst I was living in St. Margarets, but this time specifically aimed at me – I found a pack of Café Crème cigars, which I smoked at the time, on my windowsill in the front garden. Although it must have been someone who knew me, I never discovered who had, I supposed thoughtfully, left them there.
Later in life my husband, Edwin and I moved to East Kent and I started a course in Art and Design. We often used to visit Margate and the various galleries there: the Pie Factory, Crate Space and Limbo, where I later exhibited and held workshops. In the forecourt of Limbo, on a tree opposite the entrance, hanging from one of the highest branches, a pair of trainers, tied together were dangling down. How they got up there it is hard to imagine, but there they were. Perhaps one of those artists whose practice deals with strange objects put them there as a subject, perhaps they were concealed nearby, recording the various reactions to their installation.
Some things in life are hard to explain and forever keep us guessing.

Mending the Coverlet.

Coverlet Detail. by Phyllis Griffiths (my grandmother) and Carole Day. Textile and felt.

Mending the Coverlet

Some things cannot be mended.

Some can.

When my sister’s husband, Nick, died following a motorcycle accident, a kind of chaotic miasma descended on our family. It felt like a beautiful tapestry unravelling, something that before was firmly knit and strong was now dishevelled and broken.

It seems that all my life I have been trying to mend what was broken, trying to find what was lost.

I was born in my grandparents’ house in Teddington. I lived there with my mother, father and older brother, Michael, in a little flat off the first floor landing.

My mother often told me the story of how upset she was when Michael drew all over her new dressing table with one of her bright red lipsticks. Her grandmother, my great-grandmother, told her, “Doreen, don’t fret over this, worse things will happen in your life.” Of course, she was right.

When my brother, Michael, was seven and I was three, we both caught the measles. Michael died in hospital from a rare complication, bacterial Meningitis, which infected his brain. I survived, with slightly impaired vision. The night before his death my mother’s pearl necklace broke, and the beads scattered all over the floor of my grandmother’s kitchen. My mother never wore pearls again. Years later, a pearl necklace I was wearing broke at a party; the beads rolled away, lost in the floor-boards, and I could not retrieve them. The next day my boyfriend left me – I never wore pearls again.

Some things cannot be mended, but some can.

When my sister, Gill, asked me if I could repair her coverlet, of course, I did not hesitate to take the opportunity to mend something that was broken. My grandmother made the coverlet, she was always making things. In her house in Teddington the back room was always filled with huge bell jars of fruit, vegetables, pickles and jams. In a small room off the stairs to the basement was the sewing area, full of scraps of fabric, cottons, buttons, lace and sewing equipment; it was a treasure trove that I inherited as part of my mind-set without really knowing it.

My grandmother gave the coverlet to my mother, I remember it as a child, and my mother passed it on to my sister, Gill. Gill and her husband, Nick, both artists, had used the coverlet well; paint stains were splattered all over it, and several sections were frayed or corroded. I considered the best way to renovate this piece that represented the heritage of my family and the continuity of generations. In my mind this was my chance to mend the damage and to bind all of us together again across the ages.

I wanted to rejuvenate the piece but also preserve what my grandmother had created and, at the same time, reveal the process she had used.

Mending the coverlet gave me more pleasure than I could have imagined and gave me more opportunity for reflection than I had anticipated.

As I worked I uncovered the tacking stitches my grandmother had made, securing the underlying quilted sections together. To see these stiches and the material she had chosen to create the internal padding gave me deep pleasure. I felt I could see her mind working, I could see her expertise, intelligence, judgement, and artistry in making, which, I think, our whole family has inherited. The way she had juxtaposed the different types and designs of the material showed her artistic flair as well as her craftsmanship.

In my work I sought to reveal the work of my grandmother and the creative choices she had made. At the same time I endeavoured to complement what she had designed with my own creativity. In renovating this composite piece I felt I was drawing together four generations in an expression of our love, skill and creativity.

Some things cannot be mended, but some can.

Shivery Dog
Shivery Dog in the Garden by Carole Day. Sepia ink pen.

When my brother Michael died, and we moved to Esher Road, I guess I must have been lonely. Although I don’t remember being with Michael, my mother said we were inseparable, and he always looked after me.

Now I was alone, and Mummy was sad all the time. I became very self-absorbed, I played on my own in the garden and on the barrels upstairs in the back bedroom, it wasn’t decorated or furnished yet.

I used to make up stories, which I recited to myself all day long, and I had an imaginary friend called Shivery Dog who lived in the garden behind the rockery, under the apple tree. He was a small, frail puppy dog, frightened of the world outside the garden, I looked after him and told him stories.

Recently I was rummaging through my photograph albums, and in amongst them I found my Dad’s handwritten speech for my wedding to Edwin. In it he reminisces about my life growing up and describes my friendship with Shivery Dog. I had forgotten I kept this reminder of my Dad, I’m so glad I did. So, I continue the story in his words.

“I remember Carole when she was 3 years old – wandering down to the bottom of the garden – beyond the rockery – sitting on a fallen tree trunk and talking to an imaginary friend – Shivery Dog. She would usually be telling him off for something he had or hadn’t done, but sometimes she would tell him a story.

Her mother, Doreen, and I would often tiptoe to the rockery and look over and listen to the stories. We said we should have made a note of them. They would have made a lovely book. But Shivery Dog frequently got told off, I’m sure Edwin doesn’t come in for that kind of treatment.”

I don’t remember any of these stories, I wish I did, but I will always remember the little Shivery Dog and our time together in the garden. We were happy there for a while, then, unaccountably, Shivery Dog decided it was time for him to go. I think he was feeling braver and curious, and he wanted to see the world outside the garden. We said goodbye and he went on his journey, and I never saw him again.

Soon after that Mum and Dad removed the rockery, along with the crazy paving path and a circular sunken birdbath in the middle of the lawn. I was quite sad about this, as I enjoyed these garden nooks but now I had a baby sister and they wanted to make the garden safe for us children.

Then, Mum and Dad took me to choose a real puppy, and of course, I chose the smallest one in the litter, a Corgi/Sheepdog cross, and named him Bonzo, not very original! I loved him for many years and now I keep him safe in my memories along with Shivery Dog.

Mind Burst by Carole Day. Felt tip pens and brushes.

Meditation

 When I was working in Acton on the Mobile Libraries, one of my colleagues, Judith, introduced me to meditation. Judith didn’t practice meditation herself, she attended the sister School of Philosophy in Notting Hill Gate, but she thought I would be more suited to the School of Meditation based in Victoria.

I was initiated and joined the school. The initiation ceremony required us to offer gifts to the guru: a white piece of cloth, some fruit, a flower, and a gift of money, whatever we could afford. In return we were given a personal Mantra, never to be repeated to anyone but spoken in our mind as part of our meditation. We attended the school, a large Victorian house, every week, for a meeting of fellow practitioners overseen and guided by our Master; I remember him still and his kind face.
We would meditate together and then discuss our practice, our thoughts and feelings, about anything really. Then regularly we would attend for a ‘check’, which was when an experienced member of the school meditated with us to advise us on any changes we should make in our practice. I always thought it was very strange the way they seemed to know how our meditation was going; “you’re very tense” or “you’re not really in the moment are you?” they might say.
Sometimes I would go there at the weekend to practise Meditation in action. For me this was usually cleaning of some kind, but others would make food for us to eat in our break; often bread rolls and vegetable soup, simple food, but this was the most wonderful food I had ever tasted, because it was made with love, and those eating it had been practising love in action, because that is what meditation is.
One day I was cleaning the windows with crumpled newspaper, as we did there, the newsprint contains lead, so makes the windows very bright, when I experienced probably the zenith of my spiritual life – right there. In one moment the sun shone through the windows and for a split second, no more, the world made sense. Words cannot really explain the feeling, but just in that instant I understood the meaning of the world, my life, everything. And then it was gone. No words left to explain it, no way to recall it. That is how it is with meditation, as soon as you try to capture it, it’s gone, it has to be experienced in the moment. But, more than any other event in my life, or forays into altered states of consciousness, my practice of meditation changed me, my life, and my attitude to other people. It made me more tolerant and understanding and more appreciative of this beautiful world. Our Master used to tell us that meditation puts a shine on your soul that never dies away; even when you stop it remains with you throughout your life. I like to think that it is true.

Orange Juice and Cod Liver Oil. Felt tip pens.

Orange Juice and Cod Liver Oil

Being a child in the 1950s would probably seem very strange to those living today in the 21st century. However, there were some rather homely and quirky things we used to experience that made us happy. I used to think these belonged to the past, but in these strange pandemic times, perhaps not.

A simple pleasure was walking up to Molesey High Street with my mother to the local clinic. The clinic was just like the other shops in the parade except that it had corrugated glass windows, which made it seem quite special as you couldn’t see inside.

My mother had coupons, I think, to get bottles of orange juice and cod liver oil for me to take as nutrition of a kind. The bottles were rectangular and flat with corrugated sides, like the windows, which made them seem more like medicine. I didn’t mind and Mummy seemed happy.

Sometimes the baker would call at our door with a basket of bread and cakes… what a lovely smell…and Mummy would buy some loaves and cake for me. Then the greengrocer would come with his van and Mummy would buy fruit and vegetables. The butcher also came, I can’t remember what we bought from him, meat probably. And, every week, we had a delivery from Cullens, the grocery store in Hampton Court, they sold everything else Mummy might need. The delivery boy brought it to the back door in a cardboard box and set it on the kitchen table for Mummy to check. It was nice to see these people coming around with their wares for sale. Every morning the milkman came and left bottles of milk on the doorstep, and sometimes the birds would peck the foil lids to drink it. Mummy left out the empty bottles for the milkman to collect.

Every so often we would hear the cries of the Rag and Bone man riding by with his horse and cart, I couldn’t really hear what he was saying but I think he was calling out ‘Boones!’ Mummy never gave him anything but it was nice to hear him passing along the road.

I would sit in the window seat in my little bedroom and watch the world go by – it was quite idyllic.