Have just got back from a rather hairy photography session. Late last night, when pondering alternative sites to photograph work I had a flash of inspiration. Helga, a patent lawyer, unstoppable socialite and, whenever we do meet up, good friend (I’m much too poor to move within her circles on a regular basis), has recently bought a crumbling farmhouse to be transformed into something wonderful. Aha, I thought, a photographic opportunity so a quick call and we were booked to meet this morning. With her BMW 4×4 crammed full of my work and bits and pieces we set off through the snow, Helga impeccably turned out and me in my rather scruffy, poor artist attire with Bertie, her spaniel on my knee.
When we got there work men were busy on the outside while the inside downstairs was deserted and almost demolished. Helga set off with Bertie in the snow while I hawked my stuff upstairs and set to work. There is something achingly beautiful about an old, deserted house, and it was all I could do to get on with work and not just stand and stare. Time was short though so I got to work pinning up my origami butterflies, folded from the many lists gathered over the last year. Collections of things to do, items of shopping, family obligations etc, the worn and discarded records of an ordinary life. Pinned to the faded, flocked wallpaper they whispered of passing days and endlessly repeated tasks, the measuring of an everyday existence.
I can spend hours attempting to get good results with photography but Helgas toes didn’t hold out long in the cold and soon I could see her in the distance, hovering around the garden, ready to pack up and go. I called for ten minutes more and began to grab as many shots as I could. Before long there was an almighty bang downstairs and the ceiling began to shake. Not knowing I was upstairs, workmen had come in to finish the job of demolishing the building and I realised the wall below me was about to go. Racing around grabbing my things, I just about managed to stay upright, pull the last butterflies off the wall and stagger down the shaking stairs to the ground floor. The workmen stared amazed through their respiratory gear as I left with my collection of oddities.
Not quite the unhurried session I would have liked but I was pretty lucky to get in at all before all that once busy, family home disappeared. Helga dropped me back, refused a coffee as I could see from her face my kitchen was way too dirty and cluttered for her to cope with, and we returned to our rather different lives. To her credit though, Helga went out of her way to help this morning, as she would at any time, and I am very grateful.
