Keeping It Going

Life v Art: a postscript to my last blog post …

Reconcilation: reuniting, reunion, bringing back together again, pacification, resolution, appeasement, placating

I’ve read Anne Truitt’s ‘Daybook’ a lot over the past few years – it’s very much a ‘go to’ book for me. It resonates a great deal and is particularly relevant to my last post here which I wrote just a day or two ago …

‘Experience tells me that it’s best to just give into things – give up on plans to make any work until the proverbial storm has passed. But that’s all much more easily said than done, as so many artists know – that perpetual nagging feeling about wanting to be making work, versus the feeling that you ought to be somewhere else – a tension around what we should be doing, as opposed to what we want to do.’

Anne Truitt speaks for many artists – women artists and mothers, particularly. It’s an easy to read, accessible book, Truitt telling it like it is in all things associated with life and art – and the effort required to find a balance between the two – to excel at both, even.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh describes Truitt’s ‘Daybook’ as ‘a remarkable record of a woman’s reconciliation of art, motherhood, memories of childhood, and present-day demands.’

The word ‘reconciliation’ mentioned in Morrow’s quote (on the book’s front cover) resonated more than ever in a week of trying to bring together so many different strands of life – wanting to make work, to keep being an artist, alongside being as supportive daughter as I can to a currently unwell, elderly parent. Generally, to find a balance – to try and maintain an artistic practice at the same time as keeping up with everyday demands.

Life has truly got in the way of being able to make any work lately, both in terms of physically making it and having the headspace to even think about it. Hospital visits and helping in the organisation of subsequent care at home has taken up pretty much all of the past six weeks – a lot of time that would otherwise, have been spent in the studio. Experience tells me that it’s best to just give into things – give up on plans to make any work until the proverbial storm has passed. But that’s all much more easily said than done, as so many artists know – that perpetual nagging feeling about wanting to be making work, versus the feeling that you ought to be somewhere else – a tension around what we should be doing, as opposed to what we want to do. I received a really encouraging text from an artist friend this week. She knows I’ve had a lot on my plate recently and reassured me: ‘The best work happens alongside your real life and is a part of it, not something that happens by following a template.’

And Paul Cezanne had this to say:

‘Life is art. Art is life. I never separate it.’

Which leads me to thinking about the run up to ‘Hidden,’ a group show in which I have my work, ‘Us Too’ included. The work is composed of a group of ready made ceramic figurines, representing older women. Their mouths have been covered with Elastoplast – ‘silencing them and their calls for help’ as I wrote in the description I sent to Amy Oliver, curator of The House of Smalls art gallery in Stockbridge, Edinburgh.

Packing up my work came in the very midst of regular daily visits to a hospital ward for elderly women and it felt very much a case of life reflecting art/art reflecting life; I saw many of the women on the ward reflected in the silenced, repressed figurines I’d parcelled up and sent to Amy. And though I can’t be certain of it, my impression was that those women on the ward with no advocacy, whether consciously or not, were more likely to be ignored and have their needs listened to. This is an observation, not a criticism (I have nothing but admiration for NHS staff working under such pressure), but my experiences on a geriatric ward for women over a two week period, meant I couldn’t help but think about older women in society at large and how they are so frequently ignored, marginalised and overlooked.

‘Hidden’ is a group show which includes the work of 60 women artists. Launched to coincide with White Ribbon Day (on November, 25), it features work responding to issues around domestic violence. If you happen to be in the Edinburgh area between now and December 22nd, do try and get along to see it.

For more information about ‘Hidden’ please click on the link below:

https://www.thehouseofsmalls.art/hidden

The power of objects …

‘Here today …’ was the title of a piece of work I made in memory of my late grandmother. It included a used powder compact and eyeshadow, alongside a 1930s hand mirror on a bedside cabinet. I wrote about it at the time (in 2016) and have included an extract from a blog post below:

‘It’s reminded me also that out of the dozens of items I’ve sorted through these past few days, some stand out as truly special. The hand mirror, the used make-up palettes, the vintage silk flower, which ‘Here Today…’’ is made up of, are classic examples of objects like this – they demonstrate perfectly for me the incredible power of objects, how deeply attached we can become to them and the extremely powerful emotions they can evoke.

‘Here Today’’ is composed of objects that belonged to and were actually handled by my late Nana; she left her mark on them, and while they are still here, my Nana no longer is. This small assemblage of objects conjures up for me something that I write a lot about here, a theme that is at the core of my practice – a fascination with the contrast between the permanence of objects and the fragility of life.’ (2016)

r

rip Maisy, our beloved pet cat for 17 years

Our pet cat Maisy’s water bowl has brought up similar feelings these past few weeks – a sharp realisation that although the bowl was still there, as a physical thing, Maisy no longer was. It’s been a sad time, saying farewell to a pet who brought so much pleasure to us all as a family over the years. The house was never empty, even when we were all away from it and I always found something quite comforting in that.

The link between material objects and grief is undeniable: Maisy left her mark on an otherwise, unexceptional object – a white ceramic water bowl with CAT imprinted on it. It was unmistakably hers and once she died, it became charged with the strength of our love for her. It didn’t have any use any more and accepting that, was a part of accepting that Maisy, after 17 years of being with us, no longer existed.

Last time I wrote here, I mentioned feeling pleased that I no longer had to pay for expensive storage space – I’d managed successfully, to fit everything that wasn’t needed in my studio into my garden shed. Money aside, commercial spaces clearly have their upside, however – ie. they’re watertight and don’t let the rain in! Cut to, what happened in the garden shed …

Prior to this recent heatwave, it’s been an exceptionally wet few months – the wettest May on record for decades, in fact. The shed roof hadn’t held up to not letting the rain in and one storage box in particular, was completely water logged.

I threw away everything that wasn’t salvageable – wads of paper, collected from vintage magazines over many years – newspaper cuttings, extracts from Mills & Boon books and so on, all drenched in rainwater, congealed and stuck together. Nothing could be rescued and until I found it in this state, I’d forgotten how precious the things in this particular box were. It was hard to come to terms with and for the first time ever, I shed tears over the loss of material things.

I’ve been quite philosophical about things getting broken/spoiled in the past but that’s probably because of the sheer amount of stuff I had – you can’t miss what you didn’t know you had, after all. But after years of sifting and sorting and shedding and reducing stuff, what I do have in my collections has become more precious. I know more now about what’s in the boxes and consequently, I’m more emotionally attached, more intimately connected to the objects and paraphernalia. Rather than a huge, random collection of things, I’m now looking at objects that have been carefully selected – the things I really like and more importantly, things that I see as having potential for creating new work. I was excited by a lot of the finds in a recent dive into the archive – the box containing the lamb related stuff, a case in point.

It’s hugely ironic that, in this particular case, the collections were based around the theme of ‘Poor Lamb.‘ There were some iconic images – kept for years and some going as far back as 1989 when I lived in the States. Women portrayed as ‘victims ‘ has always been a theme of interest to me and I’d drawn together many images of the various ways in which the subject could be represented. I find the word victim problematic, particularly used in the context of women, and I was looking forward to investigating it further via the assorted paraphernalia I’d collected. The presentation of women portrayed in 1950/60s magazines seemed to primarily focus on their vulnerability and powerlessness; their weakness and fragility – ‘poor lambs.’ But that’s a whole other blog post …

ruined: reduced to a state of decay, collapse, or disintegration

having been irreparably damaged or harmed

Items ‘ruined’ in another box included four sewing box lids which I’d collected for their beautiful colours and satin textures, all of them conjuring up memories of my late Nana’s wicker sewing box. I’d planned to use them as part of an ongoing body of work, ‘Nana’s Colours’ but – saturated with rain water, the original colours had totally changed and the mould that had grown, formed a film of grey over the original satin fabric. In spite of my initial disappointment at finding them in this state, something stopped me throwing them straight in the bin – there was ‘something’ about them and so, I put them to one side. And when the sun came out, I put them out in the garden to dry.

There was a defining moment when I caught a glimpse of them on the lawn and realised that things I’d thought were potentially ruined, were in fact, rather beautiful. The sewing box lids summed up the ‘beauty in decay’ principle perfectly and when I sent photos to a couple of close friends and artists who confirmed my gut feelings about them, I knew something special had come out of the leak in the shed – I’d held onto them for a reason and I’m so glad I did. I took them to my studio the next day and propped them up on a shelf in the gallery space. Giving them space transformed them and I knew for certain at that point that I’d hold onto them – the water damage had given them a new layer of preciousness.

But that’s luck – I know it won’t always turn out this way and I’m taking no chances. I took action almost immediately to retrieve stuff that isn’t waterproof from the shed and it’s already taken me several days, with more to do. The long term solution of course, is to get the current shed completely sealed and waterproofed. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the process of reacquainting myself with objects that have been packed away, out of sight for many months. I’m getting to a point where I have virtually every single object listed and while I’m proud of that achievement, I’d still love to have these things at hand. It’s a tight fit in the garden shed and a lot of physical work’s required to access things. I should probably give up on it, but I still fantasise about having a studio that would provide sufficient space to accommodate all 100+ 30 litre boxes as well as space to work in …

Collecting versus hoarding

Collecting: Possessions are part of a larger set of items. Display does not impede active living areas in home.

Hoarding: Possessions become unorganised piles preventing rooms from being used for their intended purpose.

I’ve thought a lot about the difference between collecting and hoarding over the years. It matters to me that I’m a collector, not a hoarder. Hoarding’s associated with being a ‘bad thing’ and NHS UK even has it listed as a ‘disorder.’ A lot of what I’ve read on the NHS website about what constitutes a hoarder resonates, however and I’m struck by what a fine line there is between collecting and hoarding.

There are many excellent articles on the subject – for example, a paper published by the University of Texas, Austin: ‘From Passion to Problem: How to Prevent Collecting Becoming Hoarding.’

The paper has much to say about the importance of careful selection of objects – ‘mindful collecting’ as they refer to it:

‘Mindful collecting means making each acquisition a deliberate choice rather than an impulsive or compulsive action. It involves asking yourself questions like: “Do I truly need this item?”, “Does it add meaningful value to my collection?” or “Am I acquiring this for the right reasons?”. Evaluate each piece based on its significance, uniqueness, and alignment with your collection’s goals. This level of mindfulness helps in maintaining a collection that is not merely about the quantity of items but more about their quality and significance.’

The above paragraph resonates strongly for me as I recognise many of the questions I ask myself before obtaining or purchasing anything new. Over the years, I’ve become more discerning about the stuff I hold onto and as I’ve gradually decreased the volume of it, I’ve felt less guilty and okay about the amount of things I’ve collected. What I’m left with isn’t random – every object’s been carefully thought about, with a conscious choice made about the retention of each individual item: does it stay or does it go?

I’ve written a lot here about many of the objects I’ve collected over the years – much of it in relation to the strong memories and emotions many of the items stir up, but also, in terms of the actual physical space it takes up. Collecting and holding onto stuff always has consequences in terms of needing to make space to accommodate it – and that space costs money. I’ve been feeling more freed up since the huge cull I had when I moved house three years ago, closely followed by a move to a smaller studio. I radically reduced the amount of stuff to the extent that it now fits in two places – my garden shed, primarily, and some of it in my current studio.

I’m so relieved to no longer be paying rent for a commercial storage unit, which I did in the early part of my house move. It made me feel guilty, paying out money to store stuff that I didn’t necessarily need/want any more. The stuff I’ve had in storage over the years has ostensibly provided the bulk of the raw material for the work I make – and so, I always felt able to justify it. But other things crept in; I wasn’t always on the ball and though I’m by no means anywhere near putting together a full inventory of my collections, I’m more organised than I’ve ever been. I’ve learned to embrace the objects I’ve held onto and I’m happy that I can still put my hand to some real gems from the boxes in the shed and studio.