07 July 12

July 2012, Artist In Residence at Can Serrat Centro de Actividades Artisticas, Cataluña, Spain

1st July, 8.30 pm:

I’m sipping tea 30,000 ft above the English Channel. My head lolls back to rest in a somnolent haze against the window, soaking up the billowing cloudscape. The scene is painted a cool marazine hue; the full moon hovers ahead, a soft white hole punched in the blue sky sheet.

The Airbus is carrying me south, towards Catalonia where I will live as Artist in Residence at Can Serrat Centro de Actividades Artisticas.

My home and work place for the next month is nested at the foot of Montserrat.

The Black Madonna waits in the hillside. Virgin and child, Isis and Horus, earth goddess, a shrine built on lay lines, La Moreneta (The Dark Skinned One – Catalan) sits patiently adorned in gold.

It is said that it was on this same hillside that Saint George slew the dragon, rescuing a young maiden from virgin sacrifice blooms of red roses grow from the spilled blood of the beast.

This is virgin territory.

Turbulence grips the plane and storms rumble around the airbus, the indigo night envelopes us and the moon turns on light a lamp.

The playful wind giant bats the aircraft to and fro, quakes shudder through the plane tossing my notebook to the floor. Dropping through the cloud cover into a raging rainstorm, I strain to see the country below but I can barely make out the flashing lights of the planes wing, each flicker illuminating the fierce deluge.

With a thud we hit the tarmac prompting applause and whoops from the passengers. The metal bird holds us locked in her belly for a few more moments while airport crew drive stairs and buses out to our landing spot; news of Spain’s euro victory ushers around the plane as cellphones are switched back on (albeit, slightly ahead of the instructed time).

Karine of Can Serrat greets me at arrivals placard in hand (I enjoy this indulgence), my luggage hauled into the trunk of her car we begin our drive north.

My stormy birth into Catalan life was the closure to the end of a two-week heat wave and the night is cool and crisp. Pulling up to the farmhouse my heart begins to gush with wonder, making my way across the courtyard broken down angels loom out of the darkness and palms usher whispers above me. A heave on the heavy oak door and I have arrived. I’m utterly and completely charmed.

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18 July 11

June, Midsummer.

Its 4pm, time to go, filling my back pack with the essentials, paint, string, my cameras, one, two, three, and begin my journey over the fields and farmland. It’s an upward struggle and despite my daily walks I find myself breathless when I reach the top. I allow myself a break. I eat some toffee. Then onward. Following a line of birch trees I’m led downhill towards the sea, two more misshapen wire fences and it’s a sharp decent down to the beach. I’ve timed this right. The tide is low, granting me entry to the cave interior. It’s not easy. I must crawl on all fours; keep my back low, don’t scrap it on the cave roof (I do).

I’m in the belly of the cave. The sound of the waves hitting the jagged coastline rumbles all around me. Its dark and damp, but warm enough to undress. I take out my box of paints and line each up along the waterline, then mixing the colour with the seawater I paint my body. Limb by limb, using my fingers as paint brushes leaving long streaks and hand prints over my flesh, my hair. I’m ready. I’m new. I’m a character, an object. More and less than human. I explore the cavity as a new born animal. Testing the walls, my weight, my skin against the cold rock. The painting ritual has transformed me and allowed me to sit below my normal level of consciousness. Thinking back, it feels

cosy.

The incoming tide chases me back up the cave and the imminent danger of loosing my possessions to the sea brings me out of my dream. It’s now that I stop the camera rolling and I use my still camera to document the events.

But my mind is still clouded by the paint creature, (or the growing numbness in my hands) and working the camera self timer feels alien.

Pulling the masks and mirrors from my rucksack I bring the items into my recreation. But looking back the mask was only mask in its very essence – to mask out my face. (I hide my face not wanting to muddle the work with elements of vanity I know would creep in if my face was revealed.) The transformation had already happened in the painting and the additional tools felt superfluous, and forced. The incoming tide tickled my toes and the wet brings a chill. Leave.

Naked I crawled back through the rear entrance of the cave and returned blinking into the sunlight, failing to conceal a smile about how weird this must look to anyone who could have happened to come up my strange ritual. This time however, I have the beach to myself. I dress, then lie in the sun, admiring my paint covered limbs against the red sand. Warming my body like a lizard, I lay grinning in a blissful haze, now feels good. The sunlight licks the cliff tops and lazily winks at me through the gorse bushes, it’s settling down to sleep and I too should make my way back to my bed.

Two hours later and I’m enjoying a well-deserved shower, now feels good.

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15 July 11

The end, slowly stalking me at first took a running leap and knocked me square off my Black Isle residency. I saw signs, the pang of sadness when I bought milk whose expiry date surpassed my final day and the realisation the high tide times had turned full circle, completing their monthly loop.

Drawing open the curtains on the final day I still feel the rush of glee from being able to admire the seashore from my window. It’s the glee of a landlocked child who 90s holiday car trips became entrenched in a sibling rivalry of who could see first, or more over who could shout “I can see the sea!” the quickest and loudest. The winners vigilance was rewarded with smug satisfaction.

I walk down to the shore, it’s a cloudy day and the sea looks like molten lead. Returning the cow skull to the fields where I found it I say a silent goodbye to the hillside I’ve called home for the last month.

To conclude my time with the Cromarty Arts Trust we put on an exhibition of my studio work: The Village Lady. The Trust has acquired the stable block from the 18th century Cromarty House mansion and converted them into a beautiful gallery space, it was a pleasure to be offered a chance to show there.

Central to the exhibition was a makeshift table I built from stacking found wood, and dressing it with old china plates and my clay ‘cutlery’ modelled on bones. Dinner for two.

The girl set off, the bzou set off, and the bzou reached Grandmother’s cottage first. He quickly killed the old woman and gobbled her up, flesh, blood, and bone – except for a bit of flesh that he put in a little dish on the pantry shelf, and except for a bit of blood that he drained into a little bottle. Then the bzou dressed in Grandmother’s cap and shawl and climbed into bed.

When the girl arrived, the bzou called out, “Pull the peg and come in, my child.”

“Grandmother,” said the girl, “Mother sent me here with a galette and a cream.”

“Put them in the pantry, child. Are you hungry?

“Yes, I am, Grandmother.”

“Then cook the meat that you’ll find on the shelf. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, I am, Grandmother.”

“Then drink the bottle of wine you’ll find on the shelf beside it, child.”

As the young girl cooked and ate the meat, a little cat piped up and cried, “You are eating the flesh are your grandmother!”

“Throw your shoe at that noisy cat,” said the bzou, and so she did.

As she drank the wine, a small bird cried, “You are drinking the blood of your grandmother!”

“Throw your other shoe at that noisy bird,” said the bzou, and so she did.

When she finished her meal, the bzou said, “Are you tired from your journey, child? Then take off your clothes, come to bed, and I shall warm you up.”

A clay ‘teapot’ and ‘basket (image in previous blog)’ were displayed on tree trunk plinths and mix media paintings provided wall cover. The opening reception was very enjoyable, and I could be mistaken but I’m sure everyone who came on the opening night waited around for a chance to talk to me, which I’m very appreciative of. The Cromarty Arts Trust bought one of my paintings for their collection too so I can now proudly add them to the list of Public Collections that my works is held in.

It’s a dry day when I leave, that turns to showers when we reach Edinburgh. Thank you Cromarty Arts Trust, Creative Scotland and the Royal Scottish Academy for such an enjoyable, enriching and rewarding experience.

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20 June 11

‘He brought her smooth pebbles and winding shells, such things that girls love’

Pygmalion, Ovid’s Metamorphoses

I always found this line charmingly stupid.

But I can’t deny it, I do have a particular affinity for both those objects. Our seaside holiday cottages would end up with piles of shells, stones, smoothed glass and the occasional crab shell (and once a dried starfish-what a find!) pilled up by the front step. Disappointment as the trinkets lost their gleam in the suns heat. Here on the Black Isle I’ve added heaps of sun bleached animal bones to that pile, and the organic shapes and patterns of the ore flecked stones, the pearly shell interiors and curve of the sheep’s spinal bone have been the inspiration for some smaller ceramic pieces. My mood lifted the moment I plunged my hands into the wet clay. After a week of playing with paint, waiting for my sculptural materials to arrive (no I wasn’t dragging 20kilos of clay up on the train) I’m delighted to work the soft pliable material in my hands.

My highland studio is getting cluttered, messy and it’s the way I like it. Paintings are drying on every inch of floor, slightly dryer paintings propped up around the perimeter, I need to dodge the frangible clay work balanced on stools as I duck beneath them to sit on the flag stone floor, chopping out more stencils and cut outs for collage. I’m busy. And it feels good.

What’s been a happy surprise it how strongly influenced my work is by what I experienced and encountered in Firenze. Although I arrived here, ideas of the she-wolf firmly nestled in my mind, a thought perhaps seeded in my Florentine address at Bonfazio Lupi street, which I generously translated as ‘bonny faced wolves’, politely ignoring the reference to the 14th century Italian politician of the same name. The She-Wolf brain child grew as I fed it flickering TV images of scantily clad female chat show hosts, shrines to the blessed Virgin Mary, readings of Dante’s Inferno and statues of the Capitoline Wolf. I talked about this more in previous blogs (is there a way to link directly back or do we just scroll down?)

…… Although I arrived here with the idea of the she-wolf in mind, I’ve been surprised to see many other elements from my Florentine days inspiring and stimulating my current practice. Here in the Black Isle the gardens of the Pitti Palace (that disused fountain, off the well trodden path), the Specola and the graffiti that embellished the side streets and the universities is seeping into my studio work. The vivid colours of the crystal exhibition, the vines reclaiming the ruins and that colossal bone collection permeates the new work.

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16 June 11

‘They can’t freeze it ya know’

‘mm what?’

‘The polar bear, they won’t be able ter freeze it’

It’s 7.30pm and 17 seconds of silence had passed. I’d been watching a shrew, bemused by its fat little body tumbling amongst the tall grass, before bumbling back into the foxgloves when her broad southern accent spun me back out of my mesmerised state; ‘ ‘is fur’s too thick’.

I was stranded on the grassy verge of a B road just off the A9 with a middle-aged woman who clearly felt very uncomfortable about silence between strangers. We’d gotten off to a bad start, when explaining that I was out filming the wolves I received the blunt response ‘Don’t like ‘em’, why? ‘just don’t’. Not that I was going to complain about this new topic of animal autopsy.

The bus was now three hours late, the sun was well into its decent and the day was cooling off. I was stuck. Do I begin the 4 mile walk to the nearest settlement or do I wait for the bus? Sods law it would arrive as soon as it was out of eyeshot of the bus stop, and what would I do in the nearest village? Call for help? Who do I know out here? Knock on doors and hope to find some kind soul who’d drive me all the way back? Being two hours from home I concluded I should just wait this out, the helpdesk at Citylink assures me the bus is coming, it’s just late and they don’t know how late. Thanks.

Getting stuck and lost is becoming a reoccurring theme this week. Although I must admit to relishing in it. Wayward wanderings across the cliff tops and farmland have resulted in finds that I romantically like to believe no one else has discovered. Leaps and bounds over the deep clefts carved in coastal rock face lead me, precariously, (would it be as easy on the way back down?) upwards. High up in the rocky outcrop I found a nest, a perfect green grass space, fenced by rocks. It’s as if a rock pool had ascended 20ft in the air, bedded with thick grasses, sea milkwort and sand spurrey, I walked through the welcoming mouth of the nest, a 50cm gap in the rock fence, and plonked myself down. Just enough space to sit with my backpack to the right and my sketchbook and flask to the left. Reclining against the smoothed rock , I peered over the walls at the swirling water below. I spot the Ecoventure dolphin watching boat far across the bay and I knew it must be just past one. Lunch time. Later that day I managed to get completely disoriented crossing sheep field after sheep field and was quite relieved to find a footpath leading me down the densely gorse covered hillside. As I take a second look at the marks pressed into the wet dirt I realise I’m not following a human made footpath, but one by that of cows. Drat. There goes my plan of ‘if a cow charges jump into the bushes, it won’t go in there’ (what is the proper procedure for a cow charge?) Apparently cows are impervious, or not bothered, (unlike my legs) to the gorses myriad of spines and spikes.

Back on the roadside I was continuing to wait. Usually a delay like this would be quite aggravating but the evening light was charming, dappling the hillside and I’d done a good days work. I’d met the wolf.

That morning I’d approached the highland wolf enclosure, moving through the dense fur tree wood until I reach the perimeter fence. From a viewing post I survey the habitat; and then I see something moving amongst the trees. The wolf lops closer. I recognise the wolf as Elara, the female alpha, her mouth falls open in a wolf grin, long tongue spilling out her mouth. Stopping her prowl around the enclosure 2 meters directly in front of me, we lock eyes. Holding the glaze. There’s too much in that wolfs stare. It catches me off guard and distracts me from my purpose. She turns away and the spell is broken. I pull out my camera and sketchbook and spend the next few hours sketching and filming. I’m pretty excited about what I’ve captured so far, what I think I’ve captured, I’ll have to wait until it’s developed and digitised to see the true resulting imagery.

The bus? It did arrive eventually. I crawl into bed at 1am.

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