I take up residence along the back wall of the studio, a large wooden arch window provides a cool breeze, and a view looking out over the spanish courtyard; if I lean out far enough I can reach a loquat fruit ripening on the tree outside.
Laying out my materials, plastic sheeting (for costume/mess/printing), golden dollies from Finland, fur from Northumbria, and Wilton candles imported from the U.S, I begin my occupation of Masia Can Serrat.
Liberating a protruding part of plastic sheeting, and smoothing it over one corner of the desk, I erect a lo-fi print studio. The black ink is like molasses, and somehow more viscous and treacle like after another high altitude airplane journey, although proves tameable with the determined and tenacious use of a roller. With a needle I tattoo the surface of paper. scratch scratch scratch scratch, scratch scratch scratch scratch, scratch scratch scratch scratch – the spirit queen of the the magic mountain begins to reveal one of her faces to me.
The cicadas chorus echoes and refracts around the studio walls, creating invisible insects specters singing in every corner.
scratch scratch scratch scratch The drawings form, and function as maps and compasses helping me navigate my ideas, my informants for future works.
scratch scratch scratch scratch, itch, itch itch ( you rotton mosquitos), scratch scratch scratch scratch
In the evening I take a stretch through the small copse nestled behind the farmhouse. Aged olive trees that appear to have fled the farm years ago now hide out amongst the field maple, elm and pine trees. Emerging onto the newly sown crop fields I gain a clear view of montserrat, the subject of my animistic narrative. Then, as if I should be homesick Northern England, the magic mountain brings me a rain shower. Although raindrops are soft and warm, and far cry from the icy umbrella shredding precipitation I’d become accustomed to.
My first day closes in an almost double rainbow.
