Threads

What follows is a transcript of the previous, handwritten post:

How do I see drawing?

What is its purpose for me?

A long time ago a drawing was something done on paper with a pencil. Its purpose was to record an observation or an imagination. Onlookers would be able to identify its lines – a house – a tree – a person – which particular person perhaps. It might also have been a plan or a design or a map. It might be the outline of something to be coloured in later with crayon or paint.These purposes remain, but now my drawings are extra to this. They are both more, and less.

My drawings grew from a different need. They grew from the need to dig deeper, to explore a feeling. These feelings gathered around an illness and radiated out to touch other elements of my life and to connect and hold them together. I had been stitching for decades, connecting things, people, ideas, with garments and words. Then I stopped. I ground to a halt slowly and gradually, morphing into something else.Because of an illness I needed to physically change the scale of my work top make it transportable and to make it easy to pick up for five minutes. It needed to be pared down… to a small sketch pad and a pen. The writing and drawing inhabited the same page. The writing sometimes strayed from the lines and the drawings sometimes peppered the lines of writing where there was a job to be done. I began to realise that the stitched works showing my thoughts, illustrating them for my audience. At this point I wanted more. The stitched pieces and the beginnings of poetry and songwriting needed to do more than illustrate, for me, and perhaps also for my audience. This was not a sudden thing. It was slow, insidious, careful and sneaky.

As the illness waned, the drawings expanded and started to leak out from the sketchbooks onto larger paper (in the studio). What started to emerge from my fingers were unrecognisable forms and lines. This was not a design to be coloured in. This was no map. These were not observations… although they held familiar textures and lines of an organic nature. Fifty years of observational drawing had shown itself and those tools and skills were being called upon.

What I found was this: the illustrative quality of previous work talked of touch, between people, often children. It had emotion and a poignancy but was often also sinister and macabre. Now I found that I was using my materials as a metaphor for these relationships. My pencils reacted to the paper. The colours reacted to each other, pigments merging and rejecting. I found the box of old ink pensant nibs and discovered the scratchy nature of these old men and women on rough watercolour paper gave me something new. A different touch was being felt as I stroked gently and scratched jarringly across the paper. I could enact these relationships instead of portraying and showing an illustration of them to other people. I drew as I breathed, as I sang, as I listened, as I ate and drank. I also drew as I wrote. Some of the words that entered my thoughts ended up on the paper. Sometimes these words were already in songs being sung. Sometimes they became songs afterwards. This all-absorbing expression of the people and the emotionI felt was being performed across the paper stretched out on the table in front of me.

I draw constantly, but not all of the drawings are satisfactory in terms of how they “work” for me. Most consist of repetitive lines, meditations, a sort of seeking and exploration. They might be a map, but I don’t know where to.

I can’t always tell where the line is between drawing, writing, song, and performance. At the moment I suppose I see a line/lines between them because they still have those separate words to describe them. But this (hand) writing also feels like a drawing of my current state of mind and I use the same pen to draw these words out across the pages. The writing has sound and rhythm and the words have meaning that others can understand, so they are also songs. The songs I write describe more than a drawing with paper and pencil. They flesh out the relationships I observe and participate in. A voice in song conveys emotion through all of those sounds, all those elements of melody, harmony, rhythm, lyrics, delivery – especially delivery! The line like the pencil or ink line, the sung line does not need to be perfect. In fact it conveys more when it is not. In the same way that as my drawing skills and thinking skills matured, I stopped wanting, or seeing the need for perfect representation. I now see that is not necessary for every single note to be in perfect tune. In performance it can be seen to convey with an immediacy that doesn’t require perfection but a truth of the held emotion.

What I require in the drawing, the writing, the sounds, songs, and the performance is that truth. My truth. I want what I make to be authentically me, mine.

It has now become important that the decisions I make concerning the songs and the singing of them, are mine. Unique… obviously influenced by what I have lived through, just as my drawings on paper reveal those 50 years (or more) of observation.

As I look into the future of my drawing of all types across all those media, I’d like to see them connect more. I’d also like the threads and traces (Tim Ingold, Lines) between them to be less distinct  (or do I mean more distinct? Closer connections, the disciplines less distinct?)

I’m unsure whether these distinctions and in distinctions will be visible/audible/legible to any onlooker/listener/reader… and I’m not sure I care that much.

Drawing Songs, as a distinct project is the beginning of that exploration and endeavour.

They are not a set of songs which accompany a set of drawings.

They are all drawings and they are all songs.

An experiment in a drawn blog?

The Sweet Spot…

It’s a bit cold in the studio today.

(Although I have to say that of all the studios I’ve ever inhabited, this is the cosiest) 

I haven’t been here for ages, so it’s chilled to its bones. So first thing, switch on the heater, leave my coat and hat on while I fill the kettle, then do a couple of swift circuits of the gallery while it boils and a little of the chill lifts. The General Office Gallery is being prepared and hung for an open exhibition that may never actually be open. The irony is not lost on us. But the work looks good – wide ranging in all ways as an open exhibition should be – and there is an online posting of work, and I think there will be a video tour when it’s completely done. 

Next thing I do is cut a new piece of paper from the roll and soak it to flatten while I busy myself with the domestic and drink the tea. I quite enjoy these moments. The mechanics and arrangements of my room and my thoughts. The preparation and anticipation. I need to be a bit warmer before I start drawing. In the cold winter months, my arthritis spreads to my drawing fingers and they lock, seize up a bit, so they have to be warm, moisturised, and massaged, and wriggled about. Limbering up for the sedentary artist.

Up to now, I’ve had the Drawing Songs recordings all mixed up and playing while I draw, waiting for something to strike me. This morning as I listen, one particular song (incomplete, but the bones are there) lands… a particular line, a chord progression, over which the melody floats and dips. I decide that this will be today’s drawing music. Just this one track, on repeat.

It’s probably a good job I’m the only one in the building, because this would be really irritating for everyone else! I do wear headphones if people are about, but I don’t have bluetooth ones, so movement is a bit limited (flash of inspiration, I have funding, I could actually buy some!) But today I play it loud in the room, on repeat, while I draw. 

There’s a sweet spot… a moment of complete stillness when everything just works.  An almost out of body experience where my ears/brain/eyes/hand are connected… and something new emerges from the end of my nib… the ink starts to follow the words and the music seemingly without any interference from me. I know this, because I’m watching from a seat on top of the step ladder.

Review of the Year… a long read… sorry… get some tea and biscuits first maybe?

2020… yes… it’s been a bit crap really hasn’t it, generally? But I don’t want to write a review about a virus, my fury at the government and what hasn’t been done… what I haven’t done… I wanted to look at the sweep of the year for me… what has happened, what I’ve done, and how I have felt about it. And then maybe a tentative look forward?

The innocent(ish) days of January, I was feeling a bit low. I do usually in January anyway, like many people. I had spent most of 2019 trying to apply for ACE funding. Four attempts in 2019. The final of that year being rejected in the week before Christmas. Suffice to say I was feeling weary from it all. I decided to forget about it until Mid January to give myself some recovery time, to re-engage with my practice, which naturally had suffered a little while all that form filling was going on. I found space in a description of the creative process from J K Rowling of all people. The well crafted project draws from a lake of inspiration, then spends time being worked at in the shed. Some projects are in need of more shed, some need another dip in the lake. 

Despite feeling the analogy fitted me quite well, by February I was feeling a real lack of inspiration and motivation. I decided to give ACE one more go, before a complete rewrite was necessary. So I pulled together whatever personal resources I had left in me and submitted another form. Three days before the decision was due, I received a letter saying that all project funding had been halted in order to respond to the needs of the arts community in the fast developing Covid-19 crisis. I descended even further. I was feeling my age (and more) and was feeling a need for connection and mutuality that was about to be pulled from underneath me.

(Be Careful What You Wish For)

In March the goalposts moved and we realised life was going to have to change rapidly, and probably for a long time. I brought home lots of equipment and materials, took over the dining room in an attempt to kid myself I could carry on as usual. I couldn’t, of course. 

In an attempt to retrieve that sense of connection, I went round 12 of the houses closest to me, dropped a card through the door to invite people to join a neighbourhood WhatsApp group, in case we needed each other in the coming weeks. Most people joined, and we found a sense of community we hadn’t had before. I offered my services as an art teacher to anyone who had children, and offered a goody bag of materials if needed. As a throw away note in brackets I said I could supply to interested adults too. Every household in the group had a pack of stuff… they all used some of it, some used all of it. Some of the brave ones posted photos of what they had done. It was lovely. Buoyed by success, I then started up a Facebook group for artists who draw. That’s been great too… a real fellowship… company… reassurance.

But by the end of April I was feeling conflicted with the work… my thoughts being about touch, in an environment where touch had become a taboo. There was a real and a figurative disconnect. I reverted to my sketchbook, found writing hard, and felt an all-pervading sadness that sat on my chest. I cried frequently, without obvious provocation.

By May I was really missing the band, and the singing. 

I dismantled the oldest garden shed that had been the start of the merging of art and music in my life. A sad farewell. The work coming off the dining table was morphing slightly. I had a financial boost from the Arts Council Emergency response fund, which really gave me a psychological boost and I decided that whenever they reopened the funding, I’d be ready to slam in a new, rewritten application. So that’s what I worked on, alongside other bits of drawing. 

In June, when restrictions eased a little I felt confident to head back into the studio, and gradually returned all the materials I had brought home, returning the dining room to the domestic. I had started to write again, and had a set of lockdown lyrics to send out to the guys. Over all this time, I have actually written quite a few things… but after a period of blank sheets… it took a while to get going and then, once I got going, to write lyrics that said a little bit more than “I’m shut in the house and I hate it”. 

Once back in the studio, I began to question my processes again, readdress my rules of engagement. I changed tack, changed materials and set up a few diversionary tactics.

In July, my new funding application was taking shape. Having a smaller sum from ACE had enabled me to undergo a certain amount of research, and a bit of soul-searching too. I felt the new project, although in some ways leading on from the old, felt fresh and exciting. I talked about leaving space to grow. Leaving space for the collaborator, the co-writer, the viewer and the listener. I zoomed with artists and musicians and began at last to feel I could get somewhere, that I could still work.

In amongst all this, we started to get ready to put our house on the market. Madness eh? I sorted out materials, and gave them away to other artists, (even sent some to Sweden!) schools, art groups. I sold some old work, and took loads to the charity shops. July made space, and I finished my application form.

After spending what seemed like years trying to convince myself that the song is a drawing and a drawing is a song, at last, the Arts Council agreed with me, and said that Drawing Songs could be funded. I cried about that too. Relief, joy, sadness, worry, a little fear and a little bit more hope… This was an endorsement for my efforts, a validation and a real boost emotionally, professionally and oh my god yes, FINANCIALLY! Wonderful wonderful ACE!

September saw me dig in. I organised, zoomed some more, emailed and phoned.

October saw the re-emergence of my work ethic. I had a wonderful, socially distanced session in the gallery with Sarah Goudie, and lots of drawings and bits of music in progress. I wanted to mark a starting point for the project. I also invited in Laura Rhodes for a photo/video shoot, just to assess where I was and where I wanted to be, and how I envisaged getting there. I thought carefully about the importance of the right collaborator. I’ve been very lucky, especially musically. And this time round with Michael Clarke as producer/engineer and co-writer seems to be right on point. I am still missing the band terribly. But this project will see me at last find and acknowledge my own musical voice, acknowledge the sadness of it too.

November was brilliant. Music files pinged across the internet back and forth as we started work on this pile of sounds and words. I am thrilled with Michael’s input. He has understood my ideas and put things together beautifully. It isn’t the same as working in the same room. But it will do for now, it has its advantages, and when we eventually get into the studio together – his and mine – we will have a packed agenda. I start to realise what my job description is here, as prompted by Laura’s question… it’s a huge curation… how do I put these elements together to make something more than the sum of its parts (I often nod at Aristotle in this way)

In December, Michael and I take a break for children, Christmas, and to be honest a bit of recovery from the whole damn year, with a brief to reconvene in January. I wallow in the domestic. I bake and clean. I let myself draw bees, take risks, record the sounds of rain on the car roof, of leaves and snow underfoot… I pack up some books, and get ready to move house in January (crosses fingers and touches wood)

In my head, January’s plan is to spend time concentrating on sound, rhythm and melody. I have the words.

My hopes are that with a vaccine, we will tentatively be able to get into the gallery and the studio and will carefully start to build on all these ideas hothoused in times of lockdown. There are some bloody good songs waiting, and some bloody big, amazing drawings!

Happy New Year all!

Exx

PS… 2021 is my tenth year of blogging! 

Here’s the thing about money. And the lack of it.

It inhibits and encourages risk. Risk makes for interesting work. Risk makes failure. From failure comes growth.

Take the large scale paper drawing, and my subsequent expensive paper habit: If you don’t have much money, like I don’t usually, you have to save up for it, then order it, at just over £100 a time. But then it is a precious resource, so you are careful with it. Or you don’t use it until you are SURE. Sure is a dreadful state for an artist… for me anyway… because I am also lazy and will fall into easy patterns of behaviour where the work ends up looking pretty. Skillful, yes, but pretty, and SAFE. But the thing is, when I take my nib loaded with ink to the expensive paper (300gsm Bockingford watercolour paper if you are interested) it behaves differently to when I use it on the cheaper paper. Therefore the drawings are different. 

So… wind forward… the ACE grant lands in my bank account and the first thing I do is buy another load of paper. And I have the money to buy more as and when I need it. Suddenly, I don’t need to be so precious, so I start taking more risks with the ink, paint, pens and brushes, and squirts of water, and pencils too. I can experiment more freely, knowing there is more if I mess it up. Being able to take the risks has paid off.

But the converse can also be true, for me, and I have observed in other people. If you have a disposable income, you don’t enter the state of “What the hell can I do with old newspaper and charcoal and a bottle of gravy browning?” (substitute your own materials of non-choice here). The newspaper/charcoal/gravy browning scenario also allows risk. Approached from the other side, out of necessity.

The urge to create is irresistible. But it follows a cycle of boom and bust, risk and security, confidence and terror. 

At the moment, I am in a position of relative (for me) wealth, a time when I can take risks, and I lurch from the confidence to just do it, to the terror of “what the fuck is this??” And a resigned “well that was £20 worth of paper down the drain!” Which is always coupled with a sense of guilt about being wasteful.*

I’ve started getting scratchier with the old nibs… and I’ve taken a bit of sandpaper to the drawing… I’m a bit of a materials and methods purist, so this does hurt a bit…

*although I have discovered that the expensive paper will take a bit of a scrub, and will dry flat on my table over a weekend, so I can actually use it for another bit of ink-based jeopardy on Monday morning!