Threads

It would be easy to keep steam-rollering ahead. Sometimes it’s more difficult to hit the brakes and take a pause. Pauses can be fraught with danger and confrontation. This year has very much been a case of “keep on drawing, keep on drawing, keep on drawing”. (The last three years perhaps? Who’s counting?) God forbid I should take a pause for thought, examine my thoughts and either be overwhelmed by them, or possibly worse, discover I have none!

I have become scared of the literal. Is this a thing? I escaped the figurative, to the abstract, and yet I’m called to the metaphorical and the symbolic. In amongst my abstract drawings, 2D and 3D, I found myself drawing bees. I wrote a song heaped with metaphor  titled ‘Undertaker Bees’ and since then can’t stop. Swarms of them are beginning to take over my sketch book. They are contained there safely so far… but I can feel them starting to push against me. At the moment I am at the stage where I can’t decide whether to let them out and crawl all over, or to keep them in until I know what they are for. I think they are there… at the moment at least… as a placeholder, like the turning hourglass of the computer screen… waiting… giving me time to think. Filling the pause so I don’t get too scared maybe. Who knows…

I am reluctant… extremely reluctant… to include anything figurative in my large drawings. As soon as I do that all is lost. Especially if I do so before I know what they are for. Because then all I will see is the bee. And then I will get “oh what lovely bees!” the whole damn time. These are not drawings about bees. The bees are separate. I do wonder what they are for though… maybe I should let them out, just do one big drawing with hundreds of bees then leave it at that. Constrained by the edges of just one large piece of paper?

I have learned to trust myself. That somewhere in my brain there is a reason for them. But I don’t trust myself yet to talk to other people about them. If they get out into a gallery I want to know what they are. So that when I do get the “lovely bees!” Comment I can challenge it. 

I have become scared of the pause then? I am industrious, the metaphorical bee, I busy myself in the studio. Time for a bit of an inventory:

I’ve got some drawings I like.

I’ve got some pieces of wire drawings I like.

I’ve got some songs/sounds/lyrics I like.

(by “like” I mean I feel they have some value)

I’ve got a lot more drawings and songs that I don’t like, but they enabled me to find what I did like.

My brain is a little foggy these last few days. I think there’s an element of lockdown fatigue. I grieve for a life not being lived how I wanted it. As I’m sure we all are. I feel unsettled… twitchy… sad… bewildered and a little bit pointless.

I think I’ll draw some more bees until I get over myself and it passes. As I am sure it will.

I don’t know if I’m quite ready to do the end of year review… but in preparation I have glanced through my year of blogging to get a feel for the year. There are the obvious Covid-19 related things, but not as much as I thought there would be, and it’s mostly related to how it has affected the work.

I have only started doing this review thing in recent years. I never felt the need for it, or saw the value of it. I have started to though. I hate New Year celebrations, but I think it is good to take a period of time, an anniversary, and look back, in order to move forward. So why not in the winter, when the days are short and we are biologically inclined to be inward-looking and a little melancholy? We prepare ourselves for the drawing out of days in January, and for signs of life and growth. So I give in!

What I noticed when skimming through was that my constant themes are still there. For which I am glad… because I had wondered with such a massive shift of materials and method, whether they would fall away in some way. And also, given the global pandemic, that forbids touch, how can I make work about touch? And yet I have. I think… to me… some of the work is closer, more intimate… more intense… precisely because we are physically absent…

The music I am making, the words I am writing… the work is feeling close and intense and tight… like there may be an explosion… a climax even? (steady on!)

I can feel my breathing in this…

To come back down to earth, to touch the soil, the water and the trees for a moment, this has been made possible through funding from ACE. The strain and determination of 2019 and the first 8 months of 2020, the closing down, the restrictions, I now feel free. Whatever the restriction politically, physically, socially, emotionally… I feel totally free to think and work and breathe. The touch I feel with my skin might be missing, or less, but I feel it in so many other ways. The communication through art is bigger than ever these days. I feel so connected to some of the people I live and work with. I feel privilege and honour and without getting in any way religious (because I’m not) I do feel somewhat blessed.

Thank you to all those I have touched, and have been touched by.

Cause and Effect.

(That probably was my end of year review, now I read it back)

When Laura asked me “What’s the job description?” In the short video she made to launch Drawing Songs, I paused and said “Thinking”… then tried to expand on that one word answer but couldn’t. And it has been bugging me a bit because it was a really good question, and one that after being given funding to do a year’s work, I should have been able to answer less enigmatically!

This week the shape of the answer has come to me. (I’m not renowned for my quick thinking in these matters.)

One of the advantages of inhabiting a studio in General Office, Stourbridge, is the large gallery space, which, when not hosting a show, can be booked and used as a project space. I can hang works up in combination and stand well back to see them properly, rather than being hung on top of each other like they are in the studio. I can also play music in the space and do the aforementioned thinking.

When Sarah and I sat there looking, listening, discussing, it was interesting that every now and again Sarah, or I, or both of us, would be stopped in our conversation by a passage of music. At the time we saw this as an intrusion and a jarring. We took it as an indication that the music was “wrong” in some way.

But that wasn’t right. If the music doesn’t stop us, draw us away from conversation, what is it for? What is its job description? I could argue that unless it is drawing attention to itself in some way, it is failing. Might as well play it in a lift.

The problem is at the moment of course, that the music we played isn’t done. It’s a bunch of sound sketches, haphazard, patchy, it’s not a finished piece of writing of words or music, it’s not been arranged, mixed or mastered. This music hasn’t been curated as a whole piece within itself, let alone as part of the installation. That’s why things jar. That’s why things jump out where they shouldn’t.

My job, as the artist, is to make it work. One piece in particular has brought me to this. I can’t play it to you yet, but it is called Undertaker Bees and it has a jagged, percussive piece of piano (written and played by Michael Clarke) that fits the lyric perfectly, and in itself has informed several bits of drawing. (Having itself been inspired by the recordings of a charcoal drawing) Of course, as a solo piece among gentleness and recordings of ambient sounds, it’s like being hit by a sledgehammer. It is my job, Laura, to decide whether being hit by this sledgehammer is what this song should do, or whether it should sneak up on us slowly before we realise what it is.

I know it’s a bit late, but I hope that answers your question?

“A New Bounce…”

In these “unprecedented” weird times, when at all possible, I’ve found its a good idea to embrace the differences, to look for the positives that come out of having to do things differently, rather than bemoan the fact that I can’t do things the way I had planned/wanted.

There’s no doubt that by now, I’d have had a couple of sessions in the recording studio, and would have got a physical thing or two to say yes, done that, tick! We would have had a wonderful time, I know this because we always have. Is it odd that I enjoy being in a very small room not much bigger than a phone box, wrestling with the combination of glasses, headphones, earrings (quickly despatched to the depths of the handbag)?

But Michael’s studio has been closed to visitors for a while now. It is small, but perfectly formed, and in the small gap between lockdown 1 & 2 he commandeered his sitting room to create a separate, video-linked safe space for artists to record, with him in the control room. Brilliant.

But here we are again, unable to do even that for a while.

So what have we done instead? Embraced the unusual, just to see what happened. We have sent files backwards and forwards: sounds, loops, lyrics, melodies, chords, and even a few song sketches too. We have some bones on which to build. It is slow. But actually I am starting to see the advantage of slow.

In the studio with Michael I am a bit star-struck and blinded by the science, flashing lights and scary buttons. I definitely defer. Because he knows all this stuff right? That’s why he is in on this, because he knows this stuff. But here is the interesting thing: given the time conferred upon me by being sent things via email or drop box, I can think. My musical thinking is slow. He knows this and he doesn’t rush me, but still, in a separate studio, without pressure of time, I relax into it more and think it through. I will confess here that I probably listen to things he sends me probably 100 times. Can you imagine how time consuming and tedious that would be? Anyway… away from the time pressure and the embarrassment of feeling stupid and singing out of tune I can be exactly that! In my own studio, after listening 100 times, I can start to hesitantly pick out melody and harmonies from the chords. I can try them out, record them, out of tune mumblings and out of time, until I get it to the point where I feel ok to send him a recording. I have loved being able to do this, to give myself the time, so that when we do get together, our time will be spent differently, possibly more focussed because I’ve already done the workings in the margin. (I’ll let you know)

A few miles away in Kings Heath, I suspect similar things are happening… Michael sent me a photo this morning of him in his studio, with headphones, and casserole dish, and drumstick with adaptations… he has been playing, and improvising, because I had said I thought a bell would be a good idea for one of the songs. While I am listening and mucking about with the words and the singing, he’s walking round his house, bashing stuff with a stick. He has taken on my concepts and ideas and is diving in too. Love it!

I love it when I get a text saying “There’s a new bounce in the dropbox”

I’ve spent years expounding the value of play for children.

Adults need it too.

Never has life been so tangled up in my head and my work.

I’ve always been interested in the touch between people, the physical, emotional, psychological… the effect one person has on another… and now, in its lack we can all feel how much we need it. 

It’s in everything I do here in the studio, on my own. That exploring of touch, and its absence. From the stroke of the ink or pencil on the paper, to how one voice reacts to another in harmony… material textures and the textures of sound that take me from one verse to the next.

There is grief and bereavement in every day… for the life we are no longer able to live, to the real tangible grief of lost friends and families. There’s tension. We are stretched and pulled and putting on brave faces and are filled with bravado (at our peril).

I am preferring these old nibs I’m drawing with now. Their path over the paper is perilous. A scratch, a blot, a bleed and a run could happen at any moment. If it were a film it would say “mild peril” on the certificate. The new pens I bought were great, I am still using them, but they glide easily, an even delivery of ink gives them a confidence and a consistent swagger. The old pens were given to me by a friend, the wife of a wonderful art teacher who is no longer with us… his equipment was stored and stacked high, gathering dust. I kept them for ages unused myself until very recently. And now they are perfect. Sometimes they do glide effortlessly over the paper, time and time again, delivering the ink in a steady flow. But much of the time they do not. I feel I am coaxing them into behaving well for me. But I don’t mind if they can’t quite manage it. We are drawing together. They are part of the team. I’ve got dodgy knees. We can cope.