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There’s a lovely high white corridor wall just outside our studio, and Sarah suggested I put some work up.

To be frank, I could do with selling something. Not just for the money, but also as I am drowning in work, and rapidly running out of storage space. We had a discussion about what was the purpose of me putting things on the wall, as some sort of post-post-graduate show, or to sell? The two aren’t mutually exclusive of course, but if I’m doing the former, it becomes more difficult to hang older work, and justify its place. However, as I am doing the latter, I need to find a way of showing mixed work, without being such an arse about it.

So, I gather together a load of stuff from under the spare bed and out of the loft. Now we’re not talking ancient monuments here, we are possibly talking about the last three or four years. I group it all on the studio floor in “bodies”… This is one body of work, for the joint show “One” (with Bo Jones)… This is from “Are You Listening?”… This was from this, that was from that… And I was getting twitchy and dissatisfied. But this is why you need someone around you who will challenge that. Why can’t this shirt go with that drawing? Why can’t that stitched piece go with that one? Sarah started shuffling the work around the floor, unfettered by my work chronology, she could see connections that I hadn’t, because basically it hadn’t occurred to me. Of course I know that my work has common themes, but my grouping of items uses a very particular set of personal criteria. Because Sarah doesn’t have that list, she was much freer. I started to see things differently, and weirdly I started to like things again. Work that I was ready to dismiss, and put on the reject pile, suddenly came to life when put next to a newer piece. Miraculous! The layered bra drawings started to relate to the altered children’s clothes… Moth eaten vintage patchwork related to the mending of a child’s dress I completed a couple of weeks ago.

Having regrouped and reassessed, and fallen back in love with some of the old work, I set about reframing, or in some cases, just taking out of a frame, ironing, re-mounting, and tidying up, polishing glass etc. I attached new mirror plates, touched up white paint here and there, and now they are ready to hang. Now it isn’t rocket science is it?… but the act of refreshing the work in frames, and the two garments I have chosen to accompany them, has made me respect my old work more. It has made me see that these pieces are still relevant, still worthy of regard and discussion in a new setting.

The new setting is an excuse to get the work out, show people what I’m about, and actually, showing not just the new stuff, but the slightly older work alongside it, show people who don’t know me what I’m doing, how I think. As I look at these little piles of almost curated works, I find I’m quite pleased with how it all hangs together as a new body…

This was helped I think in part, by the buzzing around in my hind-brain of the Eva Rothschild exhibition currently on at The New Art Gallery Walsall. She choreographs the work, putting new with older work, in new combinations… Fresh views… New relationships…

I must really remember to look at my practice and the work it produces, as a whole thing, not just a series of series… The connections are clear once I open my eyes!

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Talking about the objects:

Just talking about them does something to the way I handle them.

I have knitted a vest for Hans, the doll without a hand, or rather, the hand resides elsewhere…

It had to be done. Also, his head had to be mended with brown paper. The nursery rhyme ringing in my ears. I didn’t use vinegar… but somewhere in the depths of my brain there is a thread to be researched into the connection between the plastic used to make these old dolls, and acetone…

I have no idea why, other than I am compelled to do so.

He now sits proudly on top of the pile of newly-covered chairs, a soft blanket surface to take the impression of his hard, cold, plastic body.

I have made marks on these objects: lines of stitching using threads garnered from other garments; the brown paper had been written on with white ink; the knitted stitches are wobbly and uneven because I have unravelled something previously started and abandoned; the key motif, used on other things stitched with unbleached coarse linen threads; the keys that inspired it hang on the studio wall; alongside a crumpled brown paper drawing of the shirt from which the threads were pulled; a linen dress, embroidered by a different hand, has been ostentatiously repaired with the patch from a different garment, whose threads have also been used on the unworn coat… and so it moves on…

The material links are clear, I have even noted an unusually muted colour palette (for me). The limited material choices are part of this family too.

The methodology is also connected: crumpling, reusing, unravelling, repairing… adding another mark…

But I am cautious about going too far…“avoid tautology!” says the echo of Henry Rogers repeatedly in my ear… trouble is, if you don’t know what you are saying, how do you avoid saying it twice? And there are other ways of speaking… words are insufficient perhaps…

So I cradle Hans in my arms, smooth the surface of the child’s chair and gently prop him on it. The movements are signifiers too. But what is being signified?

Probably that I’m an old bat that talks to dolls and pigeons and needs to get out more.

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The isolated artist is a myth. Impossible.
(If you have evidence to the contrary, do tell)

It is only by talking to other artists that you develop.
(Talking to non-artists is good too, but a different beast, to perhaps be discussed in a different post.)

I now share a studio with Sarah Goudie. Our conversations range from the ridiculous chatting with resident pigeons, to the theories and sensibilities that drive us in our various ways to make marks.
Both types of interaction are welcome. We both have a highly developed sense of the silly.
It is inspiring to delve deeper, gleaning insights from the other artist into what I might actually be doing.

Yesterday I spent the day in my studio with Dr Jacqueline Taylor (she worked bloody hard for the title so I shall use it at every opportunity). In talking to someone else about the work, I am challenged to find the right words to describe my process, my philosophy, my connections, rationale. Flimsiness and airy-fairness will not do. We are discussing a future project: we talk of process, materiality, semiotics, visual vocabulary, and searching for the possible common lexicon…
In talking like this, my work takes on a new dimension, extra layers are added to it. The things I am doing rather instinctively while on my own in that beautiful room, suddenly become clear …I know what the purpose is. I saw Jacqueline off on the train, and have spent many hours in deep thought ever since.

The evening was spent at songwriting circle. Up until very recently, ridiculously, I still looked upon my songwriting as a fanciful thing, an added-on thing. Since dismissing that, and taking on board confidently that is a very important part of my practice, I have dived in even deeper. Committing more thought and a mindfulness to that process too. Songwriting is the thing that increases my brain activity, providing opportunity for a completely different sort of intellectual process. I have often mentioned the meditative state that occurs during stitching or immersive drawing. My brain wanders off on its own, making connections previously unknown. Songwriting is nowhere near that, it is completely the opposite. In songwriting I am TOTALLY in that moment, unable to wander off and think about whether we have enough bread for tomorrow’s breakfast… There is no room for any other sort of thinking. I can listen to the piano chords played expertly by Bruford Low, and hear additional suggestions for lyrics and harmony from Nicki Kelly. When I concentrate on these chords, I can really hear, and now, after a couple of years practice, able to sing a topline over it. I hear it, and have now got the confidence to sing it, without fear of making a fool of myself. I am also pretty fast at writing the words, that scan, that pick out just the message I’m looking for.
I absolutely love it. It’s fast, and furious, when you are in the right group of people. Nearly better than sex. It is also exhausting, in that wired and buzzy adrenalin fuelled way. Monday nights leave me with a big grin on my face.

Today, I’ve had lunch with Carol Wild at BCU, discussing all manner of things… Now colleagues, she was once my MA tutor, who had the often dubious pleasure of marking my essays. She remarked on how much she enjoyed reading my blog and how much my writing had improved in the last four/five years. It suddenly occurred to me that what has happened is that the blog is even more integrated into my practice than it ever was, but that actually, very interestingly, my songwriting has had an effect on my blog…

In terms of structure, I now think that when I write the blog I have a greater awareness of rhythm. That my verses shouldn’t be too long. I should use interesting words, include metaphor. It should have humour and/or a bit of weirdness for the middle eight.

The the final verse should somehow reprise what has gone before, make connections.
The connections I have made in the last couple of days have pushed things on a bit further.
I couldn’t do that on my own, without conversation, laughter, music, reflective thought.

As the pigeons coo above me, and I contemplate what they might add to the recording of the song, I cannot help thinking how bloody lucky I am.

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I spend quite a bit of my time talking to artist teachers, and artists with other jobs, about the connections between life and practice, and having to make time for the practice. There is the notion that an extra slot of time has to be found, at the sacrifice of something else, in order to make art, to be an artist. My philosophy over the last ten years has grown into the idea that there is no separation, and that this state is to be aimed for…

This morning I have made some chocolate orange cookies.

(Oooh…. I shall include the recipe below so you can make them too!)

As I smash the softened butter into the sugar, and beat hell out of it, I enter a state of reverie:

The last time I made these particular cookies I was still working in school. I often baked for my colleagues, any excuse to make something into a special occasion. Mothering. Nurturing.

I start thinking about my own mother’s penchant for baking, and the fact it was an activity we joyfully did together when I was a child, and we swapped recipes as I became an adult and moved away from home, visits accompanied by the latest recipe to be tasted and judged, on taste, and frequently whether it was worth the hassle. Anything more than two bowls and two spoons considered a “Faff”, the taste of which had to compensate for the effort.

As I now rapidly approach the age that my mother was when I got married, I see the baking from different perspectives. I was the baby of the family, 8 yrs younger than my closest sibling. With two growing men, and one very strong hard-working agricultural worker in the household, calories and carbohydrates were important. My equally hard working mother was charged with the duty to provide for this. I am now aware that the earning capacity of my parents probably was not that high. I wasn’t then. Blissfully unaware! The only thing that made me think was that Jessica P. had her gingham dresses from Marks and Spencer, and mine were home made. My mum managed to spin this into a tale of how sorry I should be for Jessica because her mum was incapable of making hers. Don’t get me started on itchy home knit cardigans!

Potatoes, bread, cakes, home grown veg were plentiful. I managed to grow big and strong, very well fed thank you. Being fed well was a synonym for love. Mothering. Nurturing.

My art practice has grown directly from this, my “career” in a wide range of settings, has always had an element of nurturing, care, education, even when I resented and rejected education for a while. As soon as I had my own sons, their nurturing, education, experience of the world was paramount. I truly believe now that they were my art practice then. I thought about the world through them, about what sort of adults they should be. The experiences I provided for them were not of the generic Marks and Spencer’s variety, but the home knitted variety. Parties were at home, with jelly, not at McDonald’s with “happy” meals (sorry, can’t do it without quotation marks).

Since my sons have both reached adulthood, and now both parents and parents-in-law have all died, my art practice seeks to examine this relationship, the effects we humans have on each other, and how we are in the world. The baking of chocolate and orange cookies, my examination and rumination of my childhood memories is therefore all part of that practice. The memories are possibly skewed by later experiences, and no doubt remembered differently by my family, but those differences are interesting don’t you think?

My “career” (actually, I could happily remove those quotation marks if you consider a different meaning of career. I have careered about, crashing into people and experiences until coming to an exhausted pause…) My career then, has been so far, one of helper, parent, carer, mentor, teacher, partner, friend. My career and my art practice is always about the relationships… the mothering and nurturing, and sometimes the lack of that.

So, as I talk to new students about where they locate their practice, I encourage them to look at the place they are already in. There is evidence there of the makings, they just have to recognise, acknowledge, and publicly state which are the important bits to them. That…. that’s the tricky bit.

CHOCOLATE ORANGE COOKIES
(one bowl, two spoons)

250g butter – softened
50g caster sugar
100g light brown sugar
300g self-raising flour
2- 4 tablespoons milk
1 Terry’s chocolate orange chopped, but not too small

Preheat over to 180 deg, or 160 deg in a fan oven, Gas 4
Beat hell out of the butter and sugar, with wooden spoon.
Add the flour, with 2 spoons of milk, adding more if required to bring the dough together.
Add the chocolate and stir in till evenly distributed.
Break off pieces of dough about as big as a golf ball, you should get about 24
Bake for 8-10 mins, keep an eye on them at the end, as they can suddenly turn to the dark side!

This cookie dough is really good, I have substituted the choc orange for all manner of fresh and dried fruit, nuts, and different chocolate and chunks of fudge/toffee too… or just had them plain, if the cupboard is bare!

mother… nurture…

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As a wet-behind-the-ears sixteen year old, recently freed from grammar school, as they didn’t want me cluttering up the sixth form, I trudged up the hill from Hereford railway station to the Art College at the top.

Because I had been a pain in the bum school pupil, I came away with the bare minimum O levels to enable me to get there, but not do a foundation course. That was for the cleverer people who had paid attention in geography, instead of drawing maps of fictitious places. So having also been a pain in the bum primary school pupil who could read before she got there, I decided books were my thing and I was going to do illustration, so enrolled on a graphics and illustration course.

Turns out I was also a pain in the bum graphics student, as I fulfilled the year’s briefs in the first term… and having resorted to my favourite boredom relieving tool of disruption, it was decided I should do the Foundation Course as I would be more challenged. I look back at this now with a wry smile. I was as a child/young person, the sort that would be my favourite sort of pupil when I became a teacher…

That was a bit of a detour, as what I really was going to write about was graphic design.

I’m doing a little bit at the moment, and I’m really enjoying it. I do a bit here and there, usually for my own projects, because I am always a pain in the bum client for anyone else. I wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but I’m finding that all my old obsessions are coming back to haunt me.

I have very particular requirements when it comes to font choice, alignment, layout, colour…

and what I find is that I like it if it looks like no one has actually designed it. Plain, simple, clean lines. Perfect alignments, even borders… I can usually spot something that is out, a mile off!

I cannot bear twiddly bits.

As I reflect on this, I realise these tastes manifest themselves across my practice:

I like crisp line drawings.

I like simple stitching (see a previous post about not doing fancy embroidery)

I’m not keen on unnecessary embellishments.

And as I reflect further, I realise I don’t like frilly songs either. I love that editing process of stripping things back, and building up again… questioning what is added…

I’ve just sent my preliminary/draft designs to Nicki Kelly for her perusal…

As a design for a logo for a project for visually impaired people, to be used by a visually impaired project manager, I thought I had designed something simple. A circle inside a square with white text on a black ground. Nicki’s feedback stripped it back further “Can it be a simpler font, that one is a bit blurry? And can it just be a square without a circle?”

Yes it can.