Two Steps Backwards…

“As Ye Sew, So Shall Ye Rip” Anon.

From the manner in which a woman draws her thread at every stitch of her needlework, any other woman can surmise her thoughts. Honore de Balzac

Reflecting on the mark making of the last entry, I felt the need to introduce an object in an attempt to begin to synthesise the 2D and 3D elements of my practice. The leaf idea was spontaneous, and suited the purpose, in that it is flatish and an organic object, which relates to my practice of interventions with organic objects.

(Fig1.) Began again with repetitive mark-making using white ink, it felt deliciously naughty and took me back to childhood. However results hinted at ancient universal patterns Aboriginal? (Fig 5 detail) And I got that weary been-here-before feeling.

If I stitch fast enough, does it count as aerobic exercise? Anon.

Where the idea to start sewing the leaves originated I don’t know except that a lot of my recent work has involved textiles and sewing in some way: http://www.ruthgeldard.com/ My first idea was to use a machine (Fig 2) but there is no setting for “leaf” tension and soon; mess began accumulating, thread started breaking and my studio looked like an unsupervised Nature Table, in frustration I moved on to hand sewing.

Really, all you need to become a good knitter are wool, needles, hands, and slightly below-average intelligence. Of course, superior intelligence, such as yours and mine, is an advantage. Elizabeth Zimmerman

It was like getting into a warm bath, the scent of the punctured leaf the delicious feel of the pink silk as it slid through the glossy leaf, sensorially satisfying (Fig 3.) Having stitched blanket style around the edge I went further and picked up the stitches and crocheted. I felt peacefully domestic with the repetitious movements of the hook.

Asking a seamstress to mend is like asking Michelangelo to paint your garage. Anon.

Having established for myself in previous work that sewing can be drawing, up to this point I was happy that I was, still “drawing” but then I went a subversive step further (Fig 4) and indulged the desire to “mend” and darn natural holes. I can’t tell you how delicious that was and how satisfying but I am not at all sure it could be classified as drawing.

May your bobbin always be full! Anon.

Mental Drawing.

It was so easy to write loftily that I was inspired to “re-evaluate my practice with a focus on drawing”, (what does that even mean?) when the time came to actually do something about it, to walk the talk, put my money where my mouth is and get off the pot, I procrastinated, not helped by the recently discovered Huffingington Post tweets, with seductive titles like: “Woman contracts plague from choking cat”, suddenly irresistible.

My drawing had become diagrammatic, almost entirely functional, a mere tool, passively subservient to my three dimensional work. I laid out ink, paper, pens and brushes and gave myself some rules like Sol Lewitt, intent on simply making marks and concentrating on the process, but first I had to read: “Tongue stuck in water bottle for eight hours.”

“After a while it became nonsensical, my mind told me I was doing a ridiculous thing.”

I took a brush full of ink and made a casual mark (fig 1) and then made another in relation to the first. It felt good. Soon my hand fell into a pattern, with easy gliding bits, fast and slow, and bits where my hand was pushing, working against the bend in the brush. After a while it became nonsensical, my mind told me I was doing a ridiculous thing. I pressed on. And then everything began to make beautiful sense, my hand, the brush, the marks.

In a deliciously meditative state the second drawing developed contours with hand pressure translating into light and shade. It was all going rather well. Cocky, I made some inkblots ala Rorschach and things began to go downhill. The tinkered with ink blots were beyond dark, verging on disturbing-I binned them.

“And then I found the pipette with all its dribbly potential and forgetting the rules managed to go completely off piste.”

I read “Causing fear and alarm with black pudding” which cheered me up enough to make drawing number 3, with a fat, square brushfull of ink and nice repetitive tonal marks. Much better. And then I found the pipette and all its dribbly potential, (fig 4) forgetting the rules I managed to go completely off piste. What came out of my brush then, almost wilfully kept turning into things: trees, water, whole forests and worryingly sperms!? Every time the figurative reared up I tamped it down, wiping out, scraping off and trying again. It all got a bit Sorcerer’s Apprentice and four hours later, filthy and knee deep in wads of manky toilet roll I gave up.

But tomorrow is another day and I will try again, once I have looked at: “Cat eats with fork”.

Precious Metal.

By Ruth Geldard.

There was no trumpet. And looking at the disparate group of five musicians setting up onstage, I thought it unlikely that one would be produced. We had obviously made a mistake, even so I felt childishly disappointed. Looking at the band members it was impossible to match them to a particular musical genre. The audience was made up of twenty-five people standing listlessly about in the too large and rather seedy venue, except for one who was already very, very drunk and busy head butting cushions.

By now two of the performers were taking off their shirts behind the drum kit, in that way that lets you know that they know you are looking. The lead guitarist with swingy Pantene hair and sporting bare legs and cute little worn out boots (with their tongues out) slipped on an elegant shirt and morphed from AC/DC into George Michael. The other guy sauntered slowly to his drums wearing only shorts and tattoos that made a kind of bra pattern on his beautiful chest. He looked about 12.

The base player looked stereotypically afro caribbean, long boned and laidback with slow graceful movements. I was sure he would sound like Rastamouse

The keyboard player looked exactly how I would imagine the tall one from Kraftwerk might look now (and I’ve checked and he does) holding himself very still, eyes staring straight ahead a hand poised enigmatically.

And then they started playing…Superstition…in heavy metal stylee…Genius.

The lead singer appeared to have become separated from his Hell’s Angel Chapter, possessing a massive Saxon head and impressive shoulders that tapered sharply into tiny Max wall legs. The long pointy beard at the end of his chin left his face with too much flesh. Big white letters on his “T” shirt said: ALMOS, which I took to be the name of the band, until he took off his jacket and I realised it actually said: ALMOST HUMAN.

And then they started playing…Superstition… by Stevie Wonder, in heavy metal stylee… Genius.

I was completely blown away by the quality of sound, my first live exposure to heavy/rock/metal. Each performer seemed cocooned in a bubble of musical sureness and at the same time respectful of everyone else’s performance, evident in the politely given physical space as they wove around each other.

And then the very, very, drunk man took over the mike and began an eerie, whale like calling. He was ever so politely and expertly, removed from the stage by the lead singer.

The crowd went wild, well, as wild as a crowd of twenty-four could…

The performance headed towards a crescendo: The laconic base guy’s fingers were now a blur of speed, the key board player a one-fingered and rapid, minimalist, George Michael was on his knees guitar howling, the Hell’s Angel was dark and sodden with sweat and the drummer hysterical. The sound became a satisfying, mutual hum made from the collaboration of all the elements. A sum of its collective parts.

And then the very, very, drunk man put his head on my husband’s shoulder, suddenly poetic in his drunkenness and cried: “There’s a devil in my soul and something wrong with the controls.”

The crowd went wild, well, as wild as a crowd of twenty-four could and I it was then that I understood that for this band the performance was everything and that they really would give their all for every audience, no matter how small, no matter how drunk.

…heavy metal has shaken me out of my comfort zone.

Which brings me back to Art, where of course the performance/process is also what it is all about. Accidentally finding heavy metal has shaken me out of my comfort zone and the band’s artistic integrity coupled with wise words from the talk: The A-Z of Surviving as an Artist, with Rosalind Davis and Annabel Tilley, has inspired me to re-evaluate my practice with a focus on drawing. I rather fell out with drawing during a recent and intense period of study favouring three dimensions over two. I need to find a way to reinstate it which feels like going backwards, but at least now I have Highway to Hell, to keep me company.

Drawings coming soon.