Waveney River Sculpture Trail 2015
http://www.waveneyandblytharts.com/river-waveney-sculpture-trail/
"Walking and wondering. Gathering materials. Retracing and layering memories. Bigod's Way 2 has been a journey, a return to a much loved home."
At the beginning of March I was thrilled to be selected as one of the artists on this trail. I know this area fairly well. The "Waymarker" and my screenprints entitled "Bigods Way" are both from a time when I had the good fortune to spend many a weekend, from 2007 to 2010, wandering the highways and byways around Bungay, Earsham, Ditchingham and Mettingham and sometimes further afield.
Walking familiar territory has a particular feel, if the walks are ongoing subtle changes get to be noticed which is a source of deep joy. And coming back to footpaths of years ago brings back memories. Moments, and the ghosts of people and animals that were my companions fall in beside me as I walk, their company still dearly held although their bodies are long gone. The past is past, there it must belong, and life must move on, but my being is witness to my past and that past gives shape to my now."
http://www.waveneyandblytharts.com/river-waveney-sculpture-trail/
"Walking and wondering. Gathering materials. Retracing and layering memories. Bigod's Way 2 has been a journey, a return to a much loved home."
At the beginning of March I was thrilled to be selected as one of the artists on this trail. I know this area fairly well. The "Waymarker" and my screenprints entitled "Bigods Way" are both from a time when I had the good fortune to spend many a weekend, from 2007 to 2010, wandering the highways and byways around Bungay, Earsham, Ditchingham and Mettingham and sometimes further afield.
Walking familiar territory has a particular feel, if the walks are ongoing subtle changes get to be noticed which is a source of deep joy. And coming back to footpaths of years ago brings back memories. Moments, and the ghosts of people and animals that were my companions fall in beside me as I walk, their company still dearly held although their bodies are long gone. The past is past, there it must belong, and life must move on, but my being is witness to my past and that past gives shape to my now."
The time I spent walking the Waveney Valley between 2007 and 2010 was potent magic. I was crazy in love and every breath I took seemed to take me closer to heaven. My companion was, I thought, a dream come true. It didn't last, and I no longer know him, so my dream come true was cut short but in that time my soul found a home. And returning, after some good while, I discovered that my boots were well rooted in the footpaths and that the air was still strangely soft and warmer than expected.
The call to artists to put forward proposals for the sculpture trail had proved too strong a call to resist. I had not returned to the Waveney valley since 2013 just after graduating when the afore-mentioned love affair finally came to an irrevocable end. Heart broken I had yearned to go back but had no reason and knew it would be senseless to go for no reason.
The sculpture trail gave me an opportunity to reconnect to a place that I loved perhaps to reconnect to parts of me that I had left there when the confusion of love gone wrong began to hit home. The Waveney valley had been a soul space, witnessing the changes in the landscape week after week, and sharing that experience had made it feel like my home, had given me a sense of belonging that I had not encountered before. I was scared to go back to re-awake feelings that could be painful but I knew that going back was also my best way forward. An opportunity, maybe, to clean out old wounds and soften scars. It seems to have been just that.
The call to artists to put forward proposals for the sculpture trail had proved too strong a call to resist. I had not returned to the Waveney valley since 2013 just after graduating when the afore-mentioned love affair finally came to an irrevocable end. Heart broken I had yearned to go back but had no reason and knew it would be senseless to go for no reason.
The sculpture trail gave me an opportunity to reconnect to a place that I loved perhaps to reconnect to parts of me that I had left there when the confusion of love gone wrong began to hit home. The Waveney valley had been a soul space, witnessing the changes in the landscape week after week, and sharing that experience had made it feel like my home, had given me a sense of belonging that I had not encountered before. I was scared to go back to re-awake feelings that could be painful but I knew that going back was also my best way forward. An opportunity, maybe, to clean out old wounds and soften scars. It seems to have been just that.
My journey began with a reconnaissance trip just before submitting my proposal. Stepping off the bus in Bungay, the place was awash with memories, good and bad, but it was also a beginning. A beginning akin to the start of any new piece of work. New work may lean back into something that I have done previously, but as it gains it's own momentum it takes on a life of it's own, it spirit may reside in what has gone before, but it's being holds it's own body independently. And so began a new life.
I have done some work over the past few years with hedgerow dyes, a small piece for the Curiovan - a touring exhibition - but more generally investigation and sampling, so I was keen to make use of my built up knowledge to make a piece that grew not just from my memories and feeling response but also physically from the land. My proposal was to re-walk the paths I had known before and also the site of the sculpture trail, to gather hedgerow dyes -leaves, petals, berries, twigs, lichen - to dye cloth which I would then roll into scrolls recording and documenting my connection to the river valley. I made small test pieces from scrap cotton, and lodged them into gaps and crevices in my garden to ascertain how structurally sound the work might be under the push and shove of weather and living outside. They seemed sound so my proposal was sent. And accepted.
My first visit to the trail site after my application was accepted was to meet the other artists and to see and make connection to the site. I had not previously had a chance to do this. We were asked to consider where we might like to place our work taking into account the semi-tame resident deer who nibble things. Two areas would be out of bounds to the deer, the lake and the river walk. My piece being textiles would be very nibble-able and Sarah Cannell, the curator, suggested that I find somewhere within one of these areas. The lake is set within a small coppiced wood. At the far end there is a bridge to a small island. Between the lake and the river walk are rough lawns and an area called the scrapes which is semi wet and home to flocks of geese. The river walk as the name suggests runs along one side of the Waveney river across which are views of meadowland and pasture. It is very beautiful. I was unable to find the right place for my work that day as it was busy and I was looking for something with quite specific qualities. I was however fairly sure that I wanted to be near to the river.
April 4th - I had noticed on my two previous visits that the alder cones were still hanging on their branches and abundant, so I went intending to collect these. Abundance is key to collecting materials from nature because if there is abundance there may be enough to spare for idle projects like dyeing. It is important to me to make as little impact on the environment as possible. Aside from that I needed to find a place for my work. I want it to be somewhere, something, that is almost unseen, a little hidden perhaps, not secret but not too obvious I suppose. It was a damp day not pouring wet but there was a light drizzle and there were many, many snails on the pathway with shells in many, many colours. There were also lots of noisy, flighty geese. The pussy willows were in full flower and the leaves on the brambles were just beginning to unfurl. I gathered a good amount of alder cones, and, as luck would have it, some fallen twigs covered in lichen. And I found somewhere to put my work.
April 21st - A day of perfect spring sunshine. The mission of the day was to collect dandelions and nettles. Before I began using local materials to make dyes I had always thought that dandelions flowered all summer but, in fact, they are seasonal like most flowers, flowering from mid to late spring and really all but done by late may/early june. It may sound dull to some people but I get very excited when I learn stuff like that. The pussy willows from my last visit were done, their short season over tho' the regular willows were in flower and smelt bitter sweet of aspirin.
The site of the trail is not part of my old walkways although the path from Bungay to Earsham is. The bus ride though is very familiar and evokes strange feelings in me, sometimes a sharp stabbing sensation in my chest, sometimes a hard lump in my throat, or a pricking of tears in my eyes. It might seem foolish to still be dwelling upon something that happened a long time ago but I rarely forget someone that I have loved, though remembering may become easier over time.
Still with my mission in mind and the sunshine and the butterflies and the birdsong and the hedgerows in flower April 21st was a day to be happy and charmed by life. I was joined on my walk by the delightful Ella who is the most tame of the deer. She graced me with a nuzzle to my hand but mostly followed at a small distance, moving closer when my back was turned and pausing if I turned around. Her favourite human seems to be Andrew Atterwill who takes care of the site and has known her since she was a fawn.
The site of the trail is not part of my old walkways although the path from Bungay to Earsham is. The bus ride though is very familiar and evokes strange feelings in me, sometimes a sharp stabbing sensation in my chest, sometimes a hard lump in my throat, or a pricking of tears in my eyes. It might seem foolish to still be dwelling upon something that happened a long time ago but I rarely forget someone that I have loved, though remembering may become easier over time.
Still with my mission in mind and the sunshine and the butterflies and the birdsong and the hedgerows in flower April 21st was a day to be happy and charmed by life. I was joined on my walk by the delightful Ella who is the most tame of the deer. She graced me with a nuzzle to my hand but mostly followed at a small distance, moving closer when my back was turned and pausing if I turned around. Her favourite human seems to be Andrew Atterwill who takes care of the site and has known her since she was a fawn.
May 13th - Up to this day I had mostly erred away from paths that very definitely belonged to another time. In part because I wanted to familiarise myself with the new space though maybe also because I was frightened of how they would make me feel. But the day came when the trust site wasn't open. I needed to carry on picking up dyestuffs and part of my proposal was to re-navigate my way around the landscape of the valley. This walk was interesting because there were lots of landmarks both physical and emotional and I knew it would test me. I had invested my heart deeply in the mud, the bark of the trees, the long distance views, the feel of the air as my body moved through it. My soul was woven into the fabric of the land. My spirit took flight in the skies. There is no shortcut through heart-break, you can't go over it, you can't go under it, you have to go through it ...
But, the sun was shining once again. I walked through Bungay to close by the housing estate on which my ex used to live. Taking a right turn on to a path that runs up a short hill and through a corn field. I noticed that the bluebells were drooping-head english bluebells and I was surprised I had not marked that information before. I went past the farm with the black dog. Around the bend, and past the woods which we used to call the robber woods - a name created on a playful day of storytelling, to the waymarker that we had noted together five years ago.
Waymarkers continue to be important to me, I guess perhaps that's why relationships, to people and places, are something I value as they offer marks in my lifetime in much the same way as something familiar might mark a physical road.
At the waymarker I sat and ate an apple. The waymarker has been rent in two which somehow seemed appropriate and a little poetic. The fields were bright yellow with oil-seed rape in full flower and the sky larks were singing. And I remembered how blissful the sound of nothing but birds and insects and weather is. I thought "it's not surprising I fell in love in a world so wonderful as this".
I kept following along the path until I hit the road and then turned to walk the concrete farm tracks back to the field and short hill. My gatherings had been thistles and alexanders and more nettles. Oh and I also saw, for the first time., a green hairstreak butterfly which felt pretty miraculous.
But, the sun was shining once again. I walked through Bungay to close by the housing estate on which my ex used to live. Taking a right turn on to a path that runs up a short hill and through a corn field. I noticed that the bluebells were drooping-head english bluebells and I was surprised I had not marked that information before. I went past the farm with the black dog. Around the bend, and past the woods which we used to call the robber woods - a name created on a playful day of storytelling, to the waymarker that we had noted together five years ago.
Waymarkers continue to be important to me, I guess perhaps that's why relationships, to people and places, are something I value as they offer marks in my lifetime in much the same way as something familiar might mark a physical road.
At the waymarker I sat and ate an apple. The waymarker has been rent in two which somehow seemed appropriate and a little poetic. The fields were bright yellow with oil-seed rape in full flower and the sky larks were singing. And I remembered how blissful the sound of nothing but birds and insects and weather is. I thought "it's not surprising I fell in love in a world so wonderful as this".
I kept following along the path until I hit the road and then turned to walk the concrete farm tracks back to the field and short hill. My gatherings had been thistles and alexanders and more nettles. Oh and I also saw, for the first time., a green hairstreak butterfly which felt pretty miraculous.
May 30th - Another trip down memory lane. Taking these walks is like cutting myself with a knife. Afterwards I cry. The tears feel like they are washing away some of the hurt, some of the confusion, some of the conflict. There is no going back. Maybe there is a split second after an ill judged decision has been made when we can fall back into a moment. Maybe doing that creates only a very slightly blur. But having missed that moment our physical bodies must continue on to the next and the next. The heart, the mind, the soul, the spirit, these are less dense and so better able to move freely back and forth, this way and that, they offer us insight, a chance to travel through time and space. Oliver Sacks wrote " we now know that memories are not fixed or frozen, like Proust's jars of preserves in a larder, but transformed, disassembled, reassembled, and recategorised with every act of recollection".
Memories, good and bad, are so potent that to leave them locked up seems sad and foolish, like money counting politicians who fail to feed the poor in order to bank a little more gold in their coffers. My work as an arts facilitator on a recovery programme has shown me how powerful it is for a person to be able to tell their own story. Our life is who we are and if we allow others to narrate our life then we are allowing ourselves to be dumb, voiceless. There are lots of fairy tales about this but I think that may be a project in waiting.
So this ramble was over Outney common and along by the river. Again, full of memories, our swimming place, the rosebay willow herb -in flower, in seed, covered in cobwebs and dew - puffballs, canoeing and so on. Today the house martins were in flight, and the gorse in flower. Amazingly I found a water-violet, a plant I had been looking for for a long time, and which the ex had offered to help me find when first we met. People who study Dr Bach's flower remedies may enjoy the irony of that small piece of information.
The weather, once again, was beautiful and my concrete aim was to pick buttercups which were plentiful and alexanders which were not. I went home with thistles and buttercups. There were clouds of blue damsel flies. Sweet curious calves. Geese with goslings. And once again deep quiet, no road sound and only a smattering of humanity.
Memories, good and bad, are so potent that to leave them locked up seems sad and foolish, like money counting politicians who fail to feed the poor in order to bank a little more gold in their coffers. My work as an arts facilitator on a recovery programme has shown me how powerful it is for a person to be able to tell their own story. Our life is who we are and if we allow others to narrate our life then we are allowing ourselves to be dumb, voiceless. There are lots of fairy tales about this but I think that may be a project in waiting.
So this ramble was over Outney common and along by the river. Again, full of memories, our swimming place, the rosebay willow herb -in flower, in seed, covered in cobwebs and dew - puffballs, canoeing and so on. Today the house martins were in flight, and the gorse in flower. Amazingly I found a water-violet, a plant I had been looking for for a long time, and which the ex had offered to help me find when first we met. People who study Dr Bach's flower remedies may enjoy the irony of that small piece of information.
The weather, once again, was beautiful and my concrete aim was to pick buttercups which were plentiful and alexanders which were not. I went home with thistles and buttercups. There were clouds of blue damsel flies. Sweet curious calves. Geese with goslings. And once again deep quiet, no road sound and only a smattering of humanity.
June 13th - This was meant to be a day of glorious sunshine in which I picked more buttercups and maybe some leaves. But it wasn't sunny at all, it was pouring with rain. So no buttercups, no gathering. However, I got a lift there and back to the site with Mike Dodd who is one of the other artists on the trail. And whilst there I also met Jacqui Jones, Meg Amstell and Sarah Cannell, our lovely curator. I'd met Mike previously at the get together at the beginning of march and it was great to have an opportunity to get to know him a little better. I only fleetingly connected with Jacqui, Meg and Sarah as I wanted to take some photos and walk along the river path so I split away to be alone, but it was nice to make eye contact, and later to share lunch with Jacqui and Mike in the kitchen and dining space of the trust building.
And I keep raving about how beautiful the area is but it says something when even soaked to the skin it shines with a light that is extraordinary. I really don't know if my pictures do it justice.
My walk began in the scrapes and I picked up some good big goose feathers, which I will use for something, drawing maybe or a head-dress of some sort perhaps. And I got to see lots of geese families with goslings ranging in age from young adolescent full feathered to not-long-hatched small and fluffy and everything in between .
We were also lucky as a group to bump into this years artist in residence and his little daughter while they were searching for Ella. His exhibition in the trust gallery runs in concurrence with the sculpture trail I believe.
And I keep raving about how beautiful the area is but it says something when even soaked to the skin it shines with a light that is extraordinary. I really don't know if my pictures do it justice.
My walk began in the scrapes and I picked up some good big goose feathers, which I will use for something, drawing maybe or a head-dress of some sort perhaps. And I got to see lots of geese families with goslings ranging in age from young adolescent full feathered to not-long-hatched small and fluffy and everything in between .
We were also lucky as a group to bump into this years artist in residence and his little daughter while they were searching for Ella. His exhibition in the trust gallery runs in concurrence with the sculpture trail I believe.
And, then, there are days of dyeing. A big cauldron with cloth and dye-stuff simmering on the hob, filling my house with smells. Smells that have a texture all of their own. Berries give warm fruit, jammy smells. Lichen is a cool damp wood. Leaves tend not to be so great, a tad like any overcooked vegetable. But dandelion petals were like just harvested hay. The scent of these materials is like a secret part of my project, something that only I know, because only I was there. Afterwards the fabric hangs on the line and seems to be less than I thought and I worry that I will not make enough to make an impressive sculpture. Then I have to remind myself that impressive is far from where I wanted my piece to be. I wanted it to reflect the beauty of that which more often goes unseen. The beauty of the unremarkable wonder that is just being. This was what I felt all those many years ago and what has sustained me all through life whenever I have fallen low or found myself lost in a world that makes me feel bad. Because life is wonderful. And I feel blessed to be alive.
July 11th & July 14th - Two trips in close succession because the first one made me doubt the direction that my work was moving in. And the second after conferring with Sarah was to see how it could be changed to make it feel the way I want it to feel. I won't go into details until it is set up and I am sure that I have put together a piece that is the best it can be.
But aside from the doubt I had two beautiful walks. I also got to meet another one of the artists, Caroline Mackenzie, and her curator helper, Louise Walker. Apologies for the run-over robin in the pictures, it was sad but also too beautiful not to document
But aside from the doubt I had two beautiful walks. I also got to meet another one of the artists, Caroline Mackenzie, and her curator helper, Louise Walker. Apologies for the run-over robin in the pictures, it was sad but also too beautiful not to document
July 26th - For two weeks I have taken myself into dreamtime, a strange place in which I meet both my demons and my angels, a place not mapped. Those who know it too will catch my meaning I think. It is a cauldron and the outcome is unpredictable.
I had thought that I would come to some kind of closure with this project. I thought that by facing head on the dreams that were dashed, the life that was discarded I would find some mark akin to a full stop. I have not. Instead I have a sense of opening which has come as a surprise and may be down to the Waveney valley healing air.
Life is a continuum, it does not stop because of me, it does not start because of me. My needs, my thoughts, my being are just one thread in amongst a million billion uncountable threads. I am not important, what a relief it is to let go of trying to be important.
These past two weeks have served to highlight my solitude, I am alone, but in that loneliness I am aware that my isolation is also a common space. A space that belongs to everyone. And in that space lies the answer to the emptiness of the human condition. We are all alone. But in understanding and accepting our solitude it is possible to get lost in the great company of universal being, we become a part rather than apart and in so doing become once again connected.
Perhaps I am waffling, creatively it's been a couple of tough weeks. I am not a natural exhibitor, I am painfully shy and showing my work brings me sharp up against that shyness and a deep lack of confidence. My hope is that my work will pass, that it will maybe meet one person or two, and that those who find it clumsy or worthless will let it pass, knowing that I am my work, that my work is me, and that I am trying to be the best that I can.
I had thought that I would come to some kind of closure with this project. I thought that by facing head on the dreams that were dashed, the life that was discarded I would find some mark akin to a full stop. I have not. Instead I have a sense of opening which has come as a surprise and may be down to the Waveney valley healing air.
Life is a continuum, it does not stop because of me, it does not start because of me. My needs, my thoughts, my being are just one thread in amongst a million billion uncountable threads. I am not important, what a relief it is to let go of trying to be important.
These past two weeks have served to highlight my solitude, I am alone, but in that loneliness I am aware that my isolation is also a common space. A space that belongs to everyone. And in that space lies the answer to the emptiness of the human condition. We are all alone. But in understanding and accepting our solitude it is possible to get lost in the great company of universal being, we become a part rather than apart and in so doing become once again connected.
Perhaps I am waffling, creatively it's been a couple of tough weeks. I am not a natural exhibitor, I am painfully shy and showing my work brings me sharp up against that shyness and a deep lack of confidence. My hope is that my work will pass, that it will maybe meet one person or two, and that those who find it clumsy or worthless will let it pass, knowing that I am my work, that my work is me, and that I am trying to be the best that I can.
August 1st - Bigod's Way 2 is beginning to take shape. Originally I had proposed scrolls but the scrolls, though sweet in themselves, felt wrong they were too tight and too solid. After much deliberation, anxiety, letting go, softening and releasing (see above), I have begun to thread the dyed fabric on to my gate. I am making a memory blanket, a piece of patchwork. Each scrap of cloth represents a moment in my life. There are many moments with my lost love and it has been nice to meditate on the sweetness of our love affair and to put the bitterness, anger and sadness a little behind me. But being given the opportunity to do this trail has also allowed me to reacquaint myself with the valley and river and to make new friends, these too are tied into my work. And the passing of the seasons, one to another, to another, to another and so on forever and ever, shifting, changing, the land following the elements, responding to whatever is. Here we are, all of us, just a small scrap of a larger whole responding to whatever is.
I have only one photo from the day because my camera batteries ran out but it's a photo of a little bull calf on the walk from Bungay to Earsham and he was so sweet I wanted to make sure his face was recorded for posterity. How lucky that I managed to get that one shot and that it came out well.
I have only one photo from the day because my camera batteries ran out but it's a photo of a little bull calf on the walk from Bungay to Earsham and he was so sweet I wanted to make sure his face was recorded for posterity. How lucky that I managed to get that one shot and that it came out well.
August 3rd - Continuing to install Bigod's Way 2 and beginning to get quite excited about how it is looking. As a shiatsu practitioner I am fairly used to "trusting the process" there are moments of doubt but experience has taught me how to hold them. However as an artist my process is still immature and so this project has tested my metal, my capacity to let go, to re-draw, to move on.
There are times when my work can drift a little, or get stuck, or lost, or else I start out on too many things at once and nothing moves forward quickly. Having a deadline, having a prospective audience puts the pressure on, forces a resolution. As a person who tends to leave things a little unfinished the finishing malarkey is a skill I am still getting to grips with. It can make for heavy work, work that is too straight, too "toe the line". It seems that Bigod's Way 2 is moving toward a looser finish, a more open end.
On July 14th when I was breaking open and working out how to adapt my proposal, I happened upon several rather beautiful patches in the road leading up to the Waveney River Study Centre. I've always rather liked patched up roads, they make me think of boro textiles and patchwork and there-in lay the solution to my confusion. Sometimes life is easy and beautiful and sometimes it isn't. There's a lot of fixing up and mending that goes on between birth and death, and learning how to make good well is an art form in itself. I feel Bigods Way 2 is a celebration of love and life. As I have been making it I have walked old paths, butted up against hard memories but also fallen back into soft and sweet ones. And re-met a landscape that makes my heart dance with joy. I hope that in the end the piece I have made offers some suggestion towards that joy. I hope that the light and happiness I have felt here in the Waveney valley comes through.
There are times when my work can drift a little, or get stuck, or lost, or else I start out on too many things at once and nothing moves forward quickly. Having a deadline, having a prospective audience puts the pressure on, forces a resolution. As a person who tends to leave things a little unfinished the finishing malarkey is a skill I am still getting to grips with. It can make for heavy work, work that is too straight, too "toe the line". It seems that Bigod's Way 2 is moving toward a looser finish, a more open end.
On July 14th when I was breaking open and working out how to adapt my proposal, I happened upon several rather beautiful patches in the road leading up to the Waveney River Study Centre. I've always rather liked patched up roads, they make me think of boro textiles and patchwork and there-in lay the solution to my confusion. Sometimes life is easy and beautiful and sometimes it isn't. There's a lot of fixing up and mending that goes on between birth and death, and learning how to make good well is an art form in itself. I feel Bigods Way 2 is a celebration of love and life. As I have been making it I have walked old paths, butted up against hard memories but also fallen back into soft and sweet ones. And re-met a landscape that makes my heart dance with joy. I hope that in the end the piece I have made offers some suggestion towards that joy. I hope that the light and happiness I have felt here in the Waveney valley comes through.
August 7th - The final day of setting up, although a very little further tweaking may be necessary. There were cows on the path of my usual walk from Bungay to Earsham, I have a deep terror of cows unless there is a fence between me and them, so I carried on along the main road and then walked along the other side of the river.
Something magical happens when a habit is broken, even a small habit. It's changes the shape of things, the light, the angles, the way something feels. What was taken as a rule has been broken. Routine raises a fear in me, on one hand it can be comfortable and seemingly safe, but on the other hand it can be stifling and claustrophobic, and I wrestle with relying upon the security it seems to offer because relying on things staying the same contravenes my inner awareness that staying the same is not possible.
So my short walk on the "wrong" side of the river, coupled with a slightly earlier start, woke me up a little, nudged open my senses, and gave me a different perspective. So by serendipitous chance I was given the perfect place to come from for my third day of on-the-ground making.
Something magical happens when a habit is broken, even a small habit. It's changes the shape of things, the light, the angles, the way something feels. What was taken as a rule has been broken. Routine raises a fear in me, on one hand it can be comfortable and seemingly safe, but on the other hand it can be stifling and claustrophobic, and I wrestle with relying upon the security it seems to offer because relying on things staying the same contravenes my inner awareness that staying the same is not possible.
So my short walk on the "wrong" side of the river, coupled with a slightly earlier start, woke me up a little, nudged open my senses, and gave me a different perspective. So by serendipitous chance I was given the perfect place to come from for my third day of on-the-ground making.
August 7th - The great thing about making on site, surrounded by nature is that it allows me to become a part of the place. In this way the sounds and smells and sights become a part of what I am making. The wren chit-chitting, the huge, fantastic dragon flies batting back and forth, the fluffy black caterpillar that appeared suddenly amongst my belongings and then moved too fast to be photographed, the butterflies and small unremarkable bugs, the whistles and calls and songs of birds unseen, the beautiful long legged grey spider that stayed still for a while on the fence post on the day I had no camera, an embroidered moment, all these I note as I am quietly tying in the fabric strips, one by one, step by step, breathing in, breathing out, time passing, life passing ...
And then, "c'est fini".
And then, "c'est fini".
Prayer Wall 2013 - 2014 & ongoing
http://beccajiclifford.blogspot.co.uk/
This is a self directed project that I began in April 2013 as a response to the horrific Rana Plaza factory building accident in Dhaka, Bangladesh. My hope was to realise it in a public space as a temporary memoriam, or testament, to the many people that were killed or injured. But, despite goodwill from the owners of the wall I had hoped to use, it's status as a boundary wall to a listed building meant that I was unable to get planning permission. So I used my own garden wall.
I began by pushing small pieces of cloth into the gaps in the mortar. As the soft crumpled pieces filled the lines between the bricks it was interesting to notice how they connected. Some were held apart where the mortar remained and seemed to be reaching out to each other. Some sat gently wedged together, a united line of ruffled edges. I tried not to disturb the moss and wall germander that had already found homes in the wall and this seemed to fit well with my prayers for peace and harmony.
http://beccajiclifford.blogspot.co.uk/
This is a self directed project that I began in April 2013 as a response to the horrific Rana Plaza factory building accident in Dhaka, Bangladesh. My hope was to realise it in a public space as a temporary memoriam, or testament, to the many people that were killed or injured. But, despite goodwill from the owners of the wall I had hoped to use, it's status as a boundary wall to a listed building meant that I was unable to get planning permission. So I used my own garden wall.
I began by pushing small pieces of cloth into the gaps in the mortar. As the soft crumpled pieces filled the lines between the bricks it was interesting to notice how they connected. Some were held apart where the mortar remained and seemed to be reaching out to each other. Some sat gently wedged together, a united line of ruffled edges. I tried not to disturb the moss and wall germander that had already found homes in the wall and this seemed to fit well with my prayers for peace and harmony.
Spring was followed by a long hot summer, and autumn and then a wet winter. I left the wall untended. It was remarked upon by visitors and I was aware that the cloth was fading and the lines seemed to be less defined. At the end of March 2014 I thought I would take a closer look. Firstly I noticed a few of the cloth pieces had fallen to the floor and then as I investigated further I found more and more buried in the leaves and twigs at the base of the wall. I decided to refill the gaps that had come about with fresh pieces of cloth. I still had plenty of the same blue strips I had used before so I continued with those. Putting the old and the new together afforded me the chance to see how much the previous year's pieces had changed. They had weathered with the year, with the elements, and now held a new history and the marks of sunlight, damp, mud, and more.
Reconnecting with the prayer wall, I offered new prayers. Prayers for softness, for compassion, for the overlooked and vulnerable, for nature, for life. I should say at this point that I have no religion, when I speak about prayer I think of prayer as kin to my breath or my heartbeat, a natural part of my living, my being. The thoughts that go behind my prayers are simple, I hope for life to be gentle, for the weak and small to be given voice, and for the great and powerful to pause a moment and listen.
As I refilled the gaps, I realised that this wall was likely to be an ongoing project, that prayers would always be needed. That prayer is, as much as anything, a reminder to be mindful, to be aware of how actions have consequences. In a sense this has meant that the wall has become more personal, an expression of my intent. I want to remember that I am a part of a whole, no more and no less than anyone or anything else. Being a part allows me to be a part and apart, connected and separate simultaneously, it feels like a sublime constant.
I picked up the pieces from 2013 that had fallen to the floor. Some had partially rotted, some had been quite bleached, some were stained, black, or green, or brown, or even pink. Each slip of material, in a way, represented a hope, a wish, a prayer, not necessarily mine, so I washed them and ironed them and now I am working with these precious pieces so that I can offer them to be seen in another form. Fallen prayers not forgotten.
As I refilled the gaps, I realised that this wall was likely to be an ongoing project, that prayers would always be needed. That prayer is, as much as anything, a reminder to be mindful, to be aware of how actions have consequences. In a sense this has meant that the wall has become more personal, an expression of my intent. I want to remember that I am a part of a whole, no more and no less than anyone or anything else. Being a part allows me to be a part and apart, connected and separate simultaneously, it feels like a sublime constant.
I picked up the pieces from 2013 that had fallen to the floor. Some had partially rotted, some had been quite bleached, some were stained, black, or green, or brown, or even pink. Each slip of material, in a way, represented a hope, a wish, a prayer, not necessarily mine, so I washed them and ironed them and now I am working with these precious pieces so that I can offer them to be seen in another form. Fallen prayers not forgotten.
I played with the fallen prayer pieces for a while, taking in the marks and discolouration and decay that had occurred in their year exposed to the elements. I wasn't sure what to do with them. They reminded me of the japanese boro textiles especially when I laid them over each other but I wasn't sure that I wanted to make a cloth. In the end I decided to try to make a prayer book. The first book was a simple concertina book attached to the paper with a single stitch in each corner. I liked it but something was amiss. So I pasted one of the prayers onto a page out of a book of Rudyard Kipling's collected poetry. The paper was very thin and that seemed to resonate with the fragility of prayer. And the language and subject matter of the poetry seemed to fit. So I made a stitched book echoing the style old japanese account books. Given the original thought behind this project account books felt like an appropriate form. I liked the first book so I made another.
After I made the prayer books I found a longer length of the blue cloth that had also been left outside. Rather poignantly I had tied this around a tree which I wanted to have felled and like the prayers it had been outside all winter. In the spring the tree was taken down, I wasn't sure if I had done the right thing. Finding the piece of cloth I began to stitch into it, one stitch after another, each stitch became a prayer. The simple repetitive action was meditative in the same way that walking is. As I sewed in contemplation I began to make peace with myself for having the tree felled. If it was wrong it was a wrong I could not undo but I could make amends and endeavour to be very mindful in my decision making process in the future.
And so began the next stage of life for the small prayer pieces because as I stitched the long cloth I thought how it looked like a till roll and that it resembled the boro textiles which mentioned earlier even more. Boro textiles are patched and worn peasant cloth, ironically they are now much sought after and fetch high prices. But their origins are humble and they represent an ethos that is the very opposite of modern throw away culture that has created the manufacturing system which allowed the accident in Dhaka to happen. Taking the metaphor of the till roll I started to stitch into the small pieces thinking of them as like till receipts.
The notion that money or things can buy happiness seems more and more alien to me these days. It can buy comfort, but there is a point when comfort becomes greed. Living in the affluent country I am aware of that I take so much for granted : running water, electricity, free schooling, supported health care. Every time my needle penetrates the cloth I think about the need for a fairer world. Perhaps it is a utopian dream but it seems insupportable that comfort is distributed so unequally. Now my prayers are going into sewing each piece. And for next year I have begun to weather some new strips of cloth. These have been bound around an old plum tree. The binding makes me think of bandages and healing and holding. The tree is not condemned and I will take the cloths off next spring in April and begin the stitching process all over again.
And so began the next stage of life for the small prayer pieces because as I stitched the long cloth I thought how it looked like a till roll and that it resembled the boro textiles which mentioned earlier even more. Boro textiles are patched and worn peasant cloth, ironically they are now much sought after and fetch high prices. But their origins are humble and they represent an ethos that is the very opposite of modern throw away culture that has created the manufacturing system which allowed the accident in Dhaka to happen. Taking the metaphor of the till roll I started to stitch into the small pieces thinking of them as like till receipts.
The notion that money or things can buy happiness seems more and more alien to me these days. It can buy comfort, but there is a point when comfort becomes greed. Living in the affluent country I am aware of that I take so much for granted : running water, electricity, free schooling, supported health care. Every time my needle penetrates the cloth I think about the need for a fairer world. Perhaps it is a utopian dream but it seems insupportable that comfort is distributed so unequally. Now my prayers are going into sewing each piece. And for next year I have begun to weather some new strips of cloth. These have been bound around an old plum tree. The binding makes me think of bandages and healing and holding. The tree is not condemned and I will take the cloths off next spring in April and begin the stitching process all over again.
American Crafts Council Vintage Photo Project 2013
http://www.craftcouncil.org/
http://craftcouncil.org/post/vintage-photo-project-rebecca-clifford
I applied for this at the beginning of August. I barely dared to hope that my proposal would be accepted, but a few days later I got an email asking if I could tweak my requirements, and not long after that, confirmation that I would be receiving a package shortly. Just before the end of August the package arrived, twenty four 10"x 8" photographs. Photographs of rockets, crafts, innovative ideas, transport and landscape, and one of two notable wives and Mrs Rockefeller, all very exciting. Even the backs were exciting, typewritten descriptions, written notes and photographers stamps.
http://www.craftcouncil.org/
http://craftcouncil.org/post/vintage-photo-project-rebecca-clifford
I applied for this at the beginning of August. I barely dared to hope that my proposal would be accepted, but a few days later I got an email asking if I could tweak my requirements, and not long after that, confirmation that I would be receiving a package shortly. Just before the end of August the package arrived, twenty four 10"x 8" photographs. Photographs of rockets, crafts, innovative ideas, transport and landscape, and one of two notable wives and Mrs Rockefeller, all very exciting. Even the backs were exciting, typewritten descriptions, written notes and photographers stamps.
I began by copying the photos and cutting into them and painting on them. I was thinking about labyrinths and symbols, about the tarot, and using cards to tell fortunes. And about houses of cards, how easily idealised worlds fall. Images can take on iconic status, I was thinking about magazines, tumblr and pinterest, the white picket fence, the bowl of soup, the apple tree in a perfect orchard things that may represent the ideal rural lifestyle. Or the slick city apartment, the bohemian dream, the villa in the sun and so on. Clothes, holidays, partners, children all of these parts of our lives are packaged and given to us in "just-so" boxes. These fantasies are beautiful and help us to reach for the stars but are also a part of a culture that has lost it's way, lost it's ground, is destroying earth with it's greed. And yet dreams are an important part of our being for they allow us to live in hope. For me, always it is about finding a balance, building a house of cards, literally, seemed to be the perfect metaphor for the all the thoughts running through my mind.
The photographs I was sent are a part of our visual literature. In years gone by, and now too, for those that could not/cannot read, picking up sensory clues is a way of piecing together the world. Religious iconography is rich in its intelligence, backed often by music, dance or ritual it offers us all a place of comfort in good times and bad. Medieval churches in England were covered in paintings illustrating bible stories, and the pathways to heaven and hell. Similarly packs of cards have always offered images that have their own their own language which can be read by the illiterate because a person may not be able to read, but information is absorbed on many levels, our senses pick up signals and sight is one of those senses. If information is presented in a way that is easy to take in then it becomes powerful material.
The photographs I was sent are a part of our visual literature. In years gone by, and now too, for those that could not/cannot read, picking up sensory clues is a way of piecing together the world. Religious iconography is rich in its intelligence, backed often by music, dance or ritual it offers us all a place of comfort in good times and bad. Medieval churches in England were covered in paintings illustrating bible stories, and the pathways to heaven and hell. Similarly packs of cards have always offered images that have their own their own language which can be read by the illiterate because a person may not be able to read, but information is absorbed on many levels, our senses pick up signals and sight is one of those senses. If information is presented in a way that is easy to take in then it becomes powerful material.
Ideas for how to make the pack of cards came from cutting, pin-pricking. I used paint, acrylic and watercolour to make rough smears to distort the pictures. All these things were part of the play that pushes my work forward but none of them struck the right chord. I was aware that whilst the images were interesting to me what I was most fascinating were the photographers marks and notes and the typed information attached to the back of some of the photographs. The painting and cutting seemed to obliterate the integrity of these small scraps of unique information. So I stripped back my design process to a very basic simple block print with pen line and used the typed script to collage crowns for the royal cards and a hat for the jester. By keeping my work as it overlaid the images simple I felt that my voice became just another part of the creative process that the original images had sprung from. As the sketchbook work for the cards began to come together. I experimented with laying thin silk over the photographs but the silk did not feel or lie in the way I wanted. So I retried the same idea using rice paper which was perfect and provided the right surface for printing with the rubber block that I had made to use. The first finished card was a little large so before cutting up the rest of the photos I reworked the sizing. All this is kind of stuff would probably have been second nature I think to an artist practising in a graphics or illustration field I think, but to me it was new learning. At the end the cards seemed to need a box to make them complete and useful. It has to be said that as all the backs are different a game of poker would be impractical but they handle nicely for patience or games where a winner is not imperative.
SDC bursary project 2013
http://www.sdc.org.uk/
In February I was given a bursary by The Society of Dyers and Colourists to buy 10 metres of silk habotai and 10 metres of wool gauze, mordants for dying with organic materials, a quantity of chemical dyes from Kemtex and a set of scales to measure accurately to 0.01g. The money was to help me set up a dye kitchen in my studio space so that I could continue my research into colour through dyes after graduating.
So having finished my degree, I began experimenting with flower printing. Using the silk and wool and some linen and silk/bamboo that I had purchased separately. The first samples were just pressed, no heat was applied although the weather was warm. Beginning a project always starts for me with a little loose play with no end goal. Some of the samples became brown and smudgy but I got lucky and several produced interesting colours. Inspired by this early success I researched a little further into printing. Several youtube clips suggested making bundles of the cloth and boiling them in a pot on a campfire, for lack of a campfire I steamed mine. The first two for several hours and the third for much less time as the first two lost a lot of their colour.
http://www.sdc.org.uk/
In February I was given a bursary by The Society of Dyers and Colourists to buy 10 metres of silk habotai and 10 metres of wool gauze, mordants for dying with organic materials, a quantity of chemical dyes from Kemtex and a set of scales to measure accurately to 0.01g. The money was to help me set up a dye kitchen in my studio space so that I could continue my research into colour through dyes after graduating.
So having finished my degree, I began experimenting with flower printing. Using the silk and wool and some linen and silk/bamboo that I had purchased separately. The first samples were just pressed, no heat was applied although the weather was warm. Beginning a project always starts for me with a little loose play with no end goal. Some of the samples became brown and smudgy but I got lucky and several produced interesting colours. Inspired by this early success I researched a little further into printing. Several youtube clips suggested making bundles of the cloth and boiling them in a pot on a campfire, for lack of a campfire I steamed mine. The first two for several hours and the third for much less time as the first two lost a lot of their colour.
In the meantime my scales arrived. Continuing my explorative research I mixed chemicals for cyanotype printing. In the interest of recycling I used some of the duller plant prints as base cloth as well as paper and unmarked cloth.
I have also been experimenting with rust dying
Having allowed myself a little time to loosen up, it was time for some more serious applied work. Carefully weighing cloth and mordants I began making samples using the silk and wool paid for by the SDC bursary. The results were surprising. I began by testing the materials on very small samples with no mordants. Then I used Alum, Tin, Copper, Chrome and Iron. Initially I was disappointed the Alum seemed to leach the colour out of the cloth, and the copper made the colours muddy, though I was pleased with the blackcurrants and tin which produced a vivid violet-blue. However the chrome mordant really shifted my thinking. Finally the bird cherries gave a colour approaching pink and surprisingly the blackcurrants with chrome made an elegant silver grey. Having all but written off mordants as a waste of time, I am now excited to continue experimenting with other found leaves, berries, flowers and metals. I will also take time to explore light fastness as this is one of the things that mordants are claimed to enhance.
Chemical dyes, being readily available and more controllable, are useful for testing shibori mark-making. I also like to use cross dyeing effects as different fibres alter the outcome. Using stitch and mixed fibre cloth it is possible to introduce several colours using only one or two dyes. However for this project I focused on the wool and silk paid for by the bursary, with the addition of bamboo/silk which takes chemical dyes very beautifully. Beginning methodically by dyeing and over-dyeing I built up a book of cross colour combinations and shibori effects. Sample books like this are an invaluable guide to me in my design process. Any mistakes made are small which cuts down my costs, and sometimes odd things occur that can suggest new ways to use my materials. With a body of small samples in hand, I was able to scale up my sample making from 8cm squares to 20cm, and from there to larger 1 metre pieces and 2 metre lengths.
My primary mission statement in my proposal for the SDC was that I wanted to set up a dye kitchen in my studio space post graduating. To this end the bursary has made a huge difference. The experiments with cyanotype chemicals, mordants and natural dyes and cataloguing the results of my chemical dyes could not have been done without the scales, purchased from Scalesmart, that I have used everyday since they arrived. The beginning of a cupboard of dyes and mordants will allow me to continue experimenting and to offer workshops in which I can share the skills I have learnt at university and beyond. I have, in the main, used up the silk and wool bought for this project and I intend to exhibit some of the work that I have made later this year.