ARTISTS TALKING

# 1 [21 May 2009]

An attempted introduction.

In some ways this project started quite some time ago. I shall attempt to bring you up to speed now and apologise for not getting you involved earlier on in the process. 

In 1982 I was born in St. Gallen, Switzerland, some 8 months later, I left. In the next 5 years I lived in 5 different countries behind 5 different doors but at the end of the day, I grew up in South Wales, near Newport, but I wasn't Welsh.  Nor was I Swiss.

As an artist I started the practice of walking in 2002. And somewhere during a performance on a train to Peterborough I imagined the idea of Walking Home. To my place of birth. To St. Gallen, Switzerland. Through an MA in Arts & Ecology I spent my time exploring my peripatetic intrigue and building up the foundations of a project that will very shortly see me set off from my Hackney residence for St. Gallen, Switzerland. 

This project has seen me communicate with curators in London and St. Gallen, and create a body of work that is as extensive as it is eclectic.

# 2 [27 May 2009]

Good Afternoon,

Its wednesday and its raining, hopefully by this time on Sunday the sun will be out and I will have walked under the curve of the M25 and out into the Kent countryside in time to find a suitable spot for my first camp en route to St. Gallen.

This is an intimidating prospect.

 Alongside all the art work issues there are piles of other things to be dealt with that I appear to have left to the last minute. 

After I took down the show at Shed & a Half gallery I packaged all the elements from the show individually as a durational performance. The idea behind this process was that I would send all the bits of the show onto Switzerland via post and upon my arrival there I would unwrap them as the opening performance of a show in St. Gallen. 

 Unfortunately this has proved beyond me to arrange in time. The outcome of this is that at some point next year I will have a show in St. Gallen and the works that I wrapped at the end of the London show will remain wrapped until they are delivered to St. Gallen for exhibition there. This, as most unexpected outcomes are, is a rather enjoyable idea. The packages are now sealed within a taxidermy case that formed part of the exhibition and shall remain thus until they arrive in Switzerland. With the obvious possible outcome that they never come to Switzerland, in which case they will simply never be opened again and the piece will stand as an archive, a testament to a failure, or a change of course.  

# 3 [8 June 2009]

Walking Home is an idea, a dream if you will, what I am interested in is how dreams or concepts exist in reality. Does the dream fall apart for the viewer or the artist if the artist fails to walk all the way, if that path is broken by a train or a ferry.

For now I must be honest for I have had to take a train across some of France due to unpleasant swelling on my feet and a certain schedule to attempt to stick to. In the past two days I traversed the distance between Laon and Reims and am slowly discovering how to use my footsteps as a rhythm for my mind and the landscape before me as a canvas for my imagination. I am slowly devising ways of showing this thing to people after the fact.

Things I wish I had brought with me No.3 A Compass.

# 4 [13 June 2009]

We are a species awash with statistics and so here are mine… (obtained courtesy of a pedometer I bought in Reims)

June 9th      16.46km    26,995 steps.

June 10th   29.23km    47,927 steps.

June 11th    28.48km    46,696 steps.

June 12th    18.68km    30,626 steps.

Things I wish I had brought with me No. 7 At least 1 pair of thin, normal socks.

see www.bramthomasarnold.com for more blogging on the journey.

# 5 [23 June 2009]

One way to document such a thing;

Each night, take out from one pack a small pouch from the exhibition in London, place it in the uncontrived pile of ones possessions that billow out from the tent and the pack.

Photograph. Making sure to keep the pouch in the middle of the picture.

Title each piece 'Resting Place' followed by a number.

Label each photograph with date and place and the phrase 'pouch containing cremated human remains.

Things I wish I had brought with me No.9 the french word for artist.

# 6 [18 September 2009]

German graves, French soil.

Above a precipice, staring at germany through the haze, a border collie befirends me wildly while her owner does an impression of a cow, illustrating her question. Descend through Orbey and alpine flowers, kill the heart of darkness and my staff – stabs me in the chin and splinters beneath my fall. In the night Pine Martins rush silently above me from branch to branch to branch, their frog like barks tracing their movements. In the morning they scamper in the light.

Interlude. (I killed a grasshopper by mistake*)

you realise you are as inconsequential as the last human, as important as the first. You realise there are so many people doing so many things, that everything comes to matter as much as everything else. Or as little.

Before I left I had a conversation with a man who said I had to be prepared for this journey to be completely inconsequential. For it not to matter at all, for it not to change anything, for it not to be noticed. And I think, and I have thought on this for all these days of farmland and villages, night and day, forest and gendarmarie, all the mornings I have woken having no idea where it is that I will sleep next. And it is a thing that makes me so sad I become happy again, when you have plumbed the depths of this thought, this possibility, when you have discovered that everything you thought mattered so much matters not at all you obtain a kind of peace usually only offered by the grave, or the open sky, the blue of distance and disappearance. The joy of presence, that the moment you are in is everything. A two bit bar with flies and the noise of French pop music. Everything. As consequential as inconsequence, as nameless as defined. As Rebecca says, so easy to recall, so impossiible to describe.

*The grasshopper to which this passage is dedicated died in the gap between the fly sheet of my tent and the inner bit as I rolled it up one morning,, the next night I lay there and stared at its buckled dried out corpse and wrote.

# 7 [18 September 2009]

In this heat the Rhine flows the wrong way. I burn precious clothes in a tumble dryer and run out at noon, crossing little streams and out through the suburbs. I watch a Crane sweep the sky from the deep heat grass of a field, my fingers ripe red with Cherry juice.

In the morning I sit in the campsite in Turkheim for a little while, today is one of my shortest days, its only 5km or so to Colmar, I sit and watch an elderly dutch campervan camper feed crisps by hand to one of the local Cranes. These birds are huge. Somewhat larger than swans with square wings like a herons. Atop the local church there is a nest built for them, a shallow dish like a giant tea light holder that they then fill with twigs and baby Cranes which are also massive and have an awful lot of trouble trying to stand up. Tourists gawk at them. So do I I guess. All the tourist shops sell little cuddly Cranes, or tea towels with Cranes on.  I set off down the river that runs through the town, the bakeries compete to sell me my breakfast and I eat bananas all along the footpath. Kids skate past on their way to school and I have to go for a piss beneath a very windy willow tree that nearly causes me some problems. The path arches round the local college and some vineyards that are sliced in half by the single train line. Kids playing truant, or perhaps high school drop outs hang about by the platform. I enjoy looking at all the tiny grapes just starting to take their forms. Pretty much at the end of these fields is the edge of Colmar. A huge dog untied lounges in a driveway and I hope to heaven its not the aggresive type due to its apparent freedom. Its placid and I scamper past onto roads looking for a route into Colmar. If I head directly East I shouldn’t miss the town centre. This sort of works. I buy thin socks and a clean t-shirt in a hypermarche on the skirt of town, one of massive places where the ceiling is miles away and you can’t really see the edges of the shop floor. Outside I eventually figure out that I can follow a small stream into the heart of town and find the tourist information after little effort. Then I find out where the hostel is and walk back the way I came only to find it doesnt open for another hour. I sit down and eat the rest of my Comte and bread, drink all my water.

# 8 [18 September 2009]

Flat heat here, dead breeze. A frenchman asks me where Im going “Germany” I say in french. He grunts a bit and smiles, just points east. I follow his finger to Neuf Brisach. A conceptual military fortification built by Louis XIV built for mathematicians and battles, a web of triangles and deep tranches, 3 metre thick walls. Google Earth it.

I move on and at a roundabout a man in a car pulls over and, I assume, asks me where I’m going. Allemagne I declare. Germany’s quite close now so walking there is almost a normal thing to be doing. He grunts and points east. I follow his finger. Neuf Brisach is the border town with Germany. It is a 17th century creation of Louis XIV’s, an eccentric exapmple of a fortified town, a many pronged star constructed out of 30foot deep trenches and 3 metre thick walls. Walking into it felt like entering another world, I felt like a pilgrim nearing Rome, amazed that men could build such things.

Geometry that is beyond my capacity to name

I slept in the campsite here, arriving after office hours and leaving before them. Exiting town via the bakery at about 8am. By 10am I was sat in Germany outside a McDonalds opposite a Vineyard, long lines of traffic crawling either way. No border guards though, barely a border at all really, just a bridge from one side of the river to the other, one side in France, the other in Germany. I just walked in. Disappointing really, I was expecting a grilling from strict suspicious German border guards. And now the language change. I had been speaking half remembered, broken French for a month of so and now, in the space of a hundred yards I had to switch to German. I struggled with this, I really really struggled. And today was a long way. Into another city on the edge of the Black Forest.

# 9 [18 September 2009]

Across the Rhine, the border, no borders anymore, just McDonalds and Coca Cola. I climb through Vineyards in the heights above Oppfingen and lose myself in its veins.  Wine runs everywhere down the hils and Germany is not pushed to signposts. I find Frieburg the other side of a forest and sleep there for three days, struggling to change my mind to German.

The mind stuttered and stumbled like my feet. German sounds so aggressive, the compound adjectives that stretch on for oh so many syllables, literally compunding the problems of pronunciation. The border was easy, decorated with McDonalds, Coca Cola and grapevines, French people buying boxes of cigarettes. streams of Harley Davidsons heading fof the Vosges and the soft cheeses. I followed a cycle path that followed the main road and I passed almost immediately the first of many allotments or Schrebergartens that Germany is somewhat famed for, maybe this fame was only really highlighted to me recently by Jeremy Dellars adventrues in Muenster, but they certainly are neat and well used, little flags poking up here and there, a swiss one a german one, one of the Schwarzwald area, or Baden-Baden. A pleasure. A little pond was nearby available for fishing but not for swimming, an impressive pedestrain bridge sweeps across the mainroad and Germany’s roadsigns are yellow, France’s were blue. Kilometres still though. The autobahn takes 24km to get to Frieburg from here, I plan to cut across the hills above Oppfingen and cut this distance a bit as I’ve already walked 10k this morning. I make for a village that may have been called Gundlingen and then pass down a track into a section of forest, just cutting east for the nearby hill line. Paths trace off to the left and right, I sit down for a spot of shade and listen to woodpeckers crack their way through the forest.

At the far edge of the forest a man emerges from the deep woods, I struggle to remember to say Guttentarg rather than Bonjour but he does not seem bothered about acknowledging my existence at all, a theme that will develop throughout Germany. I pass across some fields of maize to the main road that is gracefully small and follow it for a short way before trying my luck through the vineyards that cover the steep hill that protrudes before me. I sit beneath a cherry tree for a while before making this move through the vines that is definitely off any sort of path, the track I had followed deadended at this cherry tree, it became field edges by grapelines. Stepped into the hills. I climbed from one step of vines to another, deep terraces with ladders in the corners for the vinters to utilise. The pack on my back trying to drag me off the ladders. The little baby grapes looking so eager under the sun.

# 10 [18 September 2009]

For the first time in ten years I swam in a swimming pool. A strange urge I confess. I saw a fork of ligtening and immediately remembered every fork of lightening I have ever seen, for they are very few. I walk the medieval streets and lose myself blissfuly among a dusty pile of vinyl.

I arrived in Freiburg long before I found the hostel I was planning to sleep in. The city is a spread out tram friendly, cyclist filled, country city often sited as one of the greenest cities in Germany, which makes it one of the greenest cities in europe; all passive housing, healthy outdoor lifestyles and allotments. It also means that its quite wide and the Youth Hostel ‘in’ Freiburg is pretty much out the other side of the city, alongide the wide plains of the river that ploughs the city, one of those shallow fast flowing mountain jobs, clear as crystal and icy cold. But its hot today, really hot and my pack aches at my shoudlers as I walk 7km across town, from one edge to other. The river runs through the heart of the city the highway running either side of it in a quirky set up. Trendy bars have gardens full of trendy healthy Germans, stretches of the river almost feel like East London, somehow.

I stay here for three days, sleeping mainly, occasional attempts at speaking German are made but they don’t really get very far. Its hard to muster the enthusiasm and energy to do it as I’m only in the country for a few days really. On the foolish front I don’t take any photographs at all, I buy a pair of vintage shoes for 15euros, on the basis that they would cost me about £50 in London, and then I find the towns record shop, late on a Saturday afternoon. The double LP I buy (a 1959 recording of a conference hosted by Yves Klein in Paris limited to 500 copies) has to accompany me for the next 90km until I reach Switzerland and an open post office.

I soak myself in the warm storm whilst cycling to the swimming pool. In this humidity I heal my blisters and sleep in a room with 20 other people, or barely sleep. I try and make notes but by now, by here, I am very detatched from this process, very tired of documenting it, I just want to do it for a while, without having to think how I will later account for every second. And so I probably miss some things, there is no documentation of my shirt, slick and dripping, or the bike I rode around on, no evidence of my attempts at speaking German, no documentation of the sense of panic when I struggled to find somewhere to convert my final travellers cheque into cash, no documentation of a conversation I had with an elderly lady in the forest the day I walked out of town