ARTISTS TALKING

# 36 [18 July 2011]

June, Midsummer.

Its 4pm, time to go, filling my back pack with the essentials, paint, string, my cameras, one, two, three, and begin my journey over the fields and farmland. It’s an upward struggle and despite my daily walks I find myself breathless when I reach the top. I allow myself a break. I eat some toffee. Then onward. Following a line of birch trees I’m led downhill towards the sea, two more misshapen wire fences and it’s a sharp decent down to the beach. I’ve timed this right. The tide is low, granting me entry to the cave interior. It’s not easy. I must crawl on all fours; keep my back low, don’t scrap it on the cave roof (I do).

I’m in the belly of the cave. The sound of the waves hitting the jagged coastline rumbles all around me. Its dark and damp, but warm enough to undress. I take out my box of paints and line each up along the waterline, then mixing the colour with the seawater I paint my body. Limb by limb, using my fingers as paint brushes leaving long streaks and hand prints over my flesh, my hair. I’m ready. I’m new. I’m a character, an object. More and less than human. I explore the cavity as a new born animal. Testing the walls, my weight, my skin against the cold rock. The painting ritual has transformed me and allowed me to sit below my normal level of consciousness. Thinking back, it feels

cosy.

The incoming tide chases me back up the cave and the imminent danger of loosing my possessions to the sea brings me out of my dream. It’s now that I stop the camera rolling and I use my still camera to document the events.

But my mind is still clouded by the paint creature, (or the growing numbness in my hands) and working the camera self timer feels alien.

Pulling the masks and mirrors from my rucksack I bring the items into my recreation. But looking back the mask was only mask in its very essence – to mask out my face. (I hide my face not wanting to muddle the work with elements of vanity I know would creep in if my face was revealed.) The transformation had already happened in the painting and the additional tools felt superfluous, and forced. The incoming tide tickled my toes and the wet brings a chill. Leave.

Naked I crawled back through the rear entrance of the cave and returned blinking into the sunlight, failing to conceal a smile about how weird this must look to anyone who could have happened to come up my strange ritual. This time however, I have the beach to myself. I dress, then lie in the sun, admiring my paint covered limbs against the red sand. Warming my body like a lizard, I lay grinning in a blissful haze, now feels good. The sunlight licks the cliff tops and lazily winks at me through the gorse bushes, it’s settling down to sleep and I too should make my way back to my bed.

Two hours later and I’m enjoying a well-deserved shower, now feels good. 

# 35 [15 July 2011]

The end, slowly stalking me at first took a running leap and knocked me square off my Black Isle residency. I saw signs, the pang of sadness when I bought milk whose expiry date surpassed my final day and the realisation the high tide times had turned full circle, completing their monthly loop.

Drawing open the curtains on the final day I still feel the rush of glee from being able to admire the seashore from my window. It’s the glee of a landlocked child who 90s holiday car trips became entrenched in a sibling rivalry of who could see first, or more over who could shout “I can see the sea!” the quickest and loudest. The winners vigilance was rewarded with smug satisfaction.

I walk down to the shore, it’s a cloudy day and the sea looks like molten lead. Returning the cow skull to the fields where I found it I say a silent goodbye to the hillside I’ve called home for the last month.

To conclude my time with the Cromarty Arts Trust we put on an exhibition of my studio work: The Village Lady. The Trust has acquired the stable block from the 18^th century Cromarty House mansion and converted them into a beautiful gallery space, it was a pleasure to be offered a chance to show there.

Central to the exhibition was a makeshift table I built from stacking found wood, and dressing it with old china plates and my clay ‘cutlery’ modelled on bones. Dinner for two.

The girl set off, the bzou set off, and the bzou reached Grandmother's cottage first. He quickly killed the old woman and gobbled her up, flesh, blood, and bone - except for a bit of flesh that he put in a little dish on the pantry shelf, and except for a bit of blood that he drained into a little bottle. Then the bzou dressed in Grandmother's cap and shawl and climbed into bed.

When the girl arrived, the bzou called out, "Pull the peg and come in, my child."

"Grandmother," said the girl, "Mother sent me here with a galette and a cream."

"Put them in the pantry, child. Are you hungry?

"Yes, I am, Grandmother."

"Then cook the meat that you'll find on the shelf. Are you thirsty?"

"Yes, I am, Grandmother."

"Then drink the bottle of wine you'll find on the shelf beside it, child."

As the young girl cooked and ate the meat, a little cat piped up and cried, "You are eating the flesh are your grandmother!"

"Throw your shoe at that noisy cat," said the bzou, and so she did.

As she drank the wine, a small bird cried, "You are drinking the blood of your grandmother!"

"Throw your other shoe at that noisy bird," said the bzou, and so she did.

When she finished her meal, the bzou said, "Are you tired from your journey, child? Then take off your clothes, come to bed, and I shall warm you up." 

A clay ‘teapot’ and ‘basket (image in previous blog)’ were displayed on tree trunk plinths and mix media paintings provided wall cover. The opening reception was very enjoyable, and I could be mistaken but I’m sure everyone who came on the opening night waited around for a chance to talk to me, which I’m very appreciative of. The Cromarty Arts Trust bought one of my paintings for their collection too so I can now proudly add them to the list of Public Collections that my works is held in.

It’s a dry day when I leave, that turns to showers when we reach Edinburgh. Thank you Cromarty Arts Trust, Creative Scotland and the Royal Scottish Academy for such an enjoyable, enriching and rewarding experience.  

# 34 [20 June 2011]

‘He brought her smooth pebbles and winding shells, such things that girls love’

Pygmalion, Ovid's Metamorphoses

I always found this line charmingly stupid.

But I can’t deny it, I do have a particular affinity for both those objects.  Our seaside holiday cottages would end up with piles of shells, stones, smoothed glass and the occasional crab shell (and once a dried starfish-what a find!) pilled up by the front step. Disappointment as the trinkets lost their gleam in the suns heat.  Here on the Black Isle I’ve added heaps of sun bleached animal bones to that pile, and the organic shapes and patterns of the ore flecked stones, the pearly shell interiors and curve of the sheep’s spinal bone have been the inspiration for some smaller ceramic pieces. My mood lifted the moment I plunged my hands into the wet clay. After a week of playing with paint, waiting for my sculptural materials to arrive (no I wasn’t dragging 20kilos of clay up on the train) I’m delighted to work the soft pliable material in my hands. 

My highland studio is getting cluttered, messy and it’s the way I like it. Paintings are drying on every inch of floor, slightly dryer paintings propped up around the perimeter, I need to dodge the frangible clay work balanced on stools as I duck beneath them to sit on the flag stone floor, chopping out more stencils and cut outs for collage. I’m busy. And it feels good.  

What’s been a happy surprise it how strongly influenced my work is by what I experienced and encountered in Firenze. Although I arrived here, ideas of the she-wolf firmly nestled in my mind, a thought perhaps seeded in my Florentine address at Bonfazio Lupi street, which I generously translated as ‘bonny faced wolves’, politely ignoring the reference to the 14^th century Italian politician of the same name. The She-Wolf brain child grew as I fed it flickering TV images of scantily clad female chat show hosts, shrines to the blessed Virgin Mary, readings of Dante’s Inferno and statues of the Capitoline Wolf. I talked about this more in previous blogs (is there a way to link directly back or do we just scroll down?)

…… Although I arrived here with the idea of the she-wolf in mind, I’ve been surprised to see many other elements from my Florentine days inspiring and stimulating my current practice. Here in the Black Isle the gardens of the Pitti Palace (that disused fountain, off the well trodden path), the Specola and the graffiti that embellished the side streets and the universities is seeping into my studio work. The vivid colours of the crystal exhibition, the vines reclaiming the ruins and that colossal bone collection permeates the new work. 

# 33 [16 June 2011]

‘They can’t freeze it ya know’

‘mm what?’

‘The polar bear, they won’t be able ter freeze it’

It’s 7.30pm and 17 seconds of silence had passed. I’d been watching a shrew, bemused by its fat little body tumbling amongst the tall grass, before bumbling back into the foxgloves when her broad southern accent spun me back out of my mesmerised state; ‘ ‘is fur’s too thick’.

I was stranded on the grassy verge of a B road just off the A9 with a middle-aged woman who clearly felt very uncomfortable about silence between strangers. We’d gotten off to a bad start, when explaining that I was out filming the wolves I received the blunt response ‘Don’t like ‘em’, why? ‘just don’t’. Not that I was going to complain about this new topic of animal autopsy.

The bus was now three hours late, the sun was well into its decent and the day was cooling off. I was stuck. Do I begin the 4 mile walk to the nearest settlement or do I wait for the bus? Sods law it would arrive as soon as it was out of eyeshot of the bus stop, and what would I do in the nearest village? Call for help? Who do I know out here? Knock on doors and hope to find some kind soul who’d drive me all the way back? Being two hours from home I concluded I should just wait this out, the helpdesk at Citylink assures me the bus is coming, it’s just late and they don’t know how late. Thanks.

Getting stuck and lost is becoming a reoccurring theme this week. Although I must admit to relishing in it. Wayward wanderings across the cliff tops and farmland have resulted in finds that I romantically like to believe no one else has discovered. Leaps and bounds over the deep clefts carved in coastal rock face lead me, precariously, (would it be as easy on the way back down?) upwards. High up in the rocky outcrop I found a nest, a perfect green grass space, fenced by rocks. It’s as if a rock pool had ascended 20ft in the air, bedded with thick grasses, sea milkwort and sand spurrey, I walked through the welcoming mouth of the nest, a 50cm gap in the rock fence, and plonked myself down. Just enough space to sit with my backpack to the right and my sketchbook and flask to the left. Reclining against the smoothed rock , I peered over the walls at the swirling water below. I spot the Ecoventure dolphin watching boat far across the bay and I knew it must be just past one. Lunch time. Later that day I managed to get completely disoriented crossing sheep field after sheep field and was quite relieved to find a footpath leading me down the densely gorse covered hillside. As I take a second look at the marks pressed into the wet dirt I realise I’m not following a human made footpath, but one by that of cows. Drat. There goes my plan of ‘if a cow charges jump into the bushes, it won’t go in there’ (what is the proper procedure for a cow charge?) Apparently cows are impervious, or not bothered, (unlike my legs) to the gorses myriad of spines and spikes.

Back on the roadside I was continuing to wait. Usually a delay like this would be quite aggravating but the evening light was charming, dappling the hillside and I’d done a good days work. I’d met the wolf.

That morning I’d approached the highland wolf enclosure, moving through the dense fur tree wood until I reach the perimeter fence. From a viewing post I survey the habitat; and then I see something moving amongst the trees. The wolf lops closer. I recognise the wolf as Elara, the female alpha, her mouth falls open in a wolf grin, long tongue spilling out her mouth. Stopping her prowl around the enclosure 2 meters directly in front of me, we lock eyes. Holding the glaze. There’s too much in that wolfs stare.  It catches me off guard and distracts me from my purpose. She turns away and the spell is broken. I pull out my camera and sketchbook and spend the next few hours sketching and filming. I’m pretty excited about what I’ve captured so far, what I think I’ve captured, I’ll have to wait until it’s developed and digitised to see the true resulting imagery.

 The bus? It did arrive eventually. I crawl into bed at 1am. 

# 32 [9 June 2011]

June 2011

Black Isle Residency

Funded by RSA Residencies for Scotland Bursary in association with Creative Scotland and the Cromarty Arts Trust

As the bus made its way up the winding highland roads my face split into a grin. I lean out the window craning to admire the waves crashing against the rocks running parallel to the tarmac; the smell of salt air fills my head.

Final stop on the bus route, I alight before the bus turns around and makes its way back along the coast towards Inverness.  Pausing for a moment, I take in my new surroundings. It’s a beautiful day and I take off my jumper, then turning my back on the harbour I make my way up the hill with my suitcase to my new June lodgings.

I barely fit through the door, squeezing in I pick up my keys then roughly drag my suitcase to my bedroom on the top floor. The low ceiling beams on the ground floor have been padded out with blue velvet, pinned to the wooden beams with gold studs, but the same has not be applied to the subsequent floors and by the end of the first evening I’ve surprised myself with sharp bangs to the head 2, or was it 3? times. 

The first few days are caught in a heat wave. I spent the evenings between studio basking on the beach by the rock pools, lazing in a somnolent haze, half dreaming listening to the waves caress the shoreline and occasionally opening my eyes to watch the swallows dart fervently across the sky. 

Yesterday brought a storm; the water seems to have harnessed more power here by the coast as if the rain, encouraged by the waves, beats harder and faster against my legs. Walking home along the beach I feel engulfed by water. A small clip from The Craft plays in my head.  (My mind spins back to Susan Hiller’s 1999 Psi Girls installation I saw at Tate Britain while I was down in London exhibiting last month, then my thoughts move to her Dream Mapping 1974. Today I’m listening to the Susan Hiller Tate Talk podcast). 

I smirk at the occult-ish nature of my walk; my long skirts whip against my legs, my loose hair is blowing wildly in the wind and I’m carrying a cow’s skull.  I’m glad no one is around to confront me as I’m not ready to explain myself yet.

Retreating to the shelter of my attic bedroom to listen to the rain bombard the windowpanes, the noise drowns out the radio. 

This morning I awoke to a pale amber sky winking at me from between the tall rocky headlands, the south Sutor shrouded in cloud. 

# 31 [5 June 2011]

The Exhibition – wonderful, went like a flash! I met with Elizabeth Shields, granddaughter of John Kinross and daughter of John Kinross who set up the RSA Scholarship in honour of his late father. She was delightful and gave me some very heartwarming feedback, it seems our collective enthusiasm for art became infectious. 

Guest queuing to get in, filling the corridors of the basement space as I squeezed past attempting to introduce the artists to those who were taking a keen interest in their work -topping up drinks, stealing a quick moment to chat to old friends - the opening was over far to fast.

My work: bearing the space in mind, I needed to bring pop-up pieces of work, works that could expand inside the basements rabbit warren-esk space.

Miss Cadiere’s Flying Machine – build from lolly pop sticks, a bit of tissue and an old sweeping broom. I also showed my 2010 film ‘My dear, my very dear mistress, I like to rock your child because I myself am a child ‘ 

And a large composite of photographs, mono prints, paintings and found objects that I titled ‘The Serf Invokes the Spirit of Hidden Treasures’ 

I also took the opportunity to invest in my fellow artists are walked away owning Studs by Ashley Nieuwenhuizen, Three Winters Worth by David Cass and an untitled painting by Sophie Ormerod. 

Back from London: Preparing the clay I dug from the local parish last summer, the leaves and grasses caught in it have began to decompose and further discolour the natural material.

 The thick black clay is now too sticky to work, instantly coating my hands, so I’ve laid it out in the sun to dry out a bit, reminiscent of making mud pies. I'll come back to it tomorrow. 

(written 05.05.11)

# 30 [11 April 2011]

With less than a month until the opening of WHEN THE MOON HITS YOUR EYE it has been all go go go in the 2010 RSA John Kinross Scholars camp. Compiling mailing lists, press releases, ordering flyers and finalising promotional posters. Artist David Cass is just finishing up an artists book catalogue for the show, featuring work from all the artists showing and nice little behinds the scenes footage of us working in Florence. He has a superb eye for this sort of thing so I am eagerly anticipating the final product.www.davidcass.co.uk

It's very exciting for me to watch a little seed of an exhibition idea bloom into something substantial, something thats gaining both acknowledgement and financial support from major players in the Scottish art scene. 

Although at times it's been a wee bit stressful organising and planning this show, it has also been an incredibly rewarding process, making contacts and learning skills that will be applied over and over again in my years as a practicing artist. This is what can be achieved as a 'do-it-yourself' artist, and what you can get if you just ask the right questions to the right people. 

Still, a few weeks of hard graft to go yet before I can enjoy a glass of wine at the opening.... nervous excitement....

WHEN THE MOON HITS YOUR EYE  opens with a special preview on 28 April at 7pm, the show will run at Shoreditch Townhall Basement from Friday 29 April until Sunday 1 May. If you want to book mark this exhibition you can join us on the Facebook event page here: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=163021950421185

# 29 [30 March 2011]

Here in Northumberland I have been quenching my thirst for contemporary art with regular journeys across to Newcastle to visit the Baltic (they’ll be hosting the Turner Prize later this year) but I still feel a little too removed from a  contemporary art scene. And if it’s not the 2 hour journey to the nearest contemporary gallery that’s making me feel cut off it’s the fact the working 50 hour weeks is leaving little time for art making. (Even this blog has taken me over three weeks to write now, every morning jotting down a quick sentence/notion between slurps of tea.)

(Nevertheless) I’ve begun the hunt for the She-wolf in rural Northumberland.

One particular wolf is of local legend here, and although apparently meeting an untimely end on the rail tracks west of the village here in 1905, I still hear people warn others about wandering around the forests at night in case they meet the wolf.

A quick google search of my home town ‘Hexham’ and ‘Wolf’ brings up articles from Mysterious Britain.com and The Fortean times.com - the world of strange phenomena vividly describing the wolf attacks at the turn of the century and even the peculiar case of the Hexham Heads in the 1970s. ‘a pair of Celtic stone heads were dug up in a garden not 10 minutes walk from the woods of the wolf. These uncanny artefacts were seemingly protected by an animalistic presence that would crash about in whichever house the Heads happened to inhabit. Interestingly, witnesses of this bizarre primal presence described it as being half-man, half-beast; the beast part was a wolf.’

However the scholar in me will not allow myself to put much faith in these Internet articles, and I’m curious to know how these wolf tales began.

It’s this curiosity (and I think a desire to feel like ‘a scholar’ once more) that led me to walking up the winding metal paint flecked staircase to the upper floor of my local library where the ancient microfilm scanner lurks. The dark wood panels library and cavernous dark brick ceiling makes this the kind of library where you are surprised the books aren’t completely moth eaten and disintegrate when you pick them up. Unsurprisingly there’s not a single book on contemporary art in their collection (actually there is very little that’s not romance, crime fiction or local history) but fortunately for me this week they do hold every single copy of my local paper, ‘The Courant’ on microfilm.

I begin pulling reels of film out of the metal cabinet, loading them on the machine and start scanning through pages of articles on local farming and adverts ‘NOTE! NOTE! NOTE!  1 CABINET free of all charge!. I have a good idea where I need to start looking but still a disappointing half hour went by and I found no trace of the wolf. I began to conclude the story had been sensationalized with the previously mentioned reporters banging out weird stories without any actual fact checking.

But then something came up.

Friday December 10^th, pg 8, amongst notes on the Russo-Japan war; ‘BIG HUNT IN ALLENDALE: The Search For The Wolf’. I begin eagery scribbling down notes ‘Killed 4 sheep, severely injuring 2’ ‘Sighted in Sipton Wood, then Killop Law then across to Weardale’. In the weeks after more articles pop out as the hunt for the wolf catches the public imagination. After a couple of hours I have lists of notes following the exact movements of the wolf sightings over a couple of weeks as well as a few more humorous anecdotes , one regarded an unfortunate farmer who ‘was standing at his door when the wolf suddenly appeared which so unnerved him that he ran into the house and threw a cat out at it’.

And some articles that struck a particular chord with me noting ‘peculiar costumes have been worn’ while tracking the wolf, men wore ‘white dresses’ and how the ‘ornamental appearance of the hunters (was) enhanced by wearing ‘hoggers’ ‘  

(Although still no sign of that main front page headline of ‘Wolf At Large In Allendale’ like the man from Mysterious Britain promised)  

Now I wonder if I can find anything in the 1970s papers about those weird Hexham Heads?

Back to the library

when I get another day off. 

# 28 [6 March 2011]

RSA RESIDENCIES FOR SCOTLAND 2011

I have the pleasure in writing to you to inform you that the RSA residencies for Scotland panel have awarded you a bursary to undertake a residency at Cromarty Arts Trust… The panel was very impressed by your application and are delighted to offer you this opportunity… I would like to congratulate you once again on your award. We very much look forward to working with you over the next few months…..

A slow smile crept across my face developing into an aching grin as I jubilantly declared ‘yes! Yes!’ (to unfortunately no ones ears but my own). The smile still goofily lingers today and flickers back into a wide mouth grin when I recall my residency request will soon become a reality.

[THE REQUEST]

‘A month long summer residency with Cromarty Arts Trust would allow me to engage with an intense period of art making. My recent nomadic lifestyle means I have been unable to create the large sculptures and costumes that have been the keystone of my practice, and I am keen to once again grapple with the physicality of materials.  The large Game Store studio at Cromarty is an ideal space for exploring a materials inherent properties, allowing for combination of traditional art materials with items gathered from the local parish, enjoying mutations and reactions between the two, both real and imagined. I want to bring what I saw in the markets of Piazza dei Ciompi to my sculptures and installations, irrelevant objects from forgotten rituals built into a shrine for the everyday and obsolete.

When living in Florence I was confronted with an unsettling duality around the way women were perceived. The mother/whore complex flickered between candle lit shrines to the Virgin Mary and the sequined panties of the female talk show hosts. Intriguingly I found this duality played on in a character I had previously found in local folklore, the She-Wolf. Idolised as the maternal Capitoline Wolf, yet represented as an icon of lust and adultery in Dante’s Inferno, the She-Wolf is a character suffering from a restless duality. I want to re-release the She-Wolf back into the highlands, creating a narrative combined with ideas of alchemy discovered at the Galileo museum, the peculiar collectors at the Florentine flea markets and my own passion for metamorphosis.’

What’s more, Cromarty is in close proximity to a highland wildlife park that a wolf pack calls home, so I’ll be up there as often as possible sketching and filming the animals – I’m absolutely delighted I’ve been offered this opportunity!

For now I will continue my project here in Northumberland. Unfortunately due to personal reasons I’m unable to move back to Glasgow for another few months so I’ll be trying to sink my teeth into Newcastle’s contemporary art scene. This week I will be meeting up with some art school graduates living in Newcastle to see what they’ve done post graduation, hopefully I’ll come away with a good idea about what I can involve myself in and what opportunities I can create for myself here. I haven’t stopped making art since I can home from Italy, and although I must admit the paintings I’m making in my parents attic are not going as well as I hoped, I’m getting results I’m interested in from my 35mm studies and some smaller sculptural pieces are worth investigating further. Filming in my local parish woods has been a wonderful experience and soon I'll have to face the mammoth task of clearing out my computers hard drive so I can finally transfer my tapes to a digital format and see what images I've captured. Exciting!

# 27 [9 February 2011]

What’s next

What’s next?

How can I begin to process this mass of visual information and inspiration I acquired while on residency in Florence? I’m still reeling from the unsettling duality of woman’s position in Italy, and the mass amount of historical objects, some granted a position of adoration and some left to decay down the graffitied side streets.  How will I take what I experienced in Italy and apply it here in the UK? What will come out of the commonalities and tensions between the ritualised Catholic religion of Tuscan life and the rural lore and superstitions I’ve found here.

I spent Christmas with my family in the North of England and already I could feel the Italian ideas of ritual and idol pumping through my work.  Small pilgrimages out to the woods led to a playful take on shrines; using birthday candles, pop socks and bacon to build miniature offerings to fallacious deities. I want to push this further mimicking the market shops at Piazza dei Chompi, enjoying how the accumulation of everyday objects built up into a bizarre alters to the obsolete and outdated. Tools becoming detached from their original purpose as they become appreciated for aesthetics alone and get recycled into new instruments.

A couple of weeks ago I met with Will Maclean, Bill Scott and Dick Cannon in Edinburgh to submit the work produced in Florence. I handed over a book I’d produced showcasing my 35mm photographs and I can now proudly say that I have work in the Royal Scottish Academy Permanent Collection. The day was also a chance to catch up with the other John Kinross Scholars and talk about the London show, which has now be officially titled ’WHEN THE MOON HITS YOUR EYE’. It’s all getting rather exciting and although the RSA can’t offer us any financial support, they’ve kindly offered to promote the show on their website which is brilliant.  

So for now it’s on with the art making and on with the art showing! What surprised me while I was away was the how valuable this blog was as a tool for clarifying my thoughts. So with that in mind I’m going to keep up dating this a-n blog as I work on my show in London and seek out further artistic endeavours.

Now, to get a studio, and a job, and a flat… perhaps not in that order…