Motherhood: All love begins and ends there. Robert Browning

In the month between my mother’s death in November and her funeral in December, delayed because of a backed up, (their words) crematorium, I existed in a state of limbo and found it impossible to settle down to anything that required more than a modicum of intellectual effort. I have often heard it said that the grieving process can’t begin until after the funeral and now I know what they mean.

During that hollow time, my intuitive husband whisked me off to Marrakesh for a few days, a welcome distraction, though unreal in the sense that it was punctuated with moments of vertiginous remembering: Oh, yes that’s right, my mother has died. Even at the funeral, which was lovely in its’ generous and eclectic rounding up of her life, still I felt removed, not quite there. And then without pause, another distraction, Christmas with its revving up towards excess.

In the first week of the new year, I decided to open my mother’s sewing box, with which I have a complicated relationship, hence the procrastination. Lifting the lid triggered the same magnetic pull from childhood, filled as it was with mysteriously, strange and desirable objects. Mostly Mum kept us at bay, it was her work box, an essential repair kit, from which she patched, darned, buttoned, hemmed, and mended. Only occasionally did she allow us to play with the contents of the button tin, which magpie-shiny, always yielded unexpected treasure.

Of all the things, we should’ve said
That we never said
All the things we should’ve done
Though we never did

Kate Bush This Woman’s Work (from The Sensual World)

There were other things in that box that I have never fully registered before, three generations-worth of; material off-cuts, leftovers, ribbons, tapes, even bits of old knicker elastic, all carefully rolled into neat little make-do-and-mend parcels, tucked away against future lack. Something about those tender little bundles waiting to be useful, mirrored and amplified my own regret about good intentions towards my mother, not fulfilled.

And before I could quickly shut the lid, stop up the dam, hold back the flood, I felt myself coming undone. I’ll spare the details but it was messy and went on for some time. Eventually, a tiny idea began to fight its way through the misery:the realization that I could transform the box into art and that I had the necessary ability to change its original function, thereby neutralzsing any negative affect, without having to destroy the physical object.

Take your broken heart and make it art. Carrie Fischer.

I went to bed exhausted and during the night, art, not for the first time came to the rescue by downloading into my brain, very precise instructions as how to transform the box. First, I emptied it and spent a whole day sorting and categorising its contents. Although hard, the womanly process of re-rolling and packaging was comforting. The next step was to replace broken hinges and then cover it with fine printing paper which was inclined to wrinkle. This gave me deep, inexplicable satisfaction. Then I painted and waxed the surface of the box until it felt right.

We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey. Kenji Miyazawa

It took the best part of a week to cut and roll bits of material from my collection of used women’s clothes and household fabrics, gleaned from charity shops. The rolls, although cut the same size, had to be painstakingly trimmed to fit. Once in place, I slit the padded lid, and replaced some of its innards with tumble-dryer fluff, from washing the used clothes.
Once finished, I felt better. The sewing box, my mother’s work box, still reflects women’s work but the emotional pain of looking at it is diminished. But it is only now, as I write this, I can see that the box is really a tribute to my mother’s tireless sacrifices and celebration of the constant thread that runs throughout and unifies my practice.

What we have once enjoyed deeply we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us. Helen Keller

This is the first piece of work in a new series called; Displacement.


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On a recent weekend away, to walk and think, on looking at a map, I discovered that Monk’s House the previous home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, was only a few miles away. I was unable to ignore the magnetic pull of its pared down authenticity expressive of an essential and pure truth that still lingers from past occupants.

On my last visit, I met Marie Bartholomew, a room steward and giver of garden talks. On the morning in March 1941, when Virginia Woolf went out for a walk and didn’t come back, Marie was there. She was then the gardener’s nine year old daughter, she has rich and detailed memories that extend well beyond that particular day, and she is able to paint an oral picture of the comings and goings of people and contextual flavour of the times, from the general to the exquisitely specific.

On that first visit, I had an instinct to draw her but there was no time. This time, I managed to turn up on her once a week visit to the house. She was wearing a highly patterned jumper and talking animatedly about plumbing, she really does know everything. This time I didn’t want her to get away, so I asked to sit for me. It was soon arranged that another room steward would cover for her and we agreed to meet in the garden in twenty minutes. I decided to warm up my pencil with a drawing of a bust of Virginia made by Stephen Tomlin and located in the green sitting room. The bust is famous for being half finished due to Virginia’s inability to bear Tomlin’s necessary scrutiny which caused her to abandon the sittings.

There is something perceptually marvellous about copying a famous art work. I have always been an inveterate copier, as a child I copied all my favourites, Rembrandt, Hogarth, Vermeer, Van Gogh etcetera but it was only as an adult once I got to see the originals that I understood how much I had been missing. It is my firm belief that some trace/stain/essence remains. In the case of the Tomlin bust, despite or perhaps because of its unfinished rawness, I felt a classical sensibility underpinning the work.

Ironically, I couldn’t finish it because of my appointment with Marie. We sat (Marie’s choice) in the garden in not ideal conditions as we were on the same bench, usually I prefer a bit of distance and Marie was worried about her dark lenses. However, the light was amazing and I could really see her. Marie Louise Bartholomew, named after a pear, is an amazing person and repository of endless anecdotal illustrations. She is a living link with the past and at eighty-seven, I really hope someone, the National Trust perhaps, will tape her memories for future generations.

I continued to work on both drawings from memory at home, something I don’t often do. It made me reflect on why I am driven to try and capture some unspecified, uncanny, ephemeral thing from strangers in passing and how lucky I am that my own process is founded on early study, through ‘A’ level History of Art and History of Architecture and what a loss for artistic young people now, the ruthless incursion into the present educational system, will be.


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Endgames.

The land of Literature is a fairyland to those who view it from a distance, but like all other landscapes the charm fades on nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible.
Washington Irving

It seems I have difficulty with the truth. It became evident when I set out to write a memoir about my Indian adventures, to leave for my grandchildren. Very soon I came hard up against the limitations of truth; real life just doesn’t fit into satisfying, creative shapes, even when you leave out the boring bits. Within six months, I was tentatively exploring fiction. That was nearly three years ago. One miserable and depressingly cold day, I sat down to write in an attempt to cut myself adrift from the truth that was keeping me safely moored in the doldrums. It was so cold I grabbed the dog’s blanket, threw it over my knees and began to write.
And then it happened, like Cixous, I went off writing, the blanket tucked around my knees, was like being in a sleigh, no ordinary sleigh, but one that H. G. Wells might have used for his time machine. The sense of unlimited freedom and infinite possibility, gave me a head rush. Of course, these feelings did not last, but I never forgot that first, safe, physical cocooning that precipitated the mental abandoning, necessary for the creation of fiction.

The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life; which helps us regain our equilibrium. Norbert Platt

After a while, I began to seriously miss making art, and drawing, which I always somehow maintain, was not enough. I decided to make a blanket in the evenings as a counterpoint to the daily mental effort. And mindless crochet was perfect, muscle memory meant not having to look or even think much about what I was doing. But the decisions about colour and texture were another matter altogether. My source materials were a disparate collection of leftover wool from various projects, plus, ancient family inheritances with their accompanying emotional attachments. I chose and applied colour harmonies, with runs and reversals, according to my mood.

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. Franz Kafka

In the beginning, the words flowed easily and I thought they were all great. After initial success, I was felled by pride: What am I doing? It’s all rubbish and any way I could never be as good as; Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolfe Iris Murdoch etc, etc. And then it got much, much harder, bleak, anxious days where words were policed with self-doubt. But gradually I applied myself to the craft of writing, through the explorations of generous authors. And always a voracious, if eclectic reader, I reread my favourite books, through a deconstructing lens. In the evenings, the blanket grew, but I still had no idea of its final shape or function.

I start with the idea of constructing a treehouse and end up with a skyscraper made of wood.
Norman Mailer

Eventually I decided that the blanket must be for my mother, who at ninety-six still finds it difficult to relax during the day, so I thought this might help. Deciding on its function, determined the ultimate size and shape of the final blanket. And suddenly it was finished, a whole, a thing in itself with its own identity. I had never taken two and a half years to do anything, much less commit myself before starting. Up until that point, I had never really believed that I might actually finish the book, now I could see that it was possible.
The blanket ran parallel to the book and mirrored its process, it insulated, and protected tender budding ideas, it was my cloak, my mantle, my security blanket. The finishing of it, was a timely fruiting, a natural end, and now that it’s gone (not literally, it’s in St Albans with my mother) it’s time to finish the book.

Writing is not something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards. Robert A. Heinlein


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Written on the Body – We are What We do.

My body is slowly recovering from the seven day marathon, of exploring and listening to, the broad church of music that is, Broadstairs Folk Week. But with all the eating, drinking, dancing and walking, also essential elements, full participation requires physical (if not mental) stamina. And as I have explained on previous blogs, an absolute necessity for my personal enjoyment of the festival, is to be able to draw the musicians as they perform and over the years I have become addicted to this live, in-motion, participatory type of drawing. However, it is not without its physical discomforts, risks and even bodily injury.
This year has seemed more physical than most, right from the start, on the opening night. As I stood at the front of a packed bar, standing being the only option, into the throng, wove two delightfully drunk teenage girls who preceded to; lurch, lean and sing, in front of the legitimate performers. Twice I had to prevent them from falling backwards on to me, which culminated in a small, handbag-related injury. The good-natured crowd eventually got fed up, especially with the leaning, and the girls got properly told-off, but were so charmingly remorseful, it was easy to forgive them, especially when one of them, put her arm around my shoulders and said breathily into my hair, “I love you, I love your drawing, it’s well-good – I love you…” etc.
The next morning, I found out that two hours of standing-drawing, even with alcohol, was probably too much. Years of drawing in the melee of the crowd, has taken its toll on my right, sketchbook-holding arm, which tends to go rigid when I concentrate and then my spine joins in, from now on, I will have to find things to lean on. But later that day, numb with Paracetamol and Shandy, as I was drawing two violinists, I noticed the way that even their young bodies had already begun to mould themselves around their instruments, their faces flattening into chin rests and elbows bending into waists, all echoing and exaggerating the lines and curves of their instruments. We are what we do.
The day of my second injury, a small cut on my toe, the result of running from a downpour, had the happy consequence of causing us to take shelter in a low-ceilinged, dark bar where two men were dancing and tapping on boards, in what seemed like an early, infectious, form of beat-box. They managed to dance, sing and play instruments, simultaneously, accompanied by a wild Nordic-looking man, with blonde dreadlocks, who swung his double-bass like a cricket bat. It sounds crazy and they are, in the refreshingly eccentric and original treatment of an eclectic array of old songs. I tracked, stalked and drew them three times, almost defeated by the constant motion of their bodies that tested my patience, as it meant waiting for a particular gesture to repeat. At their final gig, grey with sheer end-of-festival knackerdness, they gave their all, in a storming performance that transmuted the grimy, sweat-stained pub, where your feet stick to the floor, into what felt like the O2.
So many moments, so many tiny decisions about what to include and what to leave out, each one, rich with the potential of a thousand possibilities and their consequences, including failure. This yearly drawing marathon has its own peculiar mental space which allows a pause to reflect on my drawing. This year I came across a performer that I last drew, anonymously, twenty-five years ago. In the interim we have both aged in parallel, perhaps this is what made me so aware of the ravages that time and music have reaped on him. But when he played…all that fell away and the pure, clean sound caused a memory-loop back to the first time, and in that spiritual space, we, musician and artist, were united. We have still not met and don’t need to, the most important thing is that we both keep doing what we do, for love, for all of us, we are what we do.


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Pschographology, Doodling and the Impossibility of Random.

 

 

It started, in my teens, reading a Jackie comic, I found an article called something like, “What does your handwriting say about you?” It was a light-hearted, pseudo-sciency, speculative, expose of character-traits, gleaned from seemingly innocent, school girl missives. For a while, I gave the tails of my “Y”s an extra flourish, in an effort to appear more feminine. But later, found myself wondering whether signs of Hitler’s badness or Joan of Arc’s courage might be perceivable in their handwriting. The idea that some essence of yourself could leak out into personal graphics, intrigued me and still does.

However, the years, as an apprentice artist, I was hell-bent on acquiring the technical skills, I believed necessary to become the real thing. I didn’t think about mark-making, as I prioritised; measurement, proportion and accuracy. I had a vision in my head that I tried to inflict on the paper, only rarely managing to beat it into submission.

It wasn’t until a trip to France, to an artist’s summer school, that I gave it much thought. Something happened that made quite an impact on my thinking: there was an artist-in-residence, a well-known abstract expressionist, and early each morning he would practise Tai Chi, outside, facing the sun, on a grassy hill. This would be followed by a session of deep meditation. Only then would he sit at a low table, fastidiously arranged with his favourite brushes and specially, prepared paper. Silently, he would make beautiful, repetitive marks, accompanied by slow, deliberate breathing. It seemed that his whole life, was bound up in his practice and the mark-making was an integral, disciplined part of this whole. But as I watched him, I kept thinking irreverent thoughts, like, what happens when he gets tired, or if he is cross or plain bored, would any of this be reflected in the marks?

When I eventually found the courage to ask him questions, it seemed incredible to me, that he saw no correlation whatsoever, between his emotional state and his mark-making. He truly believed he was making random marks.

It was not until I took Mark Making, as a minor option, at university, that I began to research; the flow, production and collective interpretation of marks. I was soon amazed at what could rationally ascertained by scientific analysis of a person’s handwriting. Below are just a few.

Gender.

“Generally speaking, most studies have shown better than chance of success at guessing the gender of a writer by handwriting, with the average success rate at about two out of three.” Beech 2005, Burr 2002.

Health

In terms of the presence of mental and physical disease, or accident.

“If the brain is injured by accident or disease, handwriting will be affected in specific ways that scientists are only beginning to delineate. Conversely, studying handwriting may give us important clues to how and where a brain is malfunctioning.” The Tell-Tale hand. Marc J Siefer PhD

 

 

Right or left-handedness.

Effects of handedness and arm position on stroke direction preferences in drawing. Rued. J. G. Meulenbrock Arnold J. W. N.Thomassen

Authenticity

Handwriting analysis has been widely used to detect fraud.

 

So why, when such evidence can be recognised and validated, is graphology (the study of handwriting with regard to the character and psychology of a person), resigned to the realms of quackery? The answer lies partly in its extensive use as a vetting tool by prospective employers in America. Used recklessly and without other elements of corroboration in speculative and judgemental ways, led to its demise.

But for me, all graphic hand-made marks are an ancient link to the past, and infinitely revealing in instinctive and mysterious ways. Which brings to mind the equally mood-affecting: nervy, frenetic drip paintings of Pollock and the slow, ponderous layering of Rothko’s masterly Black on Maroon, 1959.  We could analyse speed of mark and hand pressure, but this would be unlikely to explain the works emotionally magnetic pull. Perhaps that is why I cling to drawing, the product is not just a response to the subject, but revealing, diaristic, evidence, of fleeting, emotional states. The attached drawings remind me of the feeling during the process of making. So tell me then, what do you think, if anything, your handwriting/drawing says about you?

 


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