I thought about posting at length about the weather – again – but I see that it is easy to become obsessed about it: last night the house was vibrating in the wind. Solid stone walls. Vibrating. Enough.
Today was just as predicted by the Met. Office: sunshine with squally showers in the late afternoon. I walked to the ancient village of Old (obviously) Scatness via a detour to Grutness Pier, whence sails the Fair Isle boat once a week in the winter. I would like to go to Fair Isle, but three and a half hours on a boat at this time of year? There is a flight every day, but I’m not sure I fancy that, either.
The old buildings around on the road to the pier are full of useful rubbish, stored against a rainy day. Or not, as the case may be. Some stuff is piled up in an optimistic fashion; other stuff has probably just been put down and forgotten.
I keep having to remind myself that I have the luxury of being able to return to interesting locations nearby; normally I have one attempt only – walk, draw while walking, return to the studio and do a bigger drawing or a splashy map-cum-painting. Here, I really cannot do big and splashy, unless I work outside on the ground – which hasn’t been possible yet because of the W. word. But I can go back and have a “proper” go at drawing something that has caught my eye. Tomorrow. If it’s fine…
Yesterday was generally bleak and blustery, and I had to make a definite effort to leave my front door. Trying to impose a bit of self-discipline, I decided to make drawing every 20 steps, walking widdershins around the lighthouse. I don’t think this will have had any adverse effects on the weather. In any case, I think avoiding anticlockwise ambulation only applies to churches.
Anyway … 20 paces, stop and draw until the page is full. And repeat. The results are more or less what you might expect: firstly I lasted for four drawings-worth before my fingers got too cold to hold the pen. Secondly, the attention to detail falls off exponentially with exposure to the wind. Fortunately a lot of the lighthouse buildings resemble concrete blockhouses (left over from world war II) so a couple of straightish lines gives a general idea of what is in front of you. The final 20 paces brought me face to face with a rainwater downpipe, after which I had to give up. As a topographical record of a lighthouse it’s almost useless – as a record of the experience of walking 40 paces in a towering gale it’s spot on.
As expected, any time spent in the far north at the end of winter involves a fair amount of staying inside. I think the weather could best be described as exhilarating, although to be fair, I did come back from my first walk on Friday with a new crop of freckles and a pink nose. The pink nose might have been due to the wind rather than the sun, I suppose.
The wind continues to whistle in the wires, and Things Rattle in the night, but all in all the 3-foot-thick walls are keeping the disorder at bay. The accommodation in the Assistant Keepers’ Cottage is fully modernised, apart from the front door. This is a massive structure with the original Northern Light Board door catch – probably hand forged, and certainly hand stamped with the Board initials. The door fits snugly, and most definitely does not rattle.
Yesterday morning was fine, for a while, and I walked down the hill to the carpark. Doesn’t sound very exciting. It was actually amazing: sunshine, high wind, waves crashing on the cliffs. The air was full of balls of sea foam, floating on the wind, looking from a distance like flocks of white birds or giant snowflakes – “plu eira” in Welsh. Snow feathers.
One of the most obvious, and challenging, things about a residency is the impact the accommodation itself has on working methods. Here, everything is very clean, and the opportunities for making my usual large, splashy paintings will be limited to the days when I can work outside. Inside, I am being unnaturally tidy (for me). What can I do that doesn’t make too much mess? Lots of sketchbook work. Make books/a book. A book per walk. Collect stuff (as usual). Photograph stuff. Look, record, think.
I am sitting in my eyrie at Sumburgh, insulated from the wildness outside and barely aware of the noise of the wind in the wires behind me.
As expected, there is a lot of weather in Shetland. The morning of my arrival was clear and calm, and if I hadn’t been asleep on the ferry at the relevant time I might have seen the Aurora Borealis. By mid-morning there was a high wind with torrential rain and sleet. Followed by two glorious Spring days. Followed today by a really first rate gale: we have moved from 7 on the Beaufort Scale last night: “Near Gale – sea heaps up, waves 13-19 feet, white foam streaks off breakers; whole trees moving (not here; there aren’t any), resistance felt walking against wind” to Gale force 8: “Moderately high waves of greater length, edges of crests begin to break into spindrift, foam blown in streaks; generally impedes progress”. Or even Strong Gale force 9? “High waves (23-32 feet), sea begins to roll, dense streaks of foam, spray may reduce visibility; slight structural damage occurs.” Not according to the Man From The RSPB, who is up here even though it’s Sunday: he reckons it isn’t even Force 8. Shame.
So, today I’m doing a fair bit of looking and thinking, rather than walking. Looking at the changing light, at the unstoppable sea; at the shifting colours of the old enclosure opposite – pale Naples yellow to almost white to yellow ochre and back again. Thinking about how to adapt my practice to accommodate the immensity of the experience. Thinking about looking, and just looking.
The afternoon of my second day here (the bulk of the first day being taken up by travelling, unpacking and catching up on lost sleep), and I am overwhelmed by the simple fact of being here. I have been looking forward to this for months, although the anticipation has been tempered by slight anxieties about the journey from North Wales to Shetland – principally the risk of oversleeping and missing the 5.52 (a.m.) train. And then the ferry crossing itself: 12 hours overnight. No problems, as it turned out: all rail connections went smoothly, and the sea was also smooth – just a gentle rolling swell, and a safe harbour at Lerwick.
And here I am, sitting in the (closed-to-the-public-for-the-winter) Visitor Centre at Sumburgh Head Lighthouse. The room has a huge, semicircular window with a 180 degree view taking in Fair Isle to the south west, a glimpse of Foula before passing across the South Mainland and north west to Bressay. The light changes by the minute; blue, blue sea and sky; sudden squalls and indigo clouds; the waves crash and suck at the cliff bottom, with ice-turquoise depths, and then suddenly all is still – just a gentle, roiling motion and skeins of white foam.
My intentions (mission/aims/objectives/whatever) for this residency are to walk, observe, record, and make work (drawing/printmaking/ whatever) that seems relevant to the experience of being in the most northerly archipelago of the British Isles. At the moment, sitting here watching the fulmars wheel round the cliffs, I can think of nothing save the sheer privilege of existence.
