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.
