Illustration and story

I wouldn't call myself a storyteller.
Although I did once tell a tale, off the cuff, in the car, to my sons when young, that went down a storm.

About a pig.

A pig who got a reputation for interior decorating and design!?

Inspired, no doubt, by the pig farm we passed on the A303. Not that they showed any design flair.
And the whole story told in a broad West Country accent.......not my own.....I judge by the audience reaction and have to say it was a hit.

But that's largely it.

So, having confided that, I suspect this next confidence shared will meet with a nervous titter.
It certainly generates an anxious feeling in me.







These new paintings keep suggesting storylines.
The characters develop names and characteristics of their own as each painting progresses.
Little snippets of their history and their relationships become apparent.
In short I feel I need to write about them.
Violette and the slouchy hare have sealed the deal.
Although the picture is unfinished it keeps on talking to me, more loudly than those before.



I know it isn't going to be 'once upon a time she met her prince'.
And I strongly suspect it is going to be more an excavation of my own psyche but perhaps it could be more widely fruitful than that.

I am uncomfortably straddling two thoughts about my work:
one that I have never been more vainly deluded
and t'other, that I am drawing (no pun) closer to the crux of it and discovering some real fruit.

So it is in faith of the latter thought and in honour of the more frequently appearing muse that I share the whisperings of my heart.
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Hello dear friends in blogland.

During this last long absence I finally found my groove.

Or finally had the courage to recognise exactly where my groove was at!

I am still exploring the terrain but it feels like home…...

and celebrating with some cards and prints soon to be available in my easy shop

hibernation

After Christmas, on my calendar, came hibernation.
A time to let the field lie fallow, to hunker down, eat dumplings, and stay in the moment of cozy.
Not a thought for how long this would last only the understanding that hibernation does have a natural ending.
Mine ended in June!
Wasn't quite expecting that.
And was not expecting it to end in the way that it did.

This was not a dark depression of winter, just a gentle lie down in front of the fire.
A snuggle under the duvet.
A gentle warm bath that lasted a long while.
And when it did end, after a prolonged and gentle rousing it was in full on colour and a sloshing of paint.
I is happy in my summer.
Hope you is all happy in yours.

Holding on and letting go

holding on. recycling the christmas beer bottles into candle holders

This Christmas I realised that consumable gifts from my sons trouble me.
Cause a right old conundrum.
I have a bottle of blue sparkly nail varnish that younger son gave me when he was, probably, 8.
So, 17 years ago.
It has been opened and a little bit used but my instinct with these treasures is to preserve.
The idea of, you know, using them,  using them up causes a flutter of panic in my heart.
Am I alone in that.

letting go…..the beauty in this dirty roasting dish….but not before taking a photograph

I fancy that it stems from the desire to hold on tight to the most precious gift I was ever given......the boys themselves.....the brightest lights in my skies.
Though children leave your body at that moment of birth they never truly depart; you carry them in every cell of your being until such time as those cells break apart and you return to stardust.
They move away geographically and emotionally and the divide becomes wider as the years progress.
It is the natural order of things and a sign of a job well done.
But it hurts.
 A teensy bit.

holding on…to vintage quality street tins to decant plastic packed quality street into

And so those use-uppable gifts and every other gift become symbols of the thing that I wish to preserve and savour until my last breath.
My hoarding, faithless nature will not allow me to use those things.
To use them up is to destroy the symbol.
To destroy the symbol is all kinds of voodoo scary.
On some kind of subconscious level you understand.
I am not big on voodoo or witchy stuff or even superstition.

holding on….by virtue of a photograph

While younger son was home we spoke about words.
Choosing one, overarching word for the year.
Or maybe more than one.
It might not be a word.
It might be a phrase.

I have instead an overarching action; burning these flower candles one at a time by the side of my bed.
A very new and radical action that shows trust in love and gratitude for all of it everywhere, past and present.

letting go…..

In praise of old people's homes

I took a lot of photographs on my trip to Bristol with the intention of making my next blogpost a pretty, witty travelogue.




                                                                     florist in Clifton

And for some reason,despite the weekend being a truly lovely interlude in the busy stuff of life, something about my reportage just did not gel.
I felt like I had lost my voice.
Quite a strange feeling.
Don't know why it happened.
Just kind of felt that the great time that I had was not what I was supposed to share.
Don't ask me who is making these rules??
But it is a pants feeling.





                                              hip light by Pipilotti Rist at Durslade Farm

Tonight is Christmas Eve and I am kind of home alone.
Ramblin' Randall has retired to bed with what may be the beginnings of a not very festive lurgy.
Hairy Hebert senior is comatose due to an overindulgence of festive fodder and The Dusty Muppet is equally out of it because he just likes it that way.
The older two legged boy is at his in-laws......very new feature.....and, the younger two legged boy is out at the pub on his annual reunion.
Always a bit of a lottery as to his condition on return.



So I find myself disengaged from Skyfall and pondering what I experienced today.
Just another vignette from the home where Aunty now lives.
But one that reinforces what I have believed for so long.
Love is all we need.
Love is always the answer.

They get a bad rap; old people's homes.
But Aunty's is a home in the full sense of the word.
Often, in the lounge, members of staff, like the cook, or staff's spouses and or children can be found doing things like singing that song from Frozen or reading the paper and engaging residents in chat and comment.
It always strikes me that surely if the cook is not cooking then the cook should be at home.
So very glad that they choose not to be.

Today there was a group of staff and residents sat at the table preparing the veg for tomorrow's lunch.
Just like families do, or used to do.
Then the sherry went round.
Or tea.
And cake.

If you really wanted to you could find cause for complaint.
Sometimes the tea is not hot,hot.
And sometimes it is a bit gnats.
But, it comes, always with kindness.

Earlier in December the same staff and residents were making wreaths to sell to raise money for the activities fund. There was much hilarity. And the wearing of baubles as earrings seemed de rigour. Staff, residents and visitors all joined in the activity, all shared in the fun, all working to the same end.
These moments almost make me want to hold my breath.
I feel as thought I am in the presence of the ineffable. In the presence of something truly wonderous and not so commonplace in the hustling bustling lives of us young uns; loving kindness.
I sit with this wish this Christmas Eve that loving kindness will flourish and spread like a virus because it is the only thing that matters. The only hope we have.



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