Mixed media workshop

I have been making the final, final preparations for the mixed media workshop that I will be teaching in September.
This idea was born out of the sheer number of times people have walked into the studio and wistfully express their desire to be creative and their robust conviction that they can't be.

I don't believe that they can't and it actually makes me feel really sad that they do believe it, so I set myself the challenge of gently leading them back to the joy of creating because most of us had it once upon a time.
Back when we were children.

It starts with a formula to overcome the 'blank white page' syndrome of being afraid to make that first mark.
Then mixing lots of implements and materials to provide different textures and marks and the only drawing skills required are the ones that we all had in primary school before anyone told us that " a bird, a house, a flower.....doesn't look like that."
Or maybe nobody told us those things but when shown our creations they didn't respond with the same enthusiasm and delight that we had in the making of it.
And somehow or own light dimmed a little.

It all begins with ripping pages from a magazine....any page that sings to you....either the image....or the colours....or maybe some text.
Don't think too much just rip.

Today I photographed each stage of the process, including the bit where I answered the phone and left paint to dry too long and things went a bit tits up, as they do. What I love about this whole process is that generally it's quite easy to incorporate the tits up or restore it.
 Or just damn well celebrate it.
Because after all this is just play.

And colour choices are largely determined by what is already there in the under-layers so no great decisions to make there either.

I added a mandala moon that frankly did not please my eye so I overlaid it with a white circle of acrylic......the 'mistake' is still visible but ....it is what it is ....because there are no mistakes.
None.
Just got to convince a few other people of that.

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…..