Friday, June 16, 2017

Character forming teeth.



Ever since I arrived back in New Tolsta I find myself with an almost constant fixed grin, there is much that brings a smile to my face. There is only one small problem with all this grinning and that is the state of my teeth. There are fast becoming what I would term as character forming teeth.
 I’m old enough to remember character teeth from the days when both chewing and pipe tobacco were readily available along with gob stoppers and sherbet dabs. As a child in the late 50’s I found myself fascinated by adult’s mouths and in general the older they were the greater the intrigue. Mouths full or not so full of discoloured, misshapen and rotting teeth. Sure there were dentures, very obvious false teeth but these were still seen as a luxury amongst the poor of rural Scotland. I well remember one elderly neighbour whose top set of teeth would constantly be dropping down but it didn’t seem to impede the art of conversation as she nimbly pushed them back into place with her lower lip. On the neighbouring farm Cathy Helm had all her teeth out as a wedding present from her father, she was only eighteen. Neil our 80 year old shepherd made do with a handful of discoloured stumps to chew his tobacco and was still able to hit the spittoon with remarkable accuracy. Then there were those who seemed to have more than their fair share of teeth their mouths crammed to overflowing while others had fangs that sprang out to meet you like a blown over picket fence. People seemed defined by what was in their mouth as much as the utterances that came out of it. My own front milk teeth left me a gap through which I could fit a sixpence and my grandmother was delighted to point out that I would never worry about money. This did not signify that I was destined to become rich, simple that I would not be troubled by money. On my first visit to the dentist when asked to open my mouth wide I screamed so loud that my mother came rushing in from the waiting room to discover just what sort of torture I was being subjected to. The dentist looked alarmed and meekly protested that he hadn’t even touched me yet. When asked why I had screamed I replied that I’d been told at school that a trip to the dentist was always painful so I thought it best to scream in preparation, before it really started to hurt.  When my two front milk teeth dropped out and new teeth came through I retained and even larger gap through which half a crown would easily pass. The dentist identified that I had a small jaw which required extraction of one tooth top and bottom on each side. I remember every suck, twist and crunch as the dentist took a firm grip of the pliers and pulled.  This procedure was repeated for my second teeth but that time I was given gas and felt nothing having been well drugged beforehand to the point were getting from the car to the dentist surgery was a giddy affair. In time my three wisdom teeth were removed and in my mid-twenties I lost a lower molar which gave a grand total of twelve teeth pulled and those that remained were well filled. In those days it was common when discovering a small cavity to drill a massive hole leaving only a thin outer casing of dentine, so it is not surprising that years later when eating my healthy muesli breakfast it suddenly seems to contain lumps of walnut shell. I no longer eat any cereal with dried bananas in it having lost the outer portion of two teeth.

The first time I saved the surprisingly large lump of tooth and tried sticking it back with super glue; it only lasted until the following morning so I headed into Stornoway to register and make an appointment with the dentist. Registering was fine but there was a waiting list, a two year waiting list! Well I figured the damaged tooth didn’t look too bad and there was no pain so I’d wait. Eighteen months on the letter arrived the week I’m due to head back to Brittany so I call in to the surgery and explain I won’t be able to make an appointment till next spring. That’s fine but just as well I called in otherwise I would not have been confirmed as being registered with them. On returning this year one of my first port of calls was the dentists only to be told that they have my name on their files but I will have to be re-entered on the waiting list……, another two years. This would perhaps explain why here in the Outer Hebrides even with a large new dental training centre having been built alongside the hospital that character teeth remain such a common sight and that I will soon be mistaken for a local.Character forming teeth.

Hebridean Dreaming: Back home.

Hebridean Dreaming: Back home.: Mid May and all I felt was total frustration at travelling south back across the channel to Brittany rather than north to Tolsta. I had a...

Back home.


Mid May and all I felt was total frustration at travelling south back across the channel to Brittany rather than north to Tolsta. I had already found myself close to tears on several occasions during the latter half April when I allowed my thoughts to drift to the Outer Hebrides.

 The exhibition at the Victoria Gallery in Bath had been running since the end of February, ending on May 10th and according to all involved had been a great success. More people got a chance to see my work than during the past 25 years of holding shows so that can only be seen as positive. I continued working on the needlework casket at the gallery, completing all four sides and ready to attach the braid however I longed to be stitching in the peace of my studio and not under the watchful eye of the general public.


Over the winter months Steve had continued the interior work on my new studio on Lewis and I was eager to see it in the flesh rather than a downloaded mobile phone snap shot. All that remained was to glue and pin hardboard flooring before I could start to install my studio furniture.
 The weekend spent back in Brittany was taken up almost exclusively with packing my newly acquired VW Transporter van, and when I say packing I mean every square inch. The vehicle took on a lower profile even before I started loading up a stack of large canvases onto the roof, wrapping them in a double layer of plastic, plenty of parcel tape and a cat’s cradle of rope that would ensure safe passage during the long drive to Ullapool. While overnighting with my brother in Cornwall I managed to squeeze just one more thing (a small gothic embroidered prayer chair) into the front seat of the van in the hopes that I myself could also if needs be sleep there with head tucked in-between rosewood legs.
 I was impatient to be heading north and determined to make an early start so I said my goodbyes the night before and pulled out of the driveway at ten to five with the curtains still firmly close at my brother’s bedroom window. The sun rose over the Tamar Valley then sunk again beyond Launceston through thick fog to be reborn as I climbed towards Oakhampton. Progress was good at this hour of the morning as I sped through the West Country leaving both Devon and Somerset behind by eight o’clock but coffee would be required before long. Although there were speed limits due to road works the traffic thankfully kept moving and with detour into Lancaster to fill up with fuel I found myself south of Glasgow by two o’clock. It was now totally possible to make it to Ullapool but could I even make it for the evening ferry. Speed restrictions on the A9 made that unlikely and as I approached Ullapool the ferry could be seen pulling away from the dock; I would be spending the night crammed in across the front seat of the van.

I found a perfect van camping spot high up on the track leading to the towns recycling and waste disposal depot with a view far out over the sea and while I have certainly spent more uncomfortable nights it was wonderful to be woken at half five by the reflected sun in the wing mirror that heralded a glorious day to be crossing the Minch. An early boarding meant I could get my favoured seat in the quiet area opposite the large fish eye lens photo of my beloved Garry beach where soon I hoped to be cutting my peat.

Friday 26th May. Another beautiful day; having completed the hardboard floor I returned to the peat bank in the early afternoon cutting 300 peats and then a stroll down to the sea. The water was bitter cold only accentuated by the heat of the day but I managed a brief refreshing dip. The days are wonderfully long and having been here only a little over a week I amaze even myself with just how much I’ve managed to do with the vegetable garden back in production and potatoes, peas and cabbages planted.
Wednesday 7th June. A glorious day with plenty of high cloud and a light breeze that kept the midges away. I’m really encouraged by how much things have grown apparently this winter was quite mild and there were no bitter east winds to burn back the spring shoots so the planting I’ve done over the past ten years is at last beginning to make a show and I can even boast of having trees……small trees. The ground dug out to build the studio has created two large banks which in themselves provide added shelter and perfect planting space; just now they topped with a forest of foxgloves.
 I don’t buy shrubs preferring to take cuttings from anything that looks to be doing well in the local municipal planting and Co-op car park. Although the plants are small they acclimatise well and I can overplant to help with getting them established. I despair of Tesco plants selection, they are obviously fans of global warming if they think that fig trees are going to produce beautiful dusky purple fruit as illustrated on the label and their aubergines simply haven’t sold.

Friday 16th June. Already mid-June and I feel like I’ve only just arrived although I do recognise that I haven’t been idle. The studio is more or less ready to roll and I need only chose at date for next month’s opening. Tomorrow sees the grand opening of Grinneas nan eilean, the islands open exhibition at Stornoway’s art centre in which I submitted three oil paintings and a chance to meet up with other arts and craft people.    


Thursday, April 20, 2017

Thank you.

Thank you or thanks…….., such an English thing, and often used or overused much like sorry. If we give our thanks at every possible opportunity this might be taken as good manners or it might just be seen as dulling down the sense of being truly grateful. I would say thank you to someone who had saved my life but perhaps not to my brother for having cooked us a meal. In that case the thanks would be taken as read and need not be heard. My brother cooks a meal while I cut the beech hedge, all part of the working day each has his job and when all is working well within a close team there is no need for thanks.
So with that in mind I would now like to thank all those who have taken time out over the past two months to visit my exhibition at the Victoria Gallery in Bath. There have been many who have travelled a considerable distance to spend time to stand in awe of the intricate stitching and marvel at my dogged persistence over the past three years to have produced such extra ordinary pieces of work. In recognition of this two magazines have chosen to run articles which appear in this month’s issues of Selvedge and the Embroiderer’s Guild magazine.
The sale of work has been good considering that there is a 42% in commission for the gallery. We must accept that in any form of retailing there will be such mark ups.  During time spent in the gallery the staff have been charming and helpful at every possible opportunity. I have been faced with an almost constant round of questions and comments from visitors. “You must have tremendous patients” is amongst the most common but in truth I have very little, what I do have is a tremendous curiosity to discover just what I am capable of creating. The excitement is continually present as I stitch to see just what change a few minutes with thread and needle will produce.
On show as work in progress has been a stump work casket which has been perhaps the star attraction. My line of research for this took me almost immediately to the Victoria and Albert Museum and the most exquisitely fine work done by Martha Edlin at the age of 11 years old in 1668. The casket which I had no intention of trying to reproduce is in perfect order and seems to have miraculously retained its original colours. I decided to stay clear of the human form but to concentrate on birds and butterflies in order to incorporate the widest range of colours from my stock of yarn. The box itself had been made over in Brittany by my friend Simon who in his retirement enjoys the challenge of something small scale rather than oak framed windows and doors. The bank of seven small interior draws I veneered in choice woods and turned up minute boxwood handles as well as lining the interiors with some old floral material discovered when recovering a Victorian easy chair. I had just enough old linen left to act as the support material and started by trawling through my Audubon’s bird book for ideas. On the lower half I kept to marshland and wading birds, and on the sloped section I turned to birds perched in the trees while the lid was reserved for birds in flight. Having drawn out my rough sketches I then turned to stitching on white cotton all the birds that would appear as raised work.
Starting with the two small doors then front slope and sides I spent the next three months over winter in Brittany and Cornwall stitching in the backgrounds. The result when fixed to the box was a riot of sumptuous colour, packed full of intense detail, a real feast for the eyes. However that was not the end of it as there remained the top and the entire back panel which owing to my attention being taken up with the exhibition in Bath looked like another three month project. The top came together reasonably quickly as the birds had already been stitched into place. I finished this off during the first week in Bath but then discovered it to be slightly too small length-ways so when fixing the embroidery I was obliged to cut each piece separately and even add a little more stitching at either end.       
I've been working on this 17 th century style casket for close on six months and the final back panel is nearing completion. Thanks to the best part of a day spent at the V&A Museum I have now settled on how I will construct the braid to finish all the outer edges. I am not a great fan of touchy feely museum experiences but the chance to have a go at making a short length of braid as used in the 17th century enabled me to log and retain the technic just to the point where I could have a go using some tweed wool yarn. 


The alternating mix of colours should be a perfect way to frame the work.

There is a certain degree of selfishness involved in launching into such creative works in that I always consider the finished item will be for myself which more or less counts out any idea of taking on commissions. I had hoped to organise the continued exhibition of the six biblical works but this has proved to be too difficult for a man with my limited experience of modern day communication. So I will be taking them back to the Isle of Lewis where the idea of stitching using Harris Tweed yarn first bore fruit and either display them at home in New Tolsta or look for a suitable Hebridean exhibition venue. I am very conscious that I should have already been cutting peat by now and that it will be later on in May before I can attempt that if my back will stand it. There is so much to return to since this year I move my studio from the depths of Central Finistere to the splendid isolation of New Tolsta. To at last have a real studio with space to wield a brush and stand back from a larger canvas will be such a treat. I have plans to paint that have been brewing on the side for almost three years during my period of stitching. I can’t imagine throwing in the needle just yet but my creative output will I’m sure diversify once more.          

Friday, March 17, 2017

The Islands are calling.


Mid-March and the islands are calling, I’ve been away for over four months and still I must stay down south for another two months. If I didn’t have an exhibition in progress that requires my attention I’d be heading north right now. If April turns out to be dry then the call will be even greater as I have peat to cut this year, but I must wait until mid-May before the van is packed with my art materials to set my new studio.
 2016 saw the building of my very first purpose built studio and during my absence Steve has carried on through the dark winter months to get the interior insulated, electrics and plumbing fitted and the walls dry lined with larch boarding for the workroom.
There will be little signs of life in the garden as yet with buds firmly closed for at least another month before the risk of bitter winds subside. Two years ago I sowed masses of foxglove seed which gave a wonderful display during the summer months and into autumn. This year the show should be even more spectacular with the new planting area around the studio liberally scattered and good deal of daffodils planted. Unfortunately the bulbs will be over by the time I arrive. 
I planted about sixty beech trees, around forty as a hedge down the north side of the vegetable garden and the rest scatter in places that I hoped would afford some shelter. Gardening this far north and with harsh winter coastal gales is not without certain restrictions but all is dependent on shelter. One row of shrubs will not suffice as a wind break so a band of planting three to five meters in depth is required before it begins to act as protection for more tender plants. 

The orientation of the house and barn at No 17 New Tolsta is south facing which does little to interrupt strong winds from the North West however the land slopes down to the east and the croft which means I have selected that lowest area to create my vegetable garden. Even so it requires some protective netting and one year I recall a late summer breeze so strong it blew the cabbages out of the ground, since then I’ve learnt to heel them in well and bank them up. Fruit bushes seem to do quite well and I have high hopes for the gooseberries that put on good growth. The best production however seems always to come from the rhubarb although they do need checking that no rabbits have tunnelled under and made their nest. Rabbits are a continual problem for gardeners and crofters when even in the village cemetery the long buried are at times no longer at rest. Last year I waged war and managed to trap and dispatch a dozen or more. Two made a delicious hot pot and the rest went to feeding the local hoody crows and buzzards. This year I’ll be late to arrive so while the man’s away the rabbits will hopefully not do too much damage.

I try each year to let out the house and during the summer months hope to welcome those tourists who venture this far north, however while five years ago they came now there are no takers. I realise times are harder and people will often elect for guaranteed sun, but judging by the amount of television interest I would have thought someone would have wanted to discover that true croft house experience. Escape to a world were coastal wilderness is paramount and television, telephones and internet connection simply don’t exist. Or are we all wired up?        

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Time to name the animals.

                                                                                   TIME.
                                               “Give me the serenity to sit with canvas and wool,
                                                           the courage to keep stitching,
                                                 and I will show you what a difference time can make”.
Luckily I have never found a blank canvas, paper, room or computer screen threatening. There has always been ideas right from my very youngest years and my attention has always been drawn to the visual. Finding things to fill our time is never a problem today, there is always someone keen to beg steal or borrow whatever we have available. Our allotted time is precious to us but also profitable to others. What we choose to do with it is often not straight forward as a living has to be made. Finding free time is often the first step to creation itself and it is often the question people ask when they see one of my stump work embroideries for the first time, “how long does one like that take?”
The rough sketching started for Adam naming the animals with a potentially crowded image but that would work within the medium of woollen stump work tapestry. The foreground would simply be crowded with life and some would indeed be emerging from the ground. Since this is from a time before the fig leaf I felt it prudent as with all other historical images to place one animal strategically in front of Adam. This animal turned out to be a small horse-like creature but before the development of hooves and now only found in fossil form. To give a sense of the process of naming Adam holds aloft that comical little bird the ever popular but now endangered puffin on his left hand. God is in the top right quarter and during the drawing I felt his outstretched hands must be presenting the next creature to be named and it turned out to be in alphabetical order with a python. As usual nothing was written in stone and during the assembly many things would be altered, added or removed. During this constructive process it is important the work out the three dimensional or raised nature of the image and in this respect it is very much like creating a stage set with backdrop and side wings to give depth.
Having completed Adam and the adjoining creatures I drew out the next batch of creature to be stitched on the separate small frame and included in this was the head of God. Faces are always a delicate part of an image and to obtain an expression in wool over a matter of a few square centimetres is not always evident and can significantly change during the padding out process. I had already decided that the bird life would play a major role in adding colour and while the brilliant red flamingo stood to the right before the golden robes of God there would perhaps need to be a counterbalance of colour to the left over and above the striking white horse. Having stitched and stuffed the animals in the lower right corner I found that there was significant room within the central ground into which I would be able to fit a goodly amount of life by raising the horizon and coastline. My aim now was to fill the image with as diverse a mix of wildlife as I could manage. I worked from the foreground back placing animals and birds wherever there was space and with an eye on colour and contrast. With each rise and fall of the needle there is a precision that influences where the next stitch will be placed and while focusing on such a small area I retain a consciousness of the overall picture.
     
As I look at the image before me that has over the weeks been slowly revealed I find myself impressed with the work and the beauty of something that demands such a high input of my time. There seems today to be a tendency for exhibitions and installations to be extra ordinary impressive events on a grand scale that more often than not are one artists idea carried out by a large team of out-workers. The pace of life today is often at a break neck speed and so to catch the eye of the public, critics or press it is assumed that large scale plays an important part. However one must never forget the small gem like icons with an intimacy that pulls you into a magical world.  What I find impressive with my current work and which I hope will impress those who eventually see it on exhibition is that it is the creative hand stitching work of just one person over a three year period.
If you had shown me this work several years ago and told me that I would be doing it I would have said no way but then life and creativity is never a straight forward predestined path.     

    

Saturday, March 11, 2017

ROARING SUCCESS


My wool work embroidery exhibition “Following a thread” was opened on the evening of February 24th with well-chosen words from Polly Devlin. I’m told the evening was a roaring success by those who know about these things. To go by the genuine comments of marvel and wonderment of my stitching during that evening and what I’ve heard since I have to believe that it is true, those viewing my work and who are the type to voice an opinion seem all to be enthusiastically positive. The comment “these are amazing!” came from the far corner of the gallery as a middle aged man in long raincoat spoke to no one in particular but all within ear shot. He later congratulated me with a sense of real joy and said he would most definitely be back.


I’ve spent a couple of days each week in the gallery talking to visitors stitching when possible and signing books and it has be very satisfying to hear all that has been said. The first evening when returning back to friends by bus it hit me, the culmination of three years’ work in virtual isolation and the intensity of that effort spilled over into tears; the times I caught myself thinking I must show a particular piece to my mother like all children do when they recognise an achievement in whatever medium. There are so many people no longer with us who I know would have loved to have seen this work. There is no call for praise but when a young punk says “respect due man” my chest swells. Who would think that woolly biblical illustrations could provoke such reaction and yet when I look back on the extra ordinary amount of hand stitched work even to me it seems jaw droppingly remarkable that I could have done it. The most often voiced comment is you must have tremendous patients and I have to reply no, anyone who has been in a queue with me whether that be traffic jam or supermarket checkout will know I have a very low threshold for the non-creative but for the process of creation thankfully I have that patience in abundance.  I also have to reply in the negative when people ask me if I am religious as in having a belief. I suppose not believing in God could in itself be regarded as a belief but there is disbelief in their voices that anyone who has created such time consuming and intense “Old Testament” images was not driven in some way by a religious faith. The only faith I have is in knowing that I have the creative drive required within me to complete the task. Yesterday I gave an hour long talk to a packed audience in the gallery and at the end one woman took it on herself to thank me and there followed a round of applause, so from that and many other comments I take it that the talk was a success.


None of this would have come about if it had not been for the encouragement of my good friend Deidre Mc Sharry who skilfully managed to convince the Victoria Gallery to give me a show. It dawns on me that they too must have recognised a talent that over rid the need for qualifications when they didn’t question the fact that I possessed not even “O” level art. Proof if proof be needed that in these days of becoming indebted by further education there is, certainly within the art world nothing like simply getting on with it and doing the work.