working on these gilded photos again…
I’m now running out of space in my studio for my body – every surface is heaped, including the floor, the chairs, the tables, the shelves, the drawers…
The picture shows the pile on my desk which is touching my left elbow as I write.
It is a few of the things I am putting together in my mind today: I had very many photos printed, glossy ones with twilight views of the mountain, and I want to try and find a way to integrate them into an artists’ book form with my drawings and writing.
So far so good – although really speaking, this is basically a slightly formalised pile. So at this thought there was doubt, and a light despair, and then a good friend of mine suggested that I look at the work of an artist called Helen Carnac, and I found that she has said the following wonderful and enlightening thing in an interview with ‘Norwegian Crafts’, about the work of moving things around, putting things next to one another:
‘I’m interested in combining things, showing how they move or change in relation to each other. In reality, this is a staging of the relations between things. To move things around has almost become a mantra in my artistic practice. This movement also includes me, whenever I leave the studio to participate in various projects.’
I’ve made a few experiments in finding out what happens when photographic paper and photographic prints are painted with ink
( the answer? it depends on the ink, and to the extent that I had expectations, its not what I expected …)
Today I made a new stencil shape based on the kitchen window of the cottage where I grew up, and used it to look up at the evening sky.
Exploring hope again.
So I am continuing work on my essay, writing about hope in the work of visual artists, but I’m also thinking about hope in my own work. How that might be.
I have started a short writing workshop , and have been introduced to a powerful poem by Denise Levertov, ‘For the New Year, 1981’, starting with the line
‘I have a small grain of hope-‘
The poet also compares hope to a piece from the root of an iris, where she says
‘Please share your fagment
so that yours will grow.
Only so, by division,
will hope increase’
Feeling my way towards the fine-grain texture of things, and the surprise of colour up close, and how that feels like hope.
For example, the flower of gorse in December, how a plant can flare up yellow in the grey-blue dusk light.
A fragment of another book of the dark (video), made on Mynydd Llangyndeyrn.
There is something that I like very much about this one, it may be that what I like about it is that it is so deeply imperfect, to the point of awkward.
A bitter-sharp wind. My hands clumsy, numb fingers sticking out of fingerless gloves, feet stumbling as I was turning.
[To see the best of this video, it helps if you cut down the relflected light in your room].
what is a book of the dark?
having no idea how to answer this, I have made one
it is a test or a draft
a starting point for myself
something to work from
A short video, still working with the watercolour scroll forms.
I heard a palliative care doctor talking once, she said that there are four things that people very often need to say before departing.
I do appreciate that you are reading and following my blog!
I’ve updated the page on my website ‘about‘. I wanted to be able to offer clarity – about what I do, what I am offering to you here.