I have been asked a few times recently, what I paint. I have happily told the questioners that boats feature a lot in my paintings at the moment; ones from both the east and west coasts of Scotland. And then I mention the sheds, and they look slightly bemused and I feel rather apologetic. I'm not sure why this is, so I have spent some time thinking about it, as I suppose there really should be some underlying reason as to why I feel drawn to sheds, particularly ones with corrugated iron roofs. This is the conclusion I have drawn. It all goes back to summer holidays spent in Lochcarron, in Wester Ross, in what had been my paternal granny's house. Not just summer holidays, when we would spend hours on the shore turning over rocks looking for butterfish and crabs, or digging very fast to try and outwit clams which scooted down into the sand, or for lugworms, beneath their telltale casts, to use as bait on fishing expeditions. No, we were often there at Easter too, and in the winter as well. There are diaries of those holidays somewhere. One day I'll look them out. At the back of my granny's house were a couple of wooden sheds, where the garden tools and coal (I think) were kept. They were quite well-maintained, these sheds; wooden slats with sloping corrugated iron roofs. They were of no particular interest to me. It was my job in the summertime to clip the long grass away from the outer walls of the shed, so the wood would not become damp and rot. This job was done with an old pair of sheep-shearing shears. I loved using them. I learned to scythe in those summers too, when the grass was thigh-high when we arrived, and had to be cut down before it got trampled flat. There is a rhythm required for scything - enough speed is required to cut the tough grass stalks, but go too fast and you get tired very quickly and the grass is not properly cut. But the shed I liked best was the one away up at the back of the plot or land (part of a croft at some time, I suppose). It had no door, but the doorway faced away from the prevailing wind, so it was always sheltered and warm. I think it even had a little window, grimy and cobwebbed. I set up a wooden table and a stool, made from logs and planks of wood that I found. It was my den. I swept it, tidied it, put a jam jar filled with wild flowers on the table. And then I had a visitor. I think he lived in the shed next door, or under a nearby pile of branches. A hedgehog. I provided a saucer of milk, sat in the corner, barely breathing, watching, listening, drinking him in. I was in love. In my shed.
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Last weekend I discovered that it's not easy to take photographs with gloves on. The air was chilly, as one would expect at the start of February in the Scottish Highlands. The pale turquoise soft wool gloves I received as a Christmas present nearly worked, though I struggled to take the lens cap on and off. Still, some photographs were taken; more "source material", as I have come to call it, for my boat paintings. And also some photos which I think work well just as they are - like the ones above. They are bits of a boat which has been lying on top of the harbour in Gairloch in Wester Ross for quite a while now. It's a great subject - I've taken pictures of it before. I love the peeling paint, where layers have come off to show what lies underneath; the corroded metal, like verdigris - perhaps it is.
Before Christmas, at a little fair where I was showing some of my recent work, an American lady asked me why I was painting boats. I hadn't really thought about this; I like them, the shape of the them, the colours. But it is more than that. I only started to discover the answer when I told them that I used to sail. And now I have thought about it some more and these memories have come to me. I used to sail a lot when I was young. I sailed at school, in the sailing club; in a dinghy, on Linlithgow Loch, on summer evenings. And then we sailed as a family, a wee blue wooden dinghy to start with, then a slightly bigger boat, a cruiser with an inboard engine and bunk beds, a gas stove for making toast and tea and heating soup. We sailed on the Firth of Forth during term time and then on the west coast of Scotland during the summer holidays The boats were towed north and then south. Long days were spent trekking the trailer down the shore, waiting for the tide to come in, floating the boat off and then mooring her safely in the bay. I was never so keen on sailing in the cruiser. There wasn't the immediacy, the closeness to the water, that one felt in a dinghy. The sound of the water lapping at the bow, the feel of the rudder in my hand, the tautness of the sheets, held against the wind. Watching the luff of the sail for any flapping, indicating that you were sailing too close to the wind. Or the homemade woolen telltales tied to the stays, showing exactly where the wind was coming from. All these memories, there in the back of my head; there whenever I paint another boat. There is more about this in there - more for another day. PROCRASTINATION Putting off the evil hour Running away from chores Owing much to others Costing us much more. Running rings around ourselves And setting pointless tasks Stand and watch the world go by Till someone comes and asks… Is it you that does this job? Not I, you sadly say, Another does these things That I once did, one day I only think about it now Or talk about it, even Not doing things is not the way To get oneself to heaven. larch branches
litter the forest floor in arrested development – green beneath their golden siblings in the November sun. Contemplating Oddness
The odder we are, the odder we think we are, But are we odd, or do we just think because Others aren’t the same - that we’re insane, Or somewhat odder than they are? But what is ‘odd’ And what is ‘sane’? The answer is odd itself. It cannot be found, For everyone’s bound To be odd, Some odder than others Because the others are, they think, Less odd than they are. This morning I read something online that reminded me of this poem, which I wrote in my teens. I still feel the same way. I have been hearing about "Small Stones" recently - small pieces of observational writing. This reminded me of an exercise I learnt while doing an online writing course a few years ago. It was called the "Egg timer exercise". The task was to set a timer for one minute and to write down exactly what you saw. And then what you heard, smelt, felt and tasted. For a minute each; no more, no less. The aim was to switch one's brain from the conscious to the sensory - to switch off from email and Facebook, from the dirty washing in the laundry basket, the dinner waiting to be be made and the bills to be paid. And on to what was around you. Real and immediate. And then you would be ready to write. I tried it. It works. I am reminded that I should do it more often. Here is an example of my "egg timer exercise" completed on 30th June 2010. ************************************************************************************ I see the blue sky, the dazzling white of the window frames of the house, the plum tree with its burgundy leaves and embryonic plums shining red in the sun. I see the washing moving gently in the breeze, the dog scooping up guinea pig poo from the grass. I hear the dog next door barking in an empty house, a car passing, a car door slamming, a crow chattering, an aeroplane passing overhead. Distant traffic. I smell the wood of the inside of the shed, musty dustiness, grass, flowers in the garden, fabric softener from the washing. My skin. I feel the warmth of the laptop on my lap, the cool of the wooden arms of the chair against my bare arms, the bendy support of the flexible chair at my back. I can’t remember what the fifth sense is! Ah yes, taste. I taste the remains of coffee from breakfast time, blood from the inside of my mouth where I have chewed the skin a little too vigorously, a tiny taste of toothpaste from a while ago. They say if you want something done, ask a busy person. I say, if I've got lots of things to do, why don't I just go off and do something completely different? That always reminds me of the Monty Python line "And now for something completely different!", but that's a topic for another day. I am supposed to be getting organised for North East Open Studios - my little cabin opens in 10 days or so, with an exhibition of my watercolour paintings and my daughter's photographs. I have to clear out all my boxes of gubbins, sorry, art materials, give the place a good brush/hoover/clean, and hang said exhibition to its best advantage. Plenty time yet, I think to myself. I have thought this to myself many times in the past, and always end up in a last minute rush. I'm not quite sure why I am sharing this, or what the point was meant to be. Ah yes, procrastinating. But it's not really procrastinating if you do something creative, or worthwhile, or constructive, is it? Does that still count as procrastinating? Maybe. In my wisdom/procrastinating mode, I decided now was exactly the right time to put together a little collection of short stories. I've been meaning to do this for quite a while - well, since I've had enough stories written that I am happy to share with the world. So I just did it. Yesterday and the day before. Decided which stories I'd include, chose two images (my own photos) for front and back covers, edited the stories, arranged them in what I thought was a good order, made a list of contents and pressed the publish button. Done. Boy does that feel good. Today I am doing something I've never done before. Not bunjee-jumping or skydiving or even clothes shopping with enthusiasm. No, none of the above. Nor am I planning a trip to the Grand Canyon, sea kayaking around the Inner Hebrides, or going on a whale-watching cruise off the Isle of Skye. No, indeed, I am sitting with my laptop on my lap, listening to the gentle snoring of two elderly dogs, while simultaneously taking part in a Virtual Open Mic session. There. Did I slip that in quietly enough? Or did you you hear me stamping down the hall towards you? I've never been to a real live Open Mic session, so I thought I'd ease myself in gently. This one is not even occurring in the city where I live, but some hundred odd miles away. But of course, since it's virtual, that makes no difference at all. The difference is that I don't actually have to stand up in front of a room full (or even half full) of strangers and read out something I have written. No, I submitted three pieces a few hours before the deadline on Sunday evening, and now they are magically appearing on the website, in six episodes throughout today. This is the first time that Inky Fingers have organised such an event. The cafe where they usually meet is out of action this evening, hence the venue change. I did experience the thrill of seeing a wee story I wrote in Episode 1. I read it out loud to myself and the snoring dogs. And they carried on snoring in the silence, accompanied only by the ticking clock. I posted a link to the Episode on Facebook and a friend said they'd enjoyed it. Hurrah! But I have no idea if anyone else enjoyed it. I hope so. |
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