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Red chair or aqua chair

They say it’s a good time to plant seeds, in the dark of the moon.

My backyard tree has adorned herself with seeds, carmine red against the new green leaves. The parade of spring, when tulips and jonquils, bluebells and violets blossom in abundance, but magnolias petal the lawns now and bloodroot is done. Trees blossom with dangling catkins and maple keys, pink cherry flowers just starting now to shower their grace on the grass.

Leeks sprout in the forest, and the first morels emerge but – at least at this latitude – tomato cucumber and carrot are still soil-safe, imagining themselves into green, upward-reaching, blossoming beings.

Bees hum. What a comforting sound that is. This morning as I write the sunlight is so strong I can feel it singing too. Do bees hum the sun I wonder – feels like the same tune to me.

Both prayer plants went into a state of shock last year when I repotted them, then emerged in new colours to match their pot, much to my astonishment. The little one who used to be just green is red now too, blooming in my sunset window.

I have a potted rose in my morning window that is budding in rich warm yellow and opening in peach, then fully opening in white. I’ve never seen anything like this.

I planted an art show on this new moon. Delivered sixteen pieces to be photographed and framed and always this is a moment of intense complexity. As though the inner story of me in these past two lockdowns is now out of the cocoon and exposed to the light – the little idea that began on February 1 (Imbolc) and grew into a dance of four stories across time, place, intergenerational trauma and global change, and love. Love for beautiful things made by the hands of human beings, especially in times of darkness and extreme change.

To show my love for all to see – I feel raw and human and proud and frightened.

Will anyone get it, I wonder, as I leave the pieces behind. The richness of these stories, translated into seventeen paintings. I can only hope so, and craft these four stories like windows and doors that will invite people in – to see themselves reflected. The pieces, the project is about us – isolated, untouched and untouchable, locked down in place.

In the absence of ‘other’, I converse deeply with Self. Which chair feels better to me today – the red, or the aqua. And why? The answers I get can be astonishing if I’m paying attention; inward becomes outward.

We grow, just like the violets and the dandelions do, in whatever place we’re planted. They, in the starved, twitchgrass choked soil of lawns, we on this changing planet in our houses and apartments, our trailers and our alleyways. Wherever we are, with whatever is to hand we grow and blossom and the soil, the air and the people around us change, because of it.

It’s what we do – plant, grow, change, blossom. Challenged by and challenging restriction.

Another thing I’m planting is a quarterly newsletter – the very first issue, released at the end of this month (May 2021) will tell these stories about me and us. This is not the same as my blog. Newsletter is about shows, events, collaborations and projects that are in the works. If you’re on my mailing list you get very special treatment, advance notices, collaboration calls, previews …so please sign up here if you like the sound of that. You are warmly welcome.

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Earth Day, 2am

China, made from clay deposits in northern Czechoslovakia, close to the German border. From the earth, these fine, fragile things are fired, glazed and gilded, then bought by people who wish to make a ceremony of visiting over coffee. Add the story of the Paris Accords, then WWII, concentration camps, confiscation of shares, the Holocaust… intergenerational trauma.

These fragile, gentle pieces survive intact and still beautiful in the sunlight, half a world away from the little village where they were made eighty years before. This moves me.

Drawn to examine each one more closely. Where a hand slipped while drawing gold onto a tiny cup. What concentration! Essential, the steady steady hands and singular focus of each craftsperson in the gilding room. Was it a relief from worrying about what was going on around them, about what had happened to the jewish workers they had replaced? Was it a kind of defiance I wonder – making beauty in the face of death and abuse. I know, because now I am drawing their gilding work into my paintings, that their work could not have been done without love. 

Light in the darkness, love in the making of beautiful things for people to drink from, take pause with, to gather around in friendship. It was a business, too, and paid work at a time of great uncertainty.

My work here is also a business that continues through a time of  global uncertainty. I find myself isolated and in a city I don’t know, looking for new expressive work and surrendered to the fact that I cannot be in my studio to work on canvas. I think about how I love light and form – the singular focus of expressing this love, with whatever is to hand, on paper.  I find my dad’s travel watercolour set and some torn up bits, while drinking tea from an ornate china set I bought at auction…

As I draw them I discover my own fragility in the tiny cups, also my own worn toughness, my beauty. I think of trauma and how important things can happen even in the midst of it, especially in the healing of it. How we break and mend and wear through trauma, how we continue to function and grow. I think of what I’ve learned from Idle No More, and Black Lives Matter. The understandings that emerge still from The Holocaust, from post-colonial, post-apartheid cultures, from the American Civil War, the French Revolution, The Clearances in Scotland that sent my ancestors out across the sea, exiled from the land that once sustained them.

I think of time, and how as I work all of these things are happening NOW in my mind, interwoven and in conversation together. 

Some stories light up like a flash moment of insight. Others are more like a flush of colour, a scratched line. Gilding sits on the surface, a skill that improves only with practice and focus. A skill I learn now, taught by the hands and minds of the gilders in Poschetzau from eighty years ago. Steady, steady hands as their world changed, all around them.

Piece number 8, a cup and saucer; number 12 a sugar bowl and spoon…. a madness of elipses from every angle, curves and fluting, pin-stripe gilding flashing in the light, transparent white glowing blue in shadows. I am called to get it right, to honour the 80 years of dignified function these pieces have lived. How many lips to this cup? How many hands to that handle, pouring… In what country? In what language? During what conversations, and with whom?

I think of how much I miss gathering with others at table, at coffee shops, over breakfast. This hasn’t happened for over a year now, since the pandemic lockdowns began. I’ve made many little pieces on torn up bits and on a whim I lay them out on my dining room table, like puzzle pieces that connect through colour and line.

This is satisfying on so many levels – a gathering, of sorts, in my house. Now a large painting is made from eleven smaller ones, each representing a moment I would like to share, a person, or persons I would like to join with in conversation. Torn apart, but still one piece, reconstructed. Then two more large pieces, reconstructed – one dark, another light.

It makes more sense every day, this work. Each piece will be framed, and also printed in very limited editions. The reconstructed pieces will be printed on paper and possibly re-worked (we’ll see what happens), then sold in very limited editions as well. Working to get all of this happening and online for you by early June. Stay tuned here.

It is earth day, 2021. I draw and paint from pieces of china made from eastern European clay. China made eighty years ago by people with steady hands in the midst of chaos. With my own steady hands I do my best to honour them in paintings while in lockdown in my apartment, which is the top two floors of a house made a hundred years ago of red clay brick from just over there. The abandoned brickworks beside the train tracks that I walk past every other day .

All of this – china, house, paper, laptop, paintings, my steady hands, are made from earth.

And now it’s 5am; the cardinal sings outside. Happy Earth Day.