Visual receptors

Like a spoilt brat that does not want to go the way she is told I see a tree on the way back from the foundry and veer off. .

I am so unbelievably stressed and busy but the day is too good to miss and I have to walk Molly anyway so I drive down a road I have not been before just to see where it ends up. A path with no predicted end or puporse. I just drive and drive.

I end up at the arboretum and am so stressed and wound up about taking 1/2 hour off that I walk to the pay desk with no money and then think no I won’t go in, yes I will, then get in a complete spin and go back to the car to get money and go in anyway, rushing towards the trees.

And then nature drifts over me like mist and seeps in.



the everyday

A long time ago some friends of mine Lucy and Duncan had a hell of a time having their first baby, they had lots of complications and it was a risk for Lucy. At the same time one of the royals had a baby, I forget who it was now but there was a huge foray in the paper about it. Many years before this latest one. 
I may have missed the point but to me Lucy was the hero, she had put her health on the line to create life, she should have been in the paper. As many new mothers should be everyday.
A lot of my work touches on this story. 
The sculpture ‘Bug’ is the same. I chose the title in part to say, although to some we can seem an irritating statistic, if you look closely, like an insect, we are delicate and fragile and beautiful. Some people took bees for granted until they realized in their greed they have harmed the very things that make it all work.
It symbolizes the little people. Its about nature, you and me and the magic of the everyday.

Lament to Home

Oh england lost
my treasured friend,
please tell me.

Does your beck still run cold
over pebbles?
Do cricket whites still dot flat lime
and can you hear the clapping?

Oh my england lost
my deep embedded land
please remind me.

Do your blue bottles bump
into windows as distant sheep cough?
Do your horses swish
their tails in the shade
as tractors turn stripes for winter,
can you still smell the hay?

Oh my england lost
I am sorry
please forgive me.

I will swap all the flowers of Barcelona for
one walk through cows parsley.
I will give you the beach for the terrifying dash
over meadows with Molly, fearful of young boys
with wet mouths and big eyes.

Oh my england lost
I am sorry
please wait for me.

I’ll not again run for different grass
but wait for your spring (for however long)
and your loving summer (for however short)
I’ll not again swap dry for damp or cold wind for hot breeze
or yellow bubbles for flat brown beer.

I am yours.
My england
My oldest friend
Forget me not.

Yes I get homesick but believe it or not I am really happy here as well! I have been painting these past days and it gets me over emotional! I was painting a picture of an imagined tree, weirdly,  inspired by sitting in Miro park looking at his sculpture. The lime green in the painting made me think that I am missing the countryside, we live near a nice park Parc Del Guinardo, up on the hill looking over the whole of barcelona and the sea, its amazing. I miss the countryside at home as well but its so close I can nip out to the foundry and walk molly in the cotswolds on the way.

Painting seems to weird me out more than sculpture, I think its the colours, they made me think of aldeborough where I grew up and hanging about in the village, on the green, the cricket pitch was at the other end of this massive green and I never watched them but they were always there in the distance.

Often I played in the beck, feet cold from the running water, hours spent lifting up pebbles and cupping hands in wait for tiny fish that would get scooped up into plastic tubs from the doctors surgery. They would get hot and confused all day on the bank and then we would pour them back in again. it made me think of norfolk and gannny and grandpas house, they had sheep and horses and it was always really quite and blue bottles would fly about bumping into the window to get out, when it was open just below and they could have gone out and annoyed the horses, usualy though they got squashed with a crunchy noise by granny.

And the green painting reminded me of walks in the south west with my darling Graham and Molly and general escapades of trying to not get chased by cows, lifting molly over fences, walking for hours, all so we could enjoy a brown flat beer in a garden on the way…..happy days!!

No doubt when I am back in the green grass of home I will talk of my love of Barcelona! C’est la vie!
à bientôt

err….Castilian Carol…wrong country!

Just got back from walking the dog and feel quite at home here really, good to let off steam

El Borne. Sant Pere.

Like any big city you dont have to live in a back alley if you have the money for a view, an open space, a chance to see the sky. But even 50sq mtrs is pricy in Borne so our studio was quite posh, probably quite expensive. And it was realy done well so it was a lovely space inside. So if you can cope with the tall buildings, the smell of piss and don’t run for suburbia on seeing your first cockroach ( which surprisingly do actually live up to their disgusting tentacled reputation ). If you have faith in your clothes pegs then it is the most beautiful place to live, so close to this amazing park, the beach and the thunderous thighs of the arc. When we got here there was so much to take in I am not sure I appreciated it enough, I marveled but not loved. Now we have found all the nicer shops, pierced the steely amour of the shop keepers with our constant appearance, sussed out the nice restaurants, you could say by repetition, by being here, by it being the place we now know, its home. But just as we are feeling it we are wrenched away to discover a whole new area. And like a dog with a forgotten bone, take it away from me and I see it afresh.
Graham peering out of the window
The apartments colours
The gap in the buildings opposite where we steal our temporary light

The little but significant goings on in the alleys

and into the most lovely park

the slivery trees
the palm trees
and the shadows and the white of the sculptures and the flowers

the cardboard sleepers
the shady building

and the green lake

and the bandstand where the tap dancer congregate

I see the park with its morning outfit and now my leaving eyes have upt a notch. Like the inside flamenco dancer I am, I am emotional. Clinging to every moment as time pulls it away from me. The sound of the pigeons and the parrots, the magic of the park washed by the dark of night, just a few cardboard sleepers left. I stay till the hour of ten and then like a slipper left at twelve the magic dwindles. Not as quickly as chariots horses turn to mice but slowly as this bit of our park, this patch of our ball, turns to meet the globe of fire. The shadows get smaller, the joggers are sweating and Molly is panting. The light whitens and hardens and its time to work. But like being on a deck slowly turning into the sea, I cling onto Sant Pere with fingers squeaking down the slippery deck. I veer into a street market and watch a woman with cherries behind her ears argue.