This started with the idea of a ticket, a letter, a scrap of paper with some potential, the paper holds the figures thoughts.Then listening to Caitlin Rose – Dead Flowers – Dockether song seemed to some up what I have been thinking about but not been able to put into words so well. “I got a docket in my pocket, it says all I ever want is to be free”
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.
Recently I have been consumed by 43 years of history. Dispersing my storage space, tidying, filing, bookkeeping, sorting. The stuff that goes on behind the creativity.
The last time I wrote (Barcelona blog) was 18th September 2013, can it have been that long since I have looked, since I have thought. In Barcelona I was adrift, I described myself as a dandilion seed, I felt ‘light’ and ‘so free’ it made me ‘want to cry’.
Here, now, in Winter, it has not been the same.
I have been heavy.
But in Arnos Vale, pea green garlic leaves bravely unfurl from graves, they are tender but have strength as they curl out through history. With bones below they push through last years fall, feed from it, to get to the light.
That low light has long arms and it reaches into the studio,
it warms the concrete floor and I too start to push through.
And with the light I start to see things.
And from some dark recess of my mind, my sculpture comes home.
And I am back.
With the light I can see. I can see something that I have been thinking about for years and not fully resolved. My fragment pieces contain history, they are part of a time gone, the image has moved on from this, it has been cast and is now perfect but this, like a memory, is disjointed.