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


Lo Siento – I feel it.

I come from fields of clover
from the north.
From the west of an island
of which we share salt water.

I come from fields of clover,
I bring with me, no language.
and I am dumb
except my clay.

I come from fields of clover
and I am sorry
and I feel it
but I can still see.

I come from fields of clover
and I can see love
and friendship
and I still hear laughter.

I come from fields of clover
of soft damp lime green grass
and your streets are hard
and sometimes dark.

I come from fields of clover
and cold misty mornings
and I am sorry for questioning,
I am just trying to understand.

I come from fields of clover
so it takes me a while
to hear the swallows,
and to smell the sea.

I come from fields of clover
and inside I have passion.
But I see your passion
and I am moved.




Purpose. Freer. Adrift.

Made a mold of the most recent sculptures, Dos Cojones and Travel. Rubber went on on thursday and jackets friday by lunchtime, not very big molds but there was purpose. No procrastination. I just got in, did it, cleared up, mopped and out again.

Usually I am sick bored by mold making and I take forever but I don’t seem to here. I knew I hated it so I just got it done. When I work here its done quicker, you start and you get to the end. Ideas like Travel seem to pop out and I can take tentative steps out of boundaries. Not carefree but it is freer. It’s not playing but it maybe less restricted, more adrift.

Maybe its not the freedom, its the intensity of being adrift, you make sculpture quickly like clutching at rafts that go by to stabilize yourself, at home you feel safe on your container ship of stuff. Of phone calls and business. Of the studio, the shelves, the boxes hidden in cupboards stuffed with separation anxiety, of memories of girls gone, me’s of yesteryear in angst written dairies held onto for what? for comfort, for having been there, for marking a page.

Am I not me, now, here. Not the angst girl of 16 in the dairy, do I need to know her, I dont really remember her, she is not me now, so much has happened since I was her, she is no longer, can I go home and throw her away so my little boat remains smaller, more agile, more adventurous.

Here I have 11 boxes, 6 buckets, 4 plinths, 2 tables and 2 easels and a trolly. A van with four wheels to put it all in. Not forgetting my gorgeous boyfriend and sometimes faithful dog. With these I am who I am now and it can be just as much.

Love is……. seeing your boyfriends shirts hanging out of your balcony window when you return home from work.

my little boat person being cast

Two Balls… Dos Cojones

“Cojones is a Spanish word for denoting courage when used in the phrase “tener cojones” (equivalent to English “have the balls to”) or testicles. It is considered a curse word when used by itself as an expletive in Spanish. In English, as a loanword, it means courage, brazenness, “nerve”, “guts”, etc.”

I started out with the intention of making the piece called Dos Cojones as I always heard it as meaning big balls which I now know to be “grandes cojones’ which doesn’t sound as good as Big Balls. Anyway the piece is about what people said then ( what ever it was ) in Los Lobos when men jumped off rocks to surf in shallow water above scratchy volcanic rock, think there were boulders as well but cant see in these vids
So, in a long about way I dont know what to call it now
Cojones ( which would be rude here )( I think )or Two Balls

I like the fact they are boules ( a man’s game here ) as I wanted….want to paint them playing at some point.

note to self….people laugh in the same language