Work in progress

2011-10-19T07:45:00.000-07:00

When one sets out to make a piece of work one has intention; this is merely the starting point after which anything can happen. I read this (with great relief) the other week and shall attribute the observation to the relevant artist when my memory serves me once more. These intentions can come about in different ways- the continued practice and production based on already-established themes, on gut feelings and first impressions...my point being that often one's expectations are overturned in the process of dealing with practicalities, by discoveries made through deepening one's knowledge or encountering the totally unexpected.
I have been on St Abb's National Nature Reserve now many times. Each time I visit there are people. A great many visitors are there, I believe, for that magical connection with nature that brings a feeling of solitude (not loneliness). When one imagines privacy it is usually associated with a man-made, enclosed space, a locked door. Despite the footfall, St Abb's still has the ability to enclose a human in its extraordinary space. It is not, I feel, a matter of the location being hidden or secret, but that it is enormous in its capacity to hold experience: it is old beyond comprehension and continues its monumental processes, its formations and migration, its erosion and growths; Archaeology, Geology, Biology- subjects of enormous breadth are required to deal with the conception and continual thriving of St Abb's- and all this despite, or aside from the mostly, inconsequential human element with imposes itself upon the place.
I happened upon a family at Pettico Wick not long ago- more on that in another post- the small bay is only visible from high above and from the sea and feels remote enough to make the arrival of another human feel like an intrusion. My cheery 'Good morning' was enough to send the party packing; by the time I had made my little investigations around the rocks and back I was alone.
I had entertained a piece of work communicating the thoughts and feelings of visitors and workers.
How does one go about interacting with visitors who are clearly there to avoid this kind of contact? The reason they are there seems obvious, if outwardly anti-social (as society deems people who are more inclined to solitude)and so in the act of further engaging the public with the reserve am I at odds with one of the primary aspects which is special to St Abb's- that it is possible to at least have the sensation of being alone and the opportunity for a kind of communion?
There are, though, many visitors to and through the reserve every year and many who are happy to stop and chat, I am not trying to give an impression of habitual hermitage at St Abb's. I am interested in how people engage in the place and how much they (we) are aware of this level of engagement. 'It's a nice place', is a good,all round summing-up of what is communicated to me. People watch the birds,walk their dogs, walk with family- so is there value in communicating these ideas? This residency is not about attracting wholesale, rafts of visitors to a natural theme park. I'm not around to sell the place. It's about appreciation, I think, about wonder and about that magical engagement with nature which I feel is at one level enriching but on a deeper level fundamentally important. I'm not there to tell people how to interact with nature or to make judgements on their experiences, either.
I thought, also, that I would be making work across the reserve in a way that is sympathetic to the ideology of the Trust, to take nothing away and leave nothing there. This work, however, is not the final piece, as so to speak. I find the landscape is my sketchbook, so far, and that I use the act of moving fallen branches, of twisting foliage and assembling natural materials as a contemplative process which allows me to contemplate assembled information, to experience the place for myself and to intervene in the landscape, with my own creative ideas (without permanently altering) so being part of a process of call and response with the environment. I happily continue to make work on the Reserve but don't think that it, alone, does the job of encouraging a deeper appreciation of the uniqueness of St Abb's and its importance in the wider world. Like the initial idea I had about collecting the thoughts and feelings of the humans who migrate across the surface of this piece of land, the action is not a medium that will gain any unknown knowledge or insights; It signals proof that I have spent time there,it makes me-as-artist visible and perhaps signals an awareness of the Reserve to the wider world but for the moment it creates a reason to be there which will hopefully lead to a more satisfying outcome.

Residency

2011-09-26T06:19:00.000-07:00

I began a short residency at St Abb's during the summer which began with a number of informal site visits. Some were with the Property Manager and gave me an invaluable insight into the the breadth of her responsibilities, the structures supporting the reserve, and the system that is St Abb's Head National Reserve. The Reserve does not actually operate in isolation, the community of St Abb's once relied on fishing and has a migrating population of visitors. The farms adjacent to St Abb's Head have grazing arrangements and each has an impact on the other. Thousands of walkers and pilgrims cross the cliff tops every year. The sea bird colonies, for which St Abb's Head is known, are a transient population whose natural habitat is the open sea. The birds come to nest and fledge their chicks. The cliffs, cathedral-like in their grandeur are an amphitheatre for the cacophonous tenure for only a few months before the Gulls and Guillemots leave, the Guillemot chicks enduring a traumatic (perhaps only for the viewer) rite of passage before joining their parents in the sea (I will describe this later.)
The Reserve is home to flora and fauna specific to its rough and uncultivated grasslands and coastal location. The site is not wilderness and left to its own devices would go back to woodland. It is carefully managed to preserve an environment which is both critical to certain species' survival and no longer common in the UK.
I am fascinated by the contrast between this concept of 'conservation' (which, needless to say, is vital) and the ongoing cycles of nature which create both vast and microscopic changes: Weather, tide- and here I mention briefly the geological identity of the place, the meeting point of two tectonic plates that forced the cliffs into existence and will, at some point, make The Head an island surrounded by sea, (as well as an island of carefully managed habitats for a rich variety of species.) This 'Island' is not only traversed by animal and insect migrations but by locals and visitors who enjoy the walks and by pilgrims who acknowledge the site of St Aebbe's Monastery on Kirk Hill and celebrate her exemplary Christian life. The Kirk is only one of many historic sites: Humans have enjoyed the location for thousands of years and the nature of some of the remains are still subject to conjecture.
I am aware that the aims and ideals of a place such as this can appear at odds with aims and functions of the surrounding communities; reserves must exist as designated areas which are outside our normal day-to-day experience (unless, of course, you live or/and work there.) This draws attention to the separation of human from nature and the loss of communion which can enable people the fully enjoyment of material comfort, culture, etc. while maintaining a relationship with the natural systems which sustain our existence.
I am not on a mission, I am interested. I am fascinated: The Reserve in isolation, as specific and as the facilitator for many processions and cycles.
I have tried to offer a short summary here and have omitted many thing, experiences, meeting with people, sights and sounds and hope to resolve this in the coming weeks.

2011-07-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

‘There is a profound connection between the nothingness from which we originate and the infinite in which we are engulfed.’
Prof. Jim Al Kalili

There is nothing here-
Everything is gone
Now there is space for-something
Anything can happen
Everything is happening
Nothing just- stops
Like the end of a ruler
Like a clock.
Where there is nothing
Something can happen
Everything is moving
There was something here-
Something has gone
Everything changes
Nothing remains
Nothing changes
In nothing, everything happens
Everything moves
Like the hands of a clock
Nothing never stops
Nothing is something
Nothing is everything
There is nothing here-

As I try to hold on tight to truth, to the past, to control the future, the momentary comfort I derive from a plausible certainty slips away. By embracing absence and taking things away, the emptiness remaining becomes an invitation for something else to happen, for something magical.
Everything is moving all of the time; the moment has already passed while we struggle with our labels and boxes, our charts, clocks and measuring sticks:
Stepping in and being a part of the process I am engaged and I am connected. I have disappeared, my surface has dissolved, I have expanded out of surety and stasis and can feel the edges of existence, draw across its surface till those edges disappear.

Everything is gone
There is nothing here

‘Space is fundamental in any exercise of power’
Foucault

This is the statement I submitted for my final show.
It s the document I spent most time on, in the run up to assessment and then didn't include in the show; too telling, too much of a signpost that there was actually work in the space I had occupied.
But I liked the writing process and wanted to share it; it responds to Baudrillard's degrees of simulcra, to Nancy's constantly fluid discourse, to Marcus Boon and the little Foucault I have read.

2011-05-10T12:27:00.000-07:00

In the run-up to the final show I have been given unexpected time to reflect, aware that my fellow third-years have a much more rounded understanding of their practice and the context wherein their work operates. I am heartened though, after a chat with a tutor that even my perception of this incompleteness is a sign that my understanding has grown. Self-awareness and self-evaluation being part of the process. It's the bigger picture, of course, that counts. The final show is an artifice; a deadline set in order to assess work. The work continues to grow after the show. Life after University.
It is interesting to look at the parameters set, especially being aware that one can evaluate positively or negatively; see restrictions or challenges. We currently have a close-at-hand artistic community, valuable intellectual resources, practical help and opinion in return for a modulated structure that culminates in an assessment. It is like being given a particular size canvas to work on, or finding out what a material is capable of, then pushing, perhaps, to see how far things will go. It brings up issues in self-confidence and ability to work to a deadline, to see if one is still craving a word, or two of affirmation from a tutor, to see how much the grade really matters.
I am lucky to be part of a group of people who, are for the most part, focused, able, caring but not so confident. I marvel at the lack of ego, the self-effacing and those who only dare to give a quiet voice to ambition. The show will be good, very good.
June 16th 6-8pm Squires Building (and other locations) Northumbria University

2011-03-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

Working through the bigger picture by dealing with smaller ones: I have a show to think about; I need to choose 2 alternatives from a given list of studios which will be transformed to white wall gallery in less than a blink of an eye. I have decisions to make- what to leave in and what to take out of the visual statement which will represent, not necessarily my time at Northumbria, but an eloquent expression of my lines of enquiry.
Decisions, decisions...
Not my strong point, historically, but, according to a wise person I met today, decisions should be easy.
This is news and gladly met. resistance to this information should be listened to, then reconsidered...
Why not easy? What have I met that tells me this will cost me dear? (someone must have whispered it in my ear when I was young, surely?)
So while I figure the whole thing out, reading on Gordon Matta-Clark after seeing Barbican Exhib, to deal with outer space and Susan Hiller exhib deals with inner, a book about the 'Re-Enchantment of Art' and Marcus Boon's 'In Praise of copying' all to feed my brain, soul and spirit.
I cant' sit and think too much without blowing a fuse to cut and paste to make collage from images taken from various stages of painting
John Houston apparently had, on average, 6 projects in stages of process at one go, making progress at differing rates. Inspiring. I thought I was a scatterbrain with 4, but that makes me positively linear and mundane.
It's right what is taught, the answers are in the making, fundamentally, and the other stuff hold the fragment in time and space.
Which is all very nice but quite tiring...
xxx

2011-02-22T14:28:00.000-08:00

There's a world of playing to be had from collage. I am fascinated by the possibilities, by the spaces created- little theatres, I think, that are made from the constantly re-processed images of parts of a large painting that has since been destroyed. Each image informs the next. There is a train of thought, a meandering one and always questions: 'What happens if ..?'
Or listening, watching and waiting to see if anything is asked of me.
I draw at motifs and effects, come across sensation and the familiar in the same way memory works for me; by process and also spontaneously. The images reach a point of 'finished' and become part of an archive.
The memory is living; the archive static order.
Using this blog to work through a few processes,latest statement follows:

Imagined space fabricated time relationships context emerging and disappearing motifs changing ways of seeing living copy record art archived in a grid creation archive of space sensation non-objective questioning constantly re-copy moving process regeneration of images recorded re-copied pushed through media reassembled copy expansion extraction examination copy re-copy copy re-copy copy……

Sarah Riseborough 2011

2011-02-06T05:18:00.000-08:00

If last semester was about doing, about rediscovering the space and mind to explore my artistic practice then this semester is about bringing to consciousness the processes involved.
If I have said previously that I like to share ideas and pass on information then today i am stating that it is a held belief of mine that human function is communication and perception and most of us live in a state of prescribed cognition. Communication is food, it is connection. it comes in many forms and there is a formal, institutionalised order to informations that ignors a spectrum of symbolic language that occurs in everyday life.
For example:
We learn at school.
Also communications have value. Knowledge can be power, we hold on to valuable information to retain control, to maintain ownership. Keeping ahead, ensuring security, protection. The most basic and understandable reasons mean an idea is kept devoid of life and unable to move on and be examined- why would we send our hard-won processes out into the world to be claimed by another? Why would we give for free what has cost us dear?
So, this semester I am asking questions; of my work, of my thinking and the context in which these questions are asked, and the thinking is-thinked...
So I hope it doesnt disappoint that there is no answer here, at the end of this post.

2011-01-31T05:19:00.000-08:00

Working in an environment where I'm able to free the work from the plane and format of an 'a' sized piece of paper has helped shift some other givens, around which my work can orbit, if I'm not fully conscious.
I find myself becoming excited about drawing again, about discovery rather than moving toward a picture fixed in my head. One is not better than the other, but fully dismissing one for the other was capping a process.
Currently looking at cave painting and making efforts to understand more modern art movements. There's not alot of time for blogging, most reflection is made in the privacy of a small black notebook but will post more pictures soon.

2010-10-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

Something...
...at least
Busy:
Malevich and the influence of Russian Orthodox Icon Painting: Essay
Drawing
Painting
Learning new print techniques
Talking with a broadening critical vocabulary- haltingly
Looking at artists both on the net and exhibitions
Driving

2010-09-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

I have a small catalogue of original seascape and garden paintings available. If anyone would like a copy please email your address to me at sarah.riseborough@btinternet.com.
The process of putting a catalogue together took a while; getting the images together and the information and I am very pleased with the result- thank you Kevin and Denise at Printspot for your patience!
The aim of the catalogue is to have the paintings out there working for me while I am working at university. I don't envisage approaching galleries or creating opportunities for the representational art while I am concentrating on the abstract work.
I intend to update my flickr page with more of an archive of abstract work, beginning with the first pieces and the ensuing developments. This is a bit of personal archaeology for me. I have been looking through notebooks and sketchbooks, sorting out bits of scrapbook material and filtering old, half-realised ideas and half-painted canvases. I have thrown out so much stuff! I must make space!
The new pictures on the blog are a sample of the abstract paintings, the white and gold being a detail from a later development. The image 'Composition: Squares' is being posted for purely economic reasons this week as I have a number of these prints left for sale and hope to finance my academic year with their sale. i will post dimensions and details next time.
For now, i hoe the posts will settle into something a little more coherent and orderly. i have my dance class term to begin planning and a commission to finish so still feel a little pulled in different directions; still, my attention span is not astonishingly long...

2010-08-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

Finally got confirmation tonight that I'm going to finish the fine art degree I started in 1994. That's a small part of the story.
I WILL finish that commission before I go back, don't worry.
I must pick the threads back up and make some decisions I didn't take the first time round.
Hopefully, there will by blog progress reports.
Contest is the issue, the abstract work lost its value in my eyes, as it appeared to serve a personal purpose and had limited success in finding an audience to respond to it. It floated in space, unconnected to the past or the present, so had no place in the future. The works, visually, appeared solid and ancient, but transient and formless. I could not pin down a lineage, trace the ancestry and mine the mythology. I will post a few, over time- a bit of a back catalogue alongside a few statements.
xxx

2010-08-02T07:04:00.000-07:00

Purely by accident, I found a wonderful place called Jupiterartland. It is just outside of Edinburgh and sparely signed. Well worth a visit!
Having driven through super gates we wound our way cautiously through the grounds of an elegant house, getting a look at a few of the specially commissioned sculptures. We passed a little collection of furry animals, some lovely planting, then into the visitors centre, where I confirmed our booking and was presented with a map. Among the superb, mature trees a path was laid out which took us from artwork to artwork; each one, I believe, site specific. There is, among the beautiful trees, a fabulous collection of sculpture from an array of artists; Andy Goldsworthy among them.
I was amazed; everyone was happy! The youngest climbed (trees, not art- forbidden, naturally!) our eldest was inspired to make a photographic journal and my other half, too, happily meandered along, just happy to see what came next, in our path.
Not only a wonderland of art, but low-key, light on retail, done with heart and soul in abundance. I gather a couple, patron of the arts have just opened their grounds to the public to explore on certain days of the week. I thank them, what a treat! And, good coffee, too!
Anyone in Alnwick on Wednesday, by-the-way, please drop by the market square to see our tribes dancing together at noon, and again at 3pm.

2010-07-06T04:28:00.000-07:00

Half the year gone; a heap of good intentions with it; still,a brief review of activities and I'm making a new list: Expend less energy on unimportant things; worry less; speak my mind more; ask more questions...
I have prised myself away from a neurotic surge of house-cleaning,begun in anticipation of weekend visitors; their imminent arrival has woken the dozing inner-critic (the one that wears marigolds and knows how to iron). I know if I listened, I would have the luxury of casting a casual hand about me, as I say 'Welcome', graciously; some cushion-placing and gleaming floorboards framing my illusion of domesticity and contentment; I may even have baked a cake- but, darn it, can we not leave the critics chatting in the front room, dismayed at the black marks on the wall behind the coal shovel, and we can frolic on the heath? Go paint-balling? Paint our toenails...?
It's been a grand couple of months; I've assisted in some of the organisation at a festival, organised burlesque workshops and a cabaret, taught classes, painted some, written less, but, after all that, I'm back at the Co-op, chewing my lip over the guilt of the purchase of a bottle of radioactive-green, kill everything, shine everything product, to de-gunk the entire house, and wondering when I'll fit in that essential 'big shop' this week. Sarah doesn't need this head, Sarah needs 'let's build a shrine in the garden' 'let's go out and walk in the hills', 'I know the picture I have to paint...'
Where is this head? Did I leave it in the green room at The Maltings? At St Abb's Head on the longest day? At the illustrator's exhibition at The gymnasium Gallery? If anyone does find it, will they please return it, it has much, much more fun than this one does...

2010-06-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

Because I've been working with Seahouses Development Trust on Seahouses Festival, I took the opportunity to do a bit of research on the theme of 'migration', this year's festival theme:
Migration Art was also known as 'Barbarian Art' as it was the art of the Continental Germanic peoples who moved West after the Roman retreat, and the Hun advance through Asia- between 300 and 900AD. Imagine a peoples, living under different tribal names (Visigoth, Angles, etc)and making separate journeys across Europe, whose culture of portable, functional art was its common feature. Their art was wearable, utilatarian, beautifully wrought and often became grave goods. Personal art, not at all monumental; its funtion to serve in the afterlife, rather than left behind to ensure immortality among the still-living. It encompasses different styles, being influenced through travel and trade. This kind of art was a huge influence on the makers of Christian books and documents (in the UK, for example), and their places of worship, either by design or subconsciously, and The Lindisfarne Gospels is an example; (use of gold, some of the complex patterning, and use of animal imagery).
I'm picking the Lindisfarne Gospels, because of the close proximation of Lindisfarne to Seahouses, before I paddle off to Egypt. Peoples migrate, and make pilgrammage. Egypt was dominated both, by Rome, then Greece, and at that time Christianity was blossoming there, too.
St Menas' shrine was a huge and popular complex of 3 churches, that drew pilgrims from all over the world. St Menas' flasks, which carreis blessed water, or earth, have been discoved all over Europe and are identifiable by their distintive design, impressed on the flask. This tradition of holy tokens was common, and, no doubt a source of funding from which to build greater monuments and better facilities, for the legions who were committed to these spiritual journeys. From Canterbury, and other English Catherdrals, one could purchase items made of tin, perhaps as a mark of one's efforts, or taking blessings and protections on a perilous journey? These tokens bore the images of saints, were copied, and recopied, the original portrait being subverted to the power of the iconic image and its underlying message of faith.
In Egypt, under the influence of invading forces, the tradition, at least on one area, Fayoud, the burial traditions had evolved so portaits of the dead- realistic, detailed images in wax or tempera on wood were bound into the mummy wrappings, to appear as if the person were peering from the shroud. These images we discovered, and rediscovered various European explorers, and eventually considered valuable, collectors prizes and shipped off to the wealthy to display in their fashionable homes. A shipment of antiquities, aquired by The Baron of Manouti for a German collector was lost in the North Sea in 1820 (approx)- an area of water called 'The Cemetary' by mariners, I have heard.
Back to the early hundreds BC,where I meant to land, before I was drawn to the beatiful portraits of Fayoud (which can be seen in Museums, across the world) Coptic Art, from Egypt was another great influence making its way across Europe: its distincive patterns on fabric, illuminated scripts were portable, and it can be said, these distinctive patterns are evident in the lindifarne Gospels, and others like it. The style survives through Christian church decoration, portraits of saints and other religious art. Modern coptic art, and icon painting still flourishes, and the images produced today may be from the original images made, nearly 2000 years ago.
So, my own cultural migration may not be entirely faithful- as happens with the retelling of tales; it was forged on accidental discoveries, then the force of desire to see what was over the next horizon. It only was meant as an acknowlegement to the process behind a piece of work, whether mass-produced, or unique, and i am interesteed to hear anyone's additions, corrections, comments to the blog.

2010-05-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

Painting and w/c sketches from flowers given, last week. I consciously avoided too much detail, though it would be lovely to truly capture a sparkling, white dahlia head.

2010-05-19T06:07:00.000-07:00

Announcing Seahouses Festival Open Art Competition
Themed 'Migration'
Entrants are invited to submit work in any medium, up to 24x24x24 inches by Friday the 11th of June
Entry fee £2 per work, max 3 entries (cqs payable to North Sunderland & Seahouses Development Trust)
Please check the Seahouses Festival pages on www.seahouses.org for further details
Entries to:
North Sunderland & Seahouses Development Trust Building
62-64 Main St
Seahouses
NE68 7TP
Postal entries must be accompanied by the appropriate return postage
Entries will be exhibited on Seahouses Main St for the duration of the festival and can be claimed from the Trust Building from the 22nd June
Winner judged by public vote and a cash prize awarded.

2010-05-14T07:28:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last 3 hours making canapes
If no one turns up, tonight, the pastry's on me

2010-04-28T02:11:00.000-07:00

Exhibition notice:
Small Works
by Sarah Riseborough
In The Pringle Room at Old Gala House, Galashiels

Private view Friday, 14th May- please get in touch for details
Exhibition opens Saturday 15th May and continues to Sunday 27th June

Th paintings are a mix of oil, acrylic and pastel and a range of style and subject matter. There are a handful of brand new small paintings and the rest of the collection a range of seascape and garden work.
Galashiels is worth a visit, and I do love the drive from North Northumberland, through the Borders towns to Gala- I will be there on the night of the preview, it would be lovely to see you there.

2010-04-19T03:43:00.000-07:00

The term 'artists book' from Wikipedia:

'Artists' books are works of art realized in the form of a book. They are often published in small editions, though sometimes they are produced as one-of-a-kind objects referred to as "uniques".

Artists' books have employed a wide range of forms, including scrolls, fold-outs, concertinas or loose items contained in a box as well as bound printed sheet. Artists have been active in printing and book production for centuries, but the artist's book is primarily a late 20th century form.'

I went, with a friend, to an artists book fair, (Glasgow International Book Fair) on Saturday. Held in the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow's city centre, it took place over the Friday and Saturday (16th & 17th April).
There was a great array of different artists and artists collectives and independent publishers working in a myriad of ways, for a great many reasons. Physically, the fair was a room full of tables, the visitors could investigate the work on display at each table; the exhibitors attended their own stands and were available to ask questions.
My initial impression left me feeling intimidated
Let me explain; not because of the exhibitors,who were, on the whole, very friendly and open (though some were weary and fed up, by Saturday pm!) but because I was asked to pick up and examine the works, which ranged from hand-cut pop-up images to photographs to illustrated writing to limited edition press to cartoons to sculpture from recycled books to fanzines to cards to knitted moustaches and badges. Stylistically, from clean, white concept to exercise book doodling, from precious to perverse and the ideas conveyed were similarly diverse; the exhibits were sometimes free, sometimes hundreds of pounds, or 12p.
The atmosphere glistened with creative possibilities and a hundred different skills were laid out-
The thought of picking up any examples of these unique and precious works was terrifying, and when I was invited to do so, I fought the urge to run away. All that early 'do not touch' training was showing itself; my 6 year old self shied away from the chance of touching the pretty things, in case they broke, in case she spoiled them.
Instead, I walked the room, making sure I visited each table; I fed my eyes till I felt I had permission to pick something up; start with something less challenging, a pamphlet, a postcard.
By the time i had made my second sweep, I was enthralled; one stand in particular, (whose name I've missed, because, in the ensuing excitement, I forgot to a card)saw me untying tiny books, bound in string and drawing little stories out of pockets, written on (a personal favourite of mine)cardboard labels. The artist had carved a forest from a book and written out mermaids tales. She cut out theatrical scenes and coloured fairy stories. my six year-old self jumped for joy.
I enjoyed (and bought from) the cut-outs of Sarah Morpeth (www.sarahmorpeth.com) and laughed out loud at the cartoons on Hole In My Pocket's stand (www.holeinmypocket.com). I bought a tiny publication 'Spot The Difference' from C. Herbert about her constantly dislocating joints. I agonised over zines and picked up articulate journals and keenly folded notebooks made with old envelopes, and pages from abandoned books.
Here is an acknowledgement list, as in my mind, the credits cannot match the images. Look for yourself:
www.susanmortimer.com
melanieperkins.blogspot.com
www.pennycuthbert.co.ukErinKSchmidt@gmail.com
forpub.com
www.giab.org.uk
Exhausted, I fell into a conveniently placed sofa and waited for my companion to emerge from the fray; it took some time, but that was fine, I had a crick in my neck from leaning over tables and my head was buzzing.
So many ideas, so much information. I left feeling I had been fed.
Many thanks

2010-03-30T03:10:00.000-07:00

So, did anyone get snow today? Dull and drizzling here, no matter, the 'Cheviots' commission is done and the next one on it's way to finishing, as long as I don't dally (like, blogging, not painting?).
I've a couple of workshops to rehearse for the weekend and plenty busy till then.

2010-03-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

I had to admit to a certain resistance in returning to work in the studio; I practised all manner of diversionary tactics and sketched outdoors, and in the kitchen; even in the car, before dealing with the elephant in the room (not that there was even room for a little one) that was, my farmyard of a studio.
I'm not doing farmyards down, either, I'm sure in some corners of the country there are neat and tidy models of rural industry, but, this time of year you'll be hard-pressed to find a farm that's not knee-deep in mire; and such was the state of my work space, so I have swept and ordered and turfed out and stacked and realise 10ft x 8ft is quite a respectable area to work with, and all the nicer when I can pin back the door and enjoy the spring sunshine.
This week sees me out to paint a final version of the 'Over Lyham' painting, and finishing a couple of workshops I'm delivering at a dance residential course.I've a big, mural-style painting to complete for the local Middle School, which is enormous fun- very vibrant, and, I'd like to post some fresh stuff on the 'Mama Maya' blog I've started, which is devoted more to dancing, and deal with the paper trail of receipts I appear to have been leaving, since last April.
Here's to a productive, contented week for one and all.

2010-03-16T05:04:00.000-07:00

I still have to finish this painting, and will do so from the relative comfort of the house; it is a cold, but, lovely day, today (clouding over now). The clouds were just scraping the top of Cheviot and Hedgehope, a little blue sky peeking through and the occasional splash of sun on the snow; cold on the face and hands after an hour, though, and the wind blowing my paintbox over was enough to have me pack up and go home, for the time being.
What the paintnig needs is a little row of red roofed cottages in the lower left of the picture and some more fine definition of hedges and edges of fields. I am conscious of the skyline, which is not to scale, quite, and the great, arching wave of land that crests in front of the hills is not so defined as I'd like.
I need a couple of small, flat brushes that leave a clean line, (not-to-mention more stamina for staying outside) and the self-control to leave the painting alone when it tells me to.

2010-03-09T00:47:00.000-08:00

Sketching at mo'; working towards a view of Cheviots, plus waiting for that nice, sunny day for photos at Seahouses, for another commission.
I'm contribution to an exhibition at Marjorybanks Gallery, Coldstream, called 'The Merse' though my paintings are coastal North-Northumberland so I'm clinging on to the title, tenuously.'the Merse' apparently is an ancient name for The Borders region. If Bamburgh doesn't quite count, it's on the, er, border, of it...

2010-02-22T00:35:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I suffer from a kind of 'other-headedness' which can throw my work routine and put pay to creativity quicker than a boot up the self-esteem:
'Other-headedness' to me, is the onset of a cloud of 'should'; a feeling that, whatever task I'm performing that I should be doing something else.
When the kids were younger, it was fairly simple; I was with the kids, so felt the urgency of work pressing me, taking away my concentration and, more importantly, my appreciation. When I was painting I would suffer guilt at leaving my chicks too long, or pay the price for leaning on friends and family.
Now I deal with a three-way split- guess I'm so damn good now, I get a promotion? The writing I do, or don't do, bubbles away till I get ill and have to deal with it. Great dollops of prose then need clarified, made palatable for human consumption. Teaching dance needs a regular feed, and that could be as little as a spin or two round the front room, or a session picking apart a flavour combination to see what its component parts are.
The painting is the biggest deal; I suppose I identify with it most closely. It's something I've done for a long, long time and illustrates most vividly my life experience. I serve this craft most, for, when I'm not up to scratch, it just ain't there. I can put on some music and move my muscles, stretch out and feel a little taller; I can spill a ream of angst in ballpoint pen and empty my plate, but the painting? Still a mistress, for the most part, apart from the odd apology, oil-incident, frivilous sketch. It is the least playful area of my life, even though I have come to realise how important playing is. If I hear a voice dismissing 'play' as a child's indulgence, or someone's 'too busy' I know, for a fact, dagnabbit, they need it more than I do.
Don't get me wrong, I am a fortunate, appreciative person and I really don't have a concept of what I would be doing if I wasn't doing this, right now; I just look for what works better and see that if I have been dealt good cards I want to make the most of them, not throw them away simply because I feel someone else isn't getting as a good a deal, or because I feel unworthy.
I posted this because I know this feeling can strike other folk, too and I wanted to communicate my empathy.

2010-02-09T03:39:00.000-08:00

Upxdate:
Got a rogue keyboard which refuses to print the letter betwexen z and c for me, but will spit it out, randomly, without my knowledge.
Recovering from a cold, which forced me to do some writing- fit for nothing else, apart from a little light cowering and Lemsip abuse.
Seeking respite from life's big questions this week.
I just want everything I ask for
Is that unreasonable?
Or do I really just think I want them?
You see?
No escapexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

2010-01-26T01:29:00.000-08:00

January
'I am going to play, to experiment. I am going to write...'
The thing that emerged from this seeming raft of failed intentions was that the stuff that really needed doing got started,or finished. Instead of getting myself in a pickle about what really needed to be done first, I drifted. This sounds flaky, I know, but I gravitated towards the priorities and managed a pace that was both fruitful and enjoyable. I am busy, but not frantic.
I have managed one day of creative experimentation, only. This appears to be exactly what I needed in order to put some energy back into my work/life; I am happy just getting on with a current commission.
I suppose my conclusion is,the window I imagined I'd made in order to play, simply allowed for space to be in the moment. The usual engines of deadlines and external expectations are only an anaerobic burst to get over the line. My focus is on now, not next month, or next year.
If I have finally put an end to the painful myth of the suffering artist then I have really achieved something great in my own life. I am so lucky; I paint, I dance, I write. I appreciate and enjoy!

2010-01-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

2010-01-18T09:16:00.000-08:00

It might look like there's alot of white space left on this canvas, but I feel I'm making good progress. The 1m sq takes up a wall of the studio and I have to step outside to get a good look at the work, but it is great to be able to work to a large scale.

2010-01-18T03:20:00.000-08:00

I'm about to go back into the studio, to continue with the second of 2 metre square paintings; commissions long overdue.
The sun shines, birds sing.
Keeping it simple, today, folks.
Photos later.
x

2009-12-29T10:26:00.000-08:00

Merry christmas, everyone; it is still christmas, and not just an break to tidy before new year! A thought to all who have to work in this season, when the world wants to pause for a long, deep breath...

...before embarking on resolution, new projects, fresh diaries.

The snow has, so far, not given our little corner of the North East more than a dusting; the ice has caused problems. There was, though, the most gorgeous day: sun, snow, frost, ice when I was able to get out for a decent walk:

2009-12-14T02:38:00.000-08:00

It may be cold, grey and miserable outside, but my studio is toastie warm; a bijoux 8ft x 10ft with foil-backed lining and boarded out. A halogen heater glows smugly in the corner.

Cosy, hmm? Yes, and very necessary. I have an oil painting ready for a client which WILL NOT DRY!

It has lived a gentle existence in our airing cupboard for nearly one month, with no apparent effects so it is time for a more direct approach. If I had a sunbed, baby, that little bit of paper would have been soaking up some rays, as we speak.

I'm just hoping the pictures recipient will be understanding.

With an excuse akin to 'the dog ate my homework,' I'm not convinced.

I'm off to finish a triptych so I can clear away my oils and face up to another metre-square canvas.

love to all.

2009-12-02T05:24:00.000-08:00

Back from Edinburgh exhibtion. I have deemed it a success, and thank everyone who came along to support us.

Back to commissioned work, a list of paintings I hope to finish before Christmas, and now have nothing, bar a little light dancing, to distract me till then. There is the village play, mind you; but the performance is a mere 3 days away, and I will be able stop fretting about knowing the words to 'Throw out the lifeline...'

Please come along, if you are able; performance begins 6pm at Belford Middle School and will keep you an hour, plus raffle time. There are songs, puns and dance, all for a minimal fee, besides, I have spent a week on my 'mad professor's laboratory', and I'd hate it if it went unappreciated.

2009-11-19T00:37:00.000-08:00

I've made a bit of an error, put 'Mon 24th Nov' on an awful lot of invites, for this show, causing a deal of confusion.
Solution: 2 special openings, Monday & Tuesday!
Linda laughed, when I told her.
'Just as well,' I thought; since we'll be sharing the exhibition space for a whole week...

2009-11-13T02:50:00.000-08:00

Exhibition in Edinburgh is imminent; visitors most welcome to the preview- please drop me a line and let me know.

I've not made many new paintings, have a lot from earlier in the year that haven't been viewed. I gather my collegue, Linda, is painting like a demon.

I'm having some of my canvases framed by a framer/paper conservationist in Wooler, Vincent Lomenech. He and his Wife, painter and print-maker, Olivia Lomenech-Gill are embarking on a print-making studio and framing workshop on the industrial estate. I think this is so exciting! A step towards a real cultural hub in North Northumberland. I wish them both well, hard-working people that they are.

Meanwhile, I am making my way slowly, but surely, through commissions. I want them all complete before Christmas so I can play, a little, in the new year. I haven't written anything much for ages, or taken forward painting projects. I find myself involved with alot of dancing; workshops, classes, demos and have not resisted the temptation to join in the annual village Christmas performance.

Meanwhile, the sun, it shines on the golden firs, or the mercury trunks glow through the mists and I try not to grind my teeth, greedy to capture the scene before it retreats for another year. I just want to do everything.

And manage a fair proportion of loafing while I'm on...

BTW intended to write about the Spanish Painters exhib in Edinburgh, then the National Gallery exhib, featuring the religious painting that inspired so much fevour and blissful contemplation in Medieval Europe...

...did anyone see them?

2009-10-16T04:59:00.001-07:00

Busy
Then hols
Back in November xxx

2009-09-19T10:17:00.000-07:00

I hit the wall, this week, realising I cannt be in two places at once (see earlier post) and succumbed to a 'wobble' this afternoon.
I am, only hours later, a woman transformed- I am sharing the Hexham exhibition so can flit to the art fair and do my share of standing, at the stand:
The Moot Hall exhibtion from 1pm on 28th Sept-October 4th is now a joint exhibition, featuring

Jewellery by Lucy Clayton

Textiles and paintings by Margaret Kenny

Paintings and Ltd Ed Prints by Sarah Riseborough

Normally we'll close at 5.30pm, but for Friday, when we'll open till 7pm and Sunday, we'll close at 4pm.
Lucy's website is in my links list, Margaret's work is on the 'Crossing Borders' website; flick through my online catalogue on Flickr, again in the links page.
Thank you, L & M
And, a 'Thank you' to Linda, who illuminated me in the terminology of the internet. My www.sarahriseborough.com now should point to this blog, rather than a 'broken link' message, as the website floats, inert, in cyberspace, for the moment.
Friends, matey, that's what counts. Cash is useful, friends are invaluable.
Soon,
Sarah

2009-09-17T09:53:00.000-07:00

I've just got work into an exhibition at The Eastgate Theatre, Peebles. It begins on 20th Sept and ends 5th October. I'm submitting 3 abstract works. The Moot Hall exhibtion, in Hexham, begins on the 28th October. (running almost parallel with NewcastleGateshead Art Fair). Life is quite exciting, at the moment!

Oh, and, doing some preliminary sketches for commission work, as well as finishing work on the easel...

Inter-dimensional matter transporter...

2009-09-13T13:17:00.000-07:00

..well, across the North East will do; I've double-booked. Call me greedy, but after I booked The Moot Hall in Hexham for an exhibition from the 28th Sept to the 4th October, I couldn't turn down the opportunity to have work at the NewcastleGateshead Art Fair, at The sage, from 1st-4th October.
Give a choice of puddings, always prefer a little of each, quite frankly.
I don't actually have to be at Gatehead all the time; both Mick Oxley (whose gallery is to host my work) and collegue Michelle Milburn propose to attend, all the time- only, it's daft not to show my face, it being such a good opportunity to network, and more importantly, to help!
I am at the preview, for sure, so it would be lovely to see anyone who makes the night. I will have some tickets. Get in touch if you want some. Or, come along to Hexham, it is pot luck, I will be there some days, or it will be my good friend, Tanya, (who, I suspect, will represent my work better than I).
And, of course, if anyone comes up with a matter transporter in the mean time, let me know?

2009-09-03T09:07:00.001-07:00

Wanted to post my newest creation..!

2009-08-25T14:35:00.000-07:00

...anyone notice the difference?

NHS

2009-08-21T00:58:00.000-07:00

I feel I have to write a little blog to publicly declare my support and appreciation for staff in the NHS. I could extend this to include education, emergency services, care work, but recently, the NHS has suffered so much critisism I have to speak up:
I have great admiration for the people who work for the NHS; individuals who cope with so much trauma, crazy work directives, and long, unsociable hours; people who are dedicated to caring for people and deserve a good rate of pay and due credit.
I gave birth to my 2 children in hospitals, my appendix removed, various health checks, plus both my parents have had operations and treatment. The people who helped us deserve thanks, and thanks again.
Tirade ends.

Progress in work

2009-08-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

Posting an image because I had a good painting day, today.

Culture Vulture

2009-08-13T01:38:00.000-07:00

I've had two lovely trip out, this week, and feel I have recharged some batteries in the process. On Monday I went to Edinburgh, mainly to look at The Gladstone Gallery, off The Royal Mile, (where I'm sharing an exhibition in November), but there was an opportunity to see some art, so my friend and I went to The Gallery of Modern Art on Belford Road.
I can be left feeling angry and dim, in the presence of installation work; I have to work to turn round this idea and blame the artist for not communicating well enough. The justifications I have attempted to read get up my nose. Maybe I begrudge the artist their generous fees, maybe I am not clever enough, but I think public art should speak to the public, bridging a gap of understanding; an artist as communicator, as medium. Hirst's work smacks of 'clever' to me, that ideas that were considered a joke, in the pub, have been unwittingly funded, on behalf of the public when a sketchbook and maquettes would have sufficed. Perhaps his BIG IDEA is to channel money from the witless and opportunist capitalist? Ha, ha! what a joke! See them all queuing up to buy it! I think the work is made to serve his purposes, only, though and I worked my way through 3 rooms from sheep to pill boxes fairly quickly. I do love the stature he made for last year's RA show, but I much prefer the plasticised bodies Gunther Von Hagens prepared and displayed, as they (for me) celebrate and wonder at the incredible machine which is the human body. Damien Hirst seems to say 'Look! I'm not scared, here's a corpse, euugh!' Perhaps someone with real knowledge will sidle up to me, one day, and explain Damien Hirst's work to me, an I can flush with embarassment, then look sidelong at all the poor twits who bang on about how the amount of money public galleries are willing to spend on his work.
I loved Vija Celmins' charcoal drawings of the night sky and sea woodcuts. I understand aesthetic, I appreciate good drawing, methods of production and even some narrative, you see. I'm on safe ground and can leave aside the feeling I'm being laughed at, fooled, taken for a ride. There was a room of surrealist work which led me to a poet, whose work had been illustrated by- Man Ray, I believe; he is predominantly known for photography and sculpture. The poems, by Eluard, sent me, my dears; I loved them, and the fact I happened upon them by way of an exhibition of work that did not touch me; I appreciate, but feel nothing for surrealist works and I think it's okay to say that. I'm a student of art history, see the big picture, but it don't float my boat, okay? Anyhoo, after a dreamy poetic trip in a special, temperature-controlled room (for the reader, not the pages, I have no doubt!) I was happy enough to perambulate through the rest of the building, coming to land in front of 'Pink Roses, Chinese Vase' by S.J. Peploe. I do love the Scottish Colourists for the brushwork, the vibrancy, confidence and sense of their era. Peploe's image wasn't doing anything to change the world or make a conscience-changing statement, but, for me, sang out in its beauty and lit lamps in my brain. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe beauty is an under-appreciated quality in modern art-making; appreciation of nature of re-awakening importance.
Across at the Dean Gallery, paintings on long rolls of paper by Greg Creek were divine (Darling)- meandering, impulsive, images randomly placed and precisely executed; a joy to see. I didn't understand the purpose to them, but the aesthetic and quality of drawing let me off the hook. I'm afraid I had 'gallery eyeball' by then and had to go lie in a darkened room and sip green tea, so cannot finish my description of the exhibits.
Yesterday, I headed to Cragside with another friend, my son and his friend. I went in search of some distantly-remembered face; a Millais, perhaps, or Rossetti? A pale Pre-Raphaelite portrait that had stared wistfully over my head as I wandered around the house as a student, all those years ago. I found the many Wm Morris wall papers, sighed at the stained-glass, but could only see chubby children and kittens, sorrowful dogs and slaughtered stags on the wall (not-to-mention family portraits and landscapes). I'm not making any judgements, I'm just curious as to where my mysterious lady went? Was she just on holiday, from the Laing? Is she loaned out, or sold? Was I dreaming? It was a very enjoyable visit, all-in-all and whoever put the children's quiz together, clearly has a sense of humour!

2009-08-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

I'm very happy:

I've been asked to perform (with fellow dancers) at Spittal Gala on both Saturday and Sunday afternoon. We'll be dancing on the prom, prom, prom from 1.15-ish.

I've almost finished decorating my daughter's room. She's away, this week and I'm excited about her returning AND seeing her new room.

I've finished a short story and am really quite happy with it.

The greenhouse tomatoes are nearly ready.

I get to paint (paintings) on Friday (my son will have company so I can go in the studio)

Yoga was just what I needed, tonight.

Just had to tell y'all.

2009-07-30T02:59:00.000-07:00

Belief is a force we attribute to religion. It is commonly accepted, though often unacknowledged. I know intelligent people who question given facts and think creatively, yet either willfully, or near-sightedly look over their own belief patterns. I'm not on the brink of a Big Question blog, I'm talking about what a person believes one is cabable, or deserving of.
These are simple beliefs that become strung into an equation that might mean a person gets to chuck in the job and run a bar in Acapulco, or lose their job and end up a drunk in The Angler's Arms. These beliefs have roots, and often they need to surface to be questioned, and sometimes dug up and turfed out.
Beliefs can often staunch the instinctive life, for fear, of course, that the common man (human) is an untamed beast capable of unspeakable acts. It is heartening to hear of archaeological discoveries which credit the pre-christian, pre-classical human with a gift for creativity, an instinct for nurture and working, cooperative society- See Bamburgh Archaeological Project and 'Dogger Land' (R4 Programme).
I run along a fence, myself: I hurtle (sometimes painfully) between a fatalism, which I now manage if I hold on to the belief that The Universe is looking after me (B******* to Thanatos) and then, there is the notion that we create our own universe, and unwittingly will manifest a right old heap of dung for ourselves if we don't start believing we deserve better, right this minute! This is, I admit, a far more exciting cerebral life than worrying about the global economic climate.
So, if I have a point, is it time to get to it? My point is, there is no point; we achieve something and another horizon is discovered. No 'getting there' no status quo, no 'striving towards', no 'trying to', just 'being' is a transformative process whereby thousands of cells are created and perish in an instant, and the 'now' is always a memory, past control, beyond belief. With that in mind, I have a deadline to work to, better get to it...

Beach Walk

2009-07-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

Last night, according to reliable sources there was an eclipse, visible on the other side of the world. By invitation, I walked on the beach, in celebration. These are my morning-after notes. It was about 10.45pm when we set out from the car park.
It's a far from perfect piece of writing, but serves, I hope, to deliver a few snapshots of a magical, but perhaps potentially dangerous outing..!
Walking between the light and the dark, caught between the breaking sky and its own reflection; between advancing sea and the safety of the land- not quite the sea and not quite the land; our wet foot prints melted away behind us. Took cautious note at the feet of fallen giants; their forms made seductive shapes to draw us further from the dunes.
Lindisfarne's sea-facing shore; the distant waves caught like horses in the stalls; impatient to race the course and cross the high-tide finish line.
We saw a dragon-cloud bring his night black wings across the sky and chase retreating blue and orange to the West.
We woke the birds who called out 'Who is that, who is that? Disturb the neighbourhood, would you? This is our time now. You visitors; haven't you got beds to go to?
To the friendly embers of early evening, we showed our backs and stumbled into someone else's dream:
As if the Island had declared its office hours closed, the friendly guides and pilgrims paths all vanished and the mainland lights twinkled, devilishly.
The Island said, 'you are on your own, now, kids.'
Our feet found the treacherous pits and sea-filled ridges. Fear found measureless depths, twisted ankles, drownings. We weighed our common sense and abilities against the stampeding tide; imagination conspired to put a spring in retreating footsteps.
We headed back toward the light.

Help

2009-07-21T01:01:00.000-07:00

So, in the knowledge there's a blogging crown of social networking to be had I'm after pimping this page with all the bells and whistles I can find, only- my link list doesn't link- why, why, why?
Anyone have an idea?

Birds & Beds

2009-07-16T05:04:00.000-07:00

The term 'break from work' seems synonymous with piecing together Swedish flat-pack furniture, non? Oui:
All the meant-to jobs got done in a post-paintbrush flop after (on retrospect) quite a busy, non-stop first half; luckily, (or the result of steady training and a regular chomp on an orange segment...do footballers still do that?) I like to think I scored a few goals and perhaps set up a few more. Back to me; upside down under a wrought iron implement of torture- oops, sorry, day-bed, on my mother's sitting room floor. There is a slowly seeping sensation like- like someone left the window a teensy-bit open all night when it wasn't really warm enough and now everything's a bit damp and all the enthusiasm has gone from life...no, I'm not directly blaming my mother, but I should have known...
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I could not make her life more comfortable; the woman has specialised in her own brand of self-denial and flagellation for years, even the Giant Shed of Domestic Dreams is not going to get Mum to kick back and enjoy life through the flat screen on a 'so-nearly-a-sofa-no-one's-going-to-know' 'This will solve all your problems' sodding 'Yanka' day bed. Or whatever it was called.
It is too large for the room, or was, till we threw all the furniture into the garden, apart from the TV and D.B. (I dare not say its name)
Fine, fine, and there's space to put the clothes airer (mum doesn't do outside- winter, too cold, summer, flies and pollen); fair enough, you cant actually see the telly from the high-seat chair where she usually sits, but, she says she'll manage.
Actually, technically, she can't use the D.B. yet because the mattresses are too soft, and simply eject her from semi-recline position to 'It took me 2 hours to get off the floor' position. Still she's had a lot of fun fretting about it, where it is, what people might think about it (The Furniture Police are in your area) and how much she's put everyone out, which of course, is her biggest worry.
That, and not having enough to worry about.
So, like a giant white elephant (only black, and made of metal, and not an animal at all) the D.B. squats, a memorial to well-intentioned children everywhere; I should have listened to my partner (and may have done, had he proffered the little gem before I began this whole sorry debacle); He said 'You should have bloody known.'
Sage words indeed, as the muscles in my back contort painfully with guilt when Mother announces on the phone she's moved the D.B. plus 2 mattresses 4ft across the floor, to get to the windowsill, and she's well on her way to a speedy recovery- she just needs to have a little lie down. On her bed.
Still, mothers; who'd live- no, can't go there, yet; only, I went out for a run, t'other day, nothing too athletic, I thought, a trot for 1/2 an hour; gets me out of the house an' all that, well I was on the road leading away from the village, just at a point where there's a green belt of trees between the road and the houses; a small burn runs under the road. I saw a bird a-fluttering along the bottom of the wall, clearly in distress. I could not run by, ladies and gentlemen, the clock was running, but I trapped the creature (only adding to its trauma, no doubt) and thought, after seeing it had lost most of the feathers on both wings and its tail, that I would pop it over the wall where it could find a little shelter, in which to die in peace.
I did not reckon on the feisty spirit of this little blue tit, and (it did try to peck me several times) after I deposited it over the wall, it gamely skeetered across the grass and dropped over a steep incline into the burn. Well, I could not run on, knowing this dear little thing had become the victim of a vicious double attack, by predator, then artless human ,so I heaved myself over the wall and followed the bird into the water. It was not deep, in fact, our little hero was clinging to a tiny twig in the centre of the waterway, perhaps 6 inches from the surface, It's little chest heaving with effort. I splashed towards it; it must have thought 'Oh F**k, not you, again.'
It took a while to get back up the sides of the ever-so-steep bank; I was muddied, a livid green streak up the back of my sporty shorts. I searched in vain for a little nook to place our blue tit in.
'Mother' I thought, 'She likes a lost cause.' I negotiated the wall once more and strode on with purpose.
Well, to cut a long story short, the birdy stayed with Mummy till I returned from my exercise, giving my dear old mum a chance to really fret about the dietry requirements of an injured blue tit; by the time I had returned, Ma was on the phone reporting an escape attempt and the little fellow was i her kitchen sink, pooing on the dish cloth.
I took the little champ home, where he upgraded from a teabag box to a shoebox, even survived the night, despite an enthusiastic cuffing from our pet cat. Hemade his final journey as a sought out a lady with a wild animal sanctuary, not far from where I live. She was out so I made my mind up to borrow a cage (I kid you not) from my Mother-in-Law and nurture little bluey till he mended and the bond between us was made good and he flew off, only to return and perch on the windowsill, every spring...aah, okay, took the lid off the box there, folks sorry; no what actually happened was, I took the lid off his box, to transfer him to his new, luxury 2-story wooden apartment and he'd bought the farm.
It is only by the grace of God I have two strong arms with which I can pick up sticks and beat myself around the head with both at once; saves time.
So, time off, yes, lovely, thanks. Back to the studio, phew.

2009-06-22T00:50:00.000-07:00

Well, the postcard is complete, the exhibition on the High St over; time to collect the pictures and get back in the studio. The Seahouses Festival seemed well-attended, well-received and the weather was good for us folk unable to bolt for cover, in the event of a downpour.

Thank you to everyone who stopped to have a friendly word, took an interest in the paintnig, shared their stories and kept me fed and watered. My only regret is not keeping a visitors book handy, which would have been a good record for the festival organisers.

2009-06-16T01:25:00.000-07:00

Hey! I'm going to be painting a giant postcard on the side of the limekilns, Seahouses Harbour this weekend, drop by if you are in the area.

Me? I'm off to find my crampons....

2009-06-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

See what happens when I'm away for a few days..?

2009-05-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

Pre-London art fair 'do I really know what I'm doing?' doubts are banished, no time to worry about that anymore, wrap those piccies, write that 'to-do' list, lose the the 'to-do' list and write it out again...

He says, 'stop worrying'.

Oh, okay, then, ooh, that's better; wish I'd thought of that. I am, apparently, making a big deal out of the driving- coming from a man that needs sat-nav to find which shelf the pepper grinder's on I think it's a bit rich-

Drop in and see me- stand B5 at Untitled Art Fair Chelsea Old Town Hall- there's a preview on Friday, then open Saturday and Sunday- I can email tickets, info, etc. or google 'untitled art fair' and grap some tickets from the front page of the website.

I'm looking forward to the experience, to showing my work to a new audience, to feeling the London buzz, to too many Costa coffees on the way down, and seeing some lovely folk when I'm there.

Meanwhile,

2009-05-04T02:16:00.000-07:00

I've been to a residential course; a regular occurrence; an annual pilgrimage in fact.

Ford Castle is normally packed with school children on geographical field trips; on this occasion it was transported back to a time of princesses- no, further back; to the era of the matriarchy. Goddesses walked the ramparts.

Egyptian (Arabic) dance has transformed, embroidered, informed, dominated the lives of women for years without breaking through into popular culture. Perhaps this is just as well; perhaps the images of 'Carry-On' style chest-wobbling nymphs, or harridons was a clever ruse by the Goddess to keep this delicate bloom of female empowerment protected from the cynical eye of market forces. We don't 'do' labels, Darling, unless you count Eman Zeki, costumier extraordinaire; dancer of a classical tradition, whose aim in life is clothe each client, no matter what age or shape, in a costume that will make her feel beautiful- Goddess-like.

The weekend brings together teachers and students from all over the U.K. and further afield. It is an opportunity to learn: techniques of old, or the latest in Cairo; Folkloric traditions; Belly dance flavoured with latin, with flamenco, hamming it up, or a generous potion of cheese (belly dancers do have a sense of humour!) Not only style and technique; good practise, safe dancing, performance issues; how to stand-

A willing student can be drawn down a road of enlightenment and self- awareness by a pantheon of mentors offering food for the soul. The dance can be an hour a week in the company of women, moving to nice music, blocking out the humdrum world, simple as that, no more, no less, but it will throw challenges a woman can accept and move on, or deny. By coming forward and sharing her dance with her fellows, a dancer shows an aspect of herself, allows herself to be praised, appreciated, admired; accepts these gifts and gives, in return, to the next dancer. The aspect on display might be a comfortable persona dressed for the public, but she might be a long-forgotten, or a forbidden friend who maybe has the audacity to have a mind of her own, or a repution for having an opinion. She may not even have the capacity, yet, to accept deserved praise, or permission to like herself. A student may fall at the first hurdle, to allow herself time to dance.

So, what am I barking on about The Goddess for?Well, she, to me is resident, she holds the keys to the cell, will stand up to the critic, make a gesture to the One, to the authority, the sleeping policeman. I'm not talking about parking on yellow lines or smoking behind the bike sheds, I'm talking about the spectre of body image, of body ownership, of personal responsiblilty which were all issues, mostly unspoken, present in the castle, for this weekend.

An example, just the one, before I go; a class billed as roots of the modern form of dance, the teacher moved to relax her keen and pensive students began her warm up:

'We are here,' she put her hand below her belly button, 'and 'ah' we are home.' She softened her knees slightly, her shoulders back, and down; spine aligned and feet in parallel.

Home; inside, she talks about, being present in the body, secure and centred; she is powerful but not dominant, not great by the weight of a hip belt jangling with the corpses of the vanquished, but comfortable in her own skin, safe in her knowledge, able to love.

From the castle, filled with warmth and humour, sparkling costumes, sweat and tears I return with a few aches and a folder of handouts.

Pah, I feel the magic weakening, the pull of chores and the awful prospect of the weekend suitcase. I'm going to make some notes, and, um, maybe have 40 winks to freshen up before teaching tonight.

2009-04-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, a freelance cameraman phoned me to ask if I'd take part in a local film project about the environmental heritage of North Northumberland. Well, I've met Jimmy before, through promotional work for Alnwick Garden, and thought, 'Hey, why not?' There would be, I knew, an opportunity to showcase my painting, and the project sounded worthwhile; a lot of the work included children at a local school and I think it is important to feel good about the area you live in, and feel proud. The media works to convince people that the party's always somewhere else in order to sell ideas. If you feel good about yourself, and where you live, you can take or leave the barrage of advertising angled at pressing the self-doubt buttons. Kids growing up in rural locations can be made to feel they are missing out on a shinier, more sophisticated 'lifestyle' and will be very negative about their patch. Having felt that myself, I'm very happy to see projects that celebrate the area...ANYWAY, off the soapbox, I was on the beach on Thursday afternoon, madly mixing far too much cobalt blue and alizarin crimson, fretting about painting an en plein air oil in front of camera and two programme presenters. I may have chopped every comment with a hideous self-depreciating statement as my Lindisfarne seemed less castle-like and more a table jelly, the sea was so flat it was practically concave, I ran out of 'sand colour' and dropped brush after brush into the sand. What a palaver I made, what a fuss. The idea had been that the couple interviewing me would happen upon me as I was taken by the muse, exchange a few pleasantries and say their goodbyes. This was to be linked with a piece already completed, in my home, featuring some more talk and views of the paintings. It all sounded so easy, so professional; no doubt Jimmy will edit the bumbling (on my part, both Nina and Bob were relaxed and focussed) fool to appear (briefly) cohesive and interesting.

I made reference to using the finished article to light my fire, later, so neurotic was I, by the time the filming ended. Jimmy suggested we raffle the offending (my term) article at the showing of the film, and during Seahouses festival to raise money for a local charity. I stepped back from the painting and the four of us contemplated as a low black cloud hid the last rays of warm spring sun from us. 'It needs distance.' said Bob.

'About three miles?' I thought.

Then I took my s**t-tinted spectacles off. Yes, the painting's fine.

'You need to stop saying such negative things about yourself, you aren't doing yourself any good.' The wise, good-looking, twenty-year-old Nina proffered as we said our goodbyes in the car park.

Thank you, Nina.

2009-04-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

I've had an ecclectic bunch of visitors this weekend; artists, tourists, cyclists and a trainee minister, an agreeable chap who stayed for a good hour and enjoyed the exchanges between my guests and I; hearing and contributing to the opinions, the histories and dramas that inevitably unfold when a group of people are thrown together in a different environment (I mean my studio event). He's after a rural placement and his safari of North Northumberland doesn't seemed to have put him off. I gather he'd stayed at Haltwhistle and Kirkwhelpington, too. Something of a Merchant & Ivory costume drama there, I think; modern-thinking Cambridge graduate visiting a rural backwater; I see the train pulling into the tiny station, him alighting in a cloud of steam to be met by a surly taxi driver. He is introduced to the community amidst the tutts of disapproval from the conservative local gentry, superstitious suspicion by the lumpen proletariat. On a lonely hill trek among the sheep- embroidered hills he spies a magnificent ram, horns held aloft, proud gleam in its eye; the beast moves off, stage right to reveal Miss Connie, sweet and pale, shepherdess and only daughter of the infamously fierce hill farmer; Terence Backwithers. Will the two find love in the lonely peaks? Will our young hero find his place in the country? Will the audience nod off before the end of the film? Well, I made it to the end of 'Room With A View' so I don't see why not-
He ( the real Minister-in-Training) was off to commune and roll eggs with the congregation at dawn today, then back on the train to Cambridge- Ah! Northumberland will be a strange dream by tomorrow; perhaps I'm more of a mood for a good TV comedy/sci-fi/drama- a 21st Century cleric is rocked back to 1950's England, he must find a way back to his own time or can he bear to leave the grotesque, yet compelling characters he discovers? Can he abandon Coldplay and live with the raw and plaintif crooning of Buddy Holly? Will the need for Costa coffee keep him looking for a portal in the time and space, or are the heady charms of Miss Willa and her ample stocks of Carnation condensed milk be enough to convert the misplaced Minister to a simpler, less sophisticated life? Has he a role to play in this close-knit, yet narrow-minded community? Will his outlook be an inspiration to his reluctant parish, or will his own field narrow to a mere one-acre strip, in his new, old-fashioned waking dream life?
Tune in after songs of Praise!
I think, maybe not.
He was a nice chap, though ( The real Minister-in-Training, that is.)
The reason he was at the exhibition was his hostess (the wife of Belford's URC minister) had introduced him to a series of people to sample rural Northumberland (read: out from under her feet!).
A real melting pot of folk, a web of cross-referenced associations, strangers, accidental visitors have made it over my threshold this weekend, thanks to all.

2009-03-24T03:50:00.000-07:00

So ,off to Thirsk on Saturday to deliver to UKYOUTH exhibition, then keep the momentum to get enough work together for Canterbury in May/June.

Meanwhile, April 10,11 & 12, a small open studio event at 21 West St, NE70 7QB 11-5pm.

2009-03-09T01:33:00.000-07:00

I decided not to participate in the Art Tour this year; a difficult decision as I've had an open studio event twice a year since 2002. I felt I was getting into a rut and with hindsight, the summer deadline didn't really suit my pattern of working. I decided, if my thoughts about the forthcoming event were less than positive I should give it up; for the moment, at least.

Saying that, I'm having my own little 'thing' on the 10th & 11th of April, a smaller scale do; give folk a chance to see the work I've been producing lately-

Because I have been working. Nothing like a deadline, is there? Where the absence of Art Tour left a space, opportunities have arisen. First, I booked space at an art fair; Untitled has been sending info since it began, and I bit the bullet, despite my fear of driving down to LDN myself, fear of driving back myself, car still packed to the rear view mirror- all the doubts, excuses have been swept away; I'm exhibiting on the May bank holiday weekend. We shall see how that goes.

My second opportunity is an exhibition at Stark Gallery in Canterbury. I dimly remember sending envelopes of images and information out last year without any response from the galleries I contacted; till now, that is. The 10-15 pieces of work have to be at the gallery before May 3rd. Life has just got exciting. I do have a lot of pieces of work at home- I do need, I feel, to send a cohesive collection of paintings so I'm signing off to go into the studio; but not before mentioning UKYOUTH with whom I'm exhibiting 4 canvases (or is it 6?) at the end of this month...and a commission.

I'm not complaining, you understand, just (gulp) saying 'bye for now'!

My website will hopefully be back up soon, too.

OOH it's all me, me, me...

2009-02-23T02:09:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone who attended the dance workshops on Saturday, and the hafla in the evening; especially thanks to Ali, a fabulous teacher who we hope to see more of. Thanks, too to Mags for leading our erratic drumming. Our post-workshop food was fab, too, so thanks to Paula, too!

Altogether a successful event, here's too the next!

Meanwhile, a few paintings from the last few weeks, mostly on quite a small scale, which is very satisfying to work with and gets me away from worrying too much about details that, in hindsight, mean little to the finished painting.

I enjoyed, very much, the palette of an early morning walk in the snow; the golden sunshine picking out the dried grass, the blue shadows cast on the white. So glad the spring is coming, though. I'm ready for the sun to warm my bones.

2009-01-28T00:17:00.001-08:00

On 21st Feb I've organised a dance party, a hafla, which is an opportunity for local Arabic and Tribal-Style dancers to perform (that is, both teachers and students) and for folk to come and watch, see what the whole thing is about. So what I'm saying is, 7 for 7.30 at The Ferguson Hall, Nursery Lane, Belford and £5 per ticket; feel free to bring your own refreshments.
I teach 5 hours a week, at the moment and getting into the swing of it is challenging; a few more early nights are necessary to prevent burn-out! (A collegue of mine teaches 10; I need to take some notes.)
It may seem a little confused, a little unfocused to split my career up into three (counting writing, too) but I find, if I'm organised with my time, painting, dancing and writing compliment each other perfectly; (I'm a lucky old blighter, aren't I?) It probably means I'll never be exemplary in any of my chosen disciplines but I'd have a difficult job choosing one over the others.
Point is, I've not begun painting, yet, this year (too dark, cold, wuss!) but I have sorted out choregraphy, reviewed some of my stories, so I'm not really juggling, just doing the things that are most appropriate for the time- sap is rising now, though, and the studio mucked out. I'll post any new work, meanwhile, enjoy a few class photos...

2009-01-09T05:20:00.000-08:00

Happy new year.

Let's all agree now to have a good 2009, shall we? I'm feeling moronically optimistic and don't want to be in a club of 1.

I've not got back in the old shed, yet, in fact I'm looking for bigger premises as 8x10ft has limitations for my messy creativity.

Warm, light, spacious, cheap, if you are asking and within walking or cycling distance, running water and mains electricity. Don't want much, do I? But there's no harm in asking, I reckon.

Ideally I'd have a place where I can leave more than one project out, have plenty of wall space to pin up sketches and photos and storage for an embarrassing collection of art materials, which probably will get used, ahem.

Oh, and I wouldn't mind getting my writing published, this year, please, Universe, since I'm making a list.

And yourselves, what's on your wish list? Go on, tell me...

2008-11-27T00:07:00.000-08:00

Well, it's open studio time, again; Friday 28th, Saturday 29th & Sunday 30th November then Saturday 6th & Sunday 7th December.

21 West St Belford NE70 7QB 11 till 5

This year I'm sharing a studio with Linda Scott-Robinson, a painter who wishes to escape the bonds of full-time, regularly paid work to enjoy the freedom of economic insecurity and irregular employment, of managing your own time (working weekends and evenings) and taking responsibility for yourself (it's all your fault when it goes wrong.)

Still, the painting is good fun.

Come along on the 6th and then stay for Belford's Victorian Christmas Market, follwed by our community PLAY and then the choice of either a showing of 'Mama Mia!' or a 'Mama Mia' disco- all in various venues in the village.

2008-10-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

Ive had to do a bit of driving recently- it seems to be 'the thing' after a settled, focused period of work I have to spend a similar period roaming around; delivering pictures, picking up materials, wandering aimlessly...

The driving is a treat, though, when the weather is good and the trees on the turn. No avoiding, though, I have 2 commissions, 1 of which demands more trips to the seaside, and a writing project to complete-

I did finish a screenplay earlier this year, and have edited it several times. A local independant film company are keen to make the film. The process is slow. I need fairly regular portions of reassurance and general artist maintainance to keep me productive and there have been no developments for a while- all technical stuff, far too complicated for my creative brain.

Thank goodness.

The sun has ignited the leaves on the apricot tree outside the kitchen window- 'flitter-flutter' my butterfly brain alights on a different bloom.

Someone give me back my regular sleep patterns, and maybe a regular job, with regular pay, where someone comes and whips my ass if I'm not at work-

No gratitude, these artists.

Thank you

2008-09-16T01:17:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to say 'Thank you!' to everyone who attended the private view for the exhibition 'Natasha's Garden' on Friday evening.
Despite the filthy weather, over 100 guests crammed into the room, some even braving the soggy night to look at the lovely garden.
The place was really buzzing and no one seemed to mind my social ineptitude (I have been in a shed for 6 weeks!). The exhibtion was a great success, too and buyers patiently await the varnishing, drying, or, ahem, signing of their works before delivery.
I am so happy, I kept telling people over the weekend, what a positive experience the whole thing has been, right from meeting Natasha and her family and sitting in last summer's sunshine, drawing, up to the rainy days this year, which I spent in the studio playing with cheery, vibrant magenta, crimson, madder rose oil paint.
The dam has broken now and the jobs I held back and pretended were not there have pushed into my forebrain. I will spend a few days putting my house in order and doing some lesson planning for the dance classes. I have transcripts of stories and business books to do; there are letters from school and art workshops to organise...
2 paintings to begin and finish.
I cleaned the kitchen floor this morning.
Simple tasks, completed quickly. I feel I have achieved so much. Hey! I may hang some washing out!

I will post more pictures soon.

2008-08-14T01:54:00.000-07:00

I wonder, 'has it stopped raining, yet?'
Poor Natasha- her garden is sopping wet
Poor me, I am not in it, painting, as I should be.
Thank heavens for digital photography!

2008-08-06T01:25:00.001-07:00

I feel I'm finding a style that is particular to the garden paintings and drawings; I like the kitchy-50's edge that keeps appearing in some of my larger paintings (will post soon). I feel it deals with the overwhelming amount of information there is, amongst the flowers and shrubbery.

Areas I have agonised over; 'Shall I include that? Must I be slavishly realistic?

Natasha has erected a Cath Kidson -ooh, I was going to call it a tent, there- tent, it is not- anyway, such a magnificent display of roses, red and pink, on a blue background have settled my questions for me!

I remember, as a child, I stayed at my maternal grandmothers house during the (then, achingly long) summer break. I'd be indulged outrageously for three or four days and have the run of a lovely house in a local market town; each room decorated tastefully, if of a time.

Downstairs, the front room was most certainly Victorian; Gran had an eye for furniture- dark furniture, and rich fabrics; (one steered one's attention from the plastic sewn on the edges of rugs, and the covers to hide the wear-and-tear), upstairs, though , some of the bedrooms had been furnished with sinks, to accommodate fee-paying guests, on a bed and breakfast basis ( young doctors, mostly- my gran kept up with families for years afterwards) ANYWAY the pictures in these rooms were fascinating- awful, I remember no one wanted them, when it came to finally clearing out her home. The whole picture, frame, backing, was one piece of cardboard, folded and cut and depicted scenes of open squares thronging with people, houses with red geraniumes, or cosmos-like flowers dashed over painterly backgrounds. I visited each of these pictures in turn again and again, on rainy afternoons, or pausing on an errand ('Your legs are younger than mine').

Such little, incidental pictures are coming back to me- not the whole image, you understand, but the brushstrokes, the colours, the way some forms are picked out, some discarded and dealt with using whimsical colours and brushstrokes...so I shall indulge my urge for whimsy, for fun, and a trowel-load of sentimentality and leave the botanical drawings to the botanists!

2008-07-17T08:43:00.001-07:00

That's the art tour over with- no 'phew' moment this year, strangely enough; I'm usually lying in a darkened room with a towel over my head, but so much to do, I'm straight back up to Natasha's to sketch and finishing other projects.
The little drama company I'm involved with is performing in Bamburgh Castle on Saturday morning at 11.30. come along if you don't mind paying the entrance fee to come in!
A little incident I wanted to share- at Natasha's- lovely day, had this enormous canvas propped up to paint a particularly beautiful bed of roses (Geoff Hamilton, apparently), foxgloves and huge aliums. I stopped, hearing a scuffing noise accompanied by a high-pitched chatter.
Looking up ,I spied a hacked-off looking squirrel in the lower branches of the box tree that towers over the garden. I tried to get on with my work after (I thought) exchanging pleasantries with the squirrel but it really wouldn't let it lie. It continued stamping its little feet and chattering at me; 'ah, I thought, it objects to my presence.' I moved under the tree. I peeped around the enormous trunk to see a squirrel-shaped silhouette, peering the other way around the trunk.
The chattering began again.
'Alright, alright.' I thought and abandoned my canvas, feeling the creature was cross enough to launch an assault (don't laugh, I could picture me at the vet's having the squirrel removed from my hair!). i went indoors, feeling eyes follow me across the gravel.
I took the opportunity to have a drink of water, waited a moment and returned to the door. Who do I see, glaring furiously (I swear it was!)? It was bent, peering right into the hall to where I was standing! I retreated and watched the squirrels progress from a tiny window.
It made its way to an apple tree and skirted the garden, SAS-style and disappeared from sight.
I returned to the canvas, safe in the knowledge I wasn't disturbing the locals anymore.

2008-06-24T05:18:00.000-07:00

I went to the beach this morning. My partner has been in the water 3 or 4 times over the last few days- the surf appearing after months of flat sea.

I have been busy, or asleep, and in no mood to haul my carcass to the shore to paint before now; 9.15am is hardly the dawn patrol, either.

I need to get down the coast on a sunny morning while there is swell; I have been commissioned and await a window of opportunity- like catching a wave, really; waiting for the right kind of wave, at the right point of maturity, to lift me up and carry me along.

In the meanwhile I warmed up; battering a few bits of oil paper, the tide retreating, mocking my efforts to keep up with its progress.

I looked down at the dazzling, purple geraniums on the dune and considered tackling a subject that doesn't move around so much.

I have to use the medium- oil gets away from me, has a will of its own, or at least a character that is not so personable as acrylic; which says, 'okay, you want me to be watercolour? I'll try my best.' or 'Impasto? You got it!'

Oil has been around the block. It doesn't need to prove itself. It says 'Look at these babies-' pigments glossy with oil, smells evokative of age-old tradition, secret recipies; of alchemy.

Oil does not bend to my will. I have made a deal and must respect its qualities, notice the glutinous sprawls of air-pocked white that want to be the lacy trails behind the breakers. I must measure my thinners and potions, or lose connection with the paint.

It wants to be involved in my process; suggests; points out; demands.

It mocks my yearning to pin down precise little lines of neat waves, shouting 'Look!' As a monster slaps its black hand on the shore and a comb of almost tropical-tinged water arcs momentarily, before disappearing forever.

I've come home to lick my wounds; to have it out, in the studio, with a docile, obedient photograph- one of my concerns, at least, biddable to my will.

I must get back, also ,to my garden project.

Natasha's garden having sprouted away alarmingly since my last visit.

Maybe it's me, who is standing still too long.

Art Tour Invitation

2008-06-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

The Open Studios Event organised by 'Network' has already begun for alot of artists.
My own event doesn't start till the 22nd of June.
I realised, this morning, I hadn't actually sent leaflets to my mailing list.
Details, details.
At least I've new work to show.
Interested?
Follow the distinctive yellow-and-black signage through the village to studio 54.
Belford is between Berwick-Upon-Tweed and Alnwick, on the A1.
follow the signs to 21 West St.
Opening hour 11am till 5pm

2008-06-07T06:27:00.000-07:00

As 'Art Tour' draws ever closer, my ability to concentrate diminishes; I flit form one job to another, hovering briefly before going to another more pressing task.

Whether it is clearing the ground floor, or ordering prints or getting work framed, or FINISHING PAINTINGS I can't seem to shake off the ominous sense of a deadline.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not worried, just taking one day at a time, pulling my shoulders down from round my ears when I remember.

Getting ready for a hafla tonight- that's Arabic/Egyptian for dance party; there will be attendance from the three different groups I teach, plus other teachers and their students; there will be live drummers (nothing worse than a dead drummer to bring the atmosphere down;) and food, oh, and a chance for ladies to get up and have a good old boogie.

I'm actually quite looking forward to it, just the timing of it is a little ill-planned.

It does take a bit of putting together, and I am in a bit of a flap, but it will all be over by midnight and I can get back to panicking about the art tour.

Enjoyed the garden this week, which is coming into it's own; the oriental poppies are blooming, as is the rosemerry, and a lovely pale yellow rose, which gives out the most amazing scent.

I spent a few days sketching two honesty plants- the heads are beginning to mature and colour from purple-green to pale blue and yellow- well, in my sketchbook they are!

Roll on June 22nd, that's what I say, when the house is tidy and clean, the paintings are framed and hung and I'm scrubbed and sociable- ready to meet art tour visitors.

2008-05-20T14:04:00.000-07:00

All in the name of publicity, I say:
A nice person from BBC 'Look North' came to visit today. He filmed a bit, photographed some pictures; asked some questions, then we had a nice run out to my mate, Natasha's to film her garden, hoping to wedge in a mention of her open garden (15th June).
Well it was fine; bearable- as fine as having a ruddy great camera pointed at you, can be.
It was the preparation that made me really laugh at myself, feminist, that I am, I wondered whether I should wash my hair, use some serum, you know?
I found a tube of something- a freebie from a pitying cosmetics counter goddess- that claimed 'instant lift'. I put some on my face.
The smile in the photo is a symptom of the fluid. Beware.
I used foundation and mascara (steady, girl.)
Put my hair up in an arty-looking knot.
Vanity, vanity.
(I haven't even mentioned the zip-around I did, to make the house look presentable- Germaine, close your ears.)
If only the whole minute of filming I was allocated could be directed towards the paintings, only.
We did some 'dabbing' of the paint on the canvas.
I do take my hat off to proffessionals who can paint, speak and be watched at the same time- there are folk who tour the art supply fairs doing that, all year!)
Who said women were the multi-taskers?
My left hand was scrutinised, close-up, scrubbing a pastel on some paper. Apparently I sketch in Natasha's garden.
One might guess from the film I asked a six-year-old to do some colouring in, for me. I simply cannot work under these conditions!
But insist on doing so-
Tomorrow, I'm off to humiliate myself on Radio Newcastle; again, to promote 'art tour'.
They want me to bring along my drum, make a bit on noise in a 'what-artists-do-other-than-paint feature.
I flipping paint. That's the bit I'm trying to sell. That's the main point, isn't it?
But, still I go.
I resolve to take my coin-fringed hip belt and finger cymbals, too.
I'm going to make a right effing racket.
12.15pm
Next week, I'm balancing a seal on my nose, whistling 'She'll be coming round the mountain', naked, in Grey Street, and passers by are invited to throw tomatoes for the seal to catch.
If you look closely, the art tour dates are tatooed on my...

2008-05-19T00:57:00.000-07:00

I should know better; old enough, as I am.

It was my birthday, yesterday, you see and I drank a few (ahem) glasses of cava-and-orange juice last night...

Hectic at the moment; between art tour deadline, writing, and the classes, I'm finding that weekends are often spent working at the computer. We (all members of the family involved) are also rehearsing for a performance of 'The Laidley Worm' which is to be premiered at Seahouses Festival on 21st June.

Now, some may say it was inadisable to take on another responsiblity, but when I agreed to be involved (and it is my Mother-Out-Law who writes these plays,) I had no idea I'd be writing, and that would mean another deadline!

So, we'd had quite a nice day; on the beach, my partner had participated in a 5 and a 1/2 mile run, in aid of 'Chin-Up', a local charity that runs a respite house for families with children who have special needs, (please watch out for their 14th December run, same place, Seahouses Beach, where all participants will get to wear a Santa Suit, if wished- can you imagine?) Anyway, the weather was nice, so I had a trundle out on my bike, before settling down to work.

At 5pm we rehearsed, for an hour, or so, and were, naturally, full of beans by teatime. I opened a bottle while my daughter cooked.

The rest is history.

So, this morning, I'm drinking buckets of jasmine green tea while my lucozade awaits.

I should be dashing around, being efficient or/and creative.

Silly, silly artist.

So ends my confession.

2008-05-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, the ups and downs of the artist: I get a good day's painting in, today, then burn my son's fish fingers in the process of updating the blog.

(I've binned them- okay am eating them- and have begun a fresh batch, before his stern eye catches sight of a charred corner and flips the things over, saying, 'Mu-um, you've burned them AGAIN!')

Nope, not in any of the Great Artists' bio-pics or books:

Thursday: Light breeze, nimbus clouds hooking the cobalt roof. Sought the company of seagulls on the clifftops; dolphins jumping at the head.

Studies of waves breaking over rocks.

Came home; burnt the fish fingers.

Perhaps they just left those little details out of the picture?

Not that I'm trying to compare myself, you understand, it's just, perhaps a sense of single-mindedness in one life can attract nothing but admiration. In another life can lead only to gettnig told off by a ten-year-old.

What am I doing?

Apart from burning more fish fingers?

Get me off this machine!

I've been away-hey-hey!

2008-05-04T10:25:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to post a little celebratory blog:
I've been away, all weekend, on a residential course, in Ford Castle, North Northumberland.
Dancing, not painting; taught my first workshop, attended classes with fabulously giving, talented and knowlegeable dancers, watched some breath-taking performances and danced from my heart.
A strange thing to say about belly-dancing (a term which serve the purpose of describing a dance that encompasses hundreds of styles and traditions) you might think- I suppose many who have witnessed some kind of Middle Eastern dance would imagine it is little to do with the heart, more with the chest, as so to speak.
If everything is allowed and no one's going to tell anyone else whether or not they're qualified to dance or not, then, yes, a bit of boob wobbling will come into it, (for some dancers) but believe me, it's all about communication, love and trust; about opening the heart and giving everything, and as a viewer, about allowing yourself to accept that love.
Western audiences are geared up to be passive, critical viewers. No wonder so few people are willing to entertain the idea of going to see such a dance; the conversation opened by a dancer can leave you thrilled, heart broken, filled with love, geared up to face the world!
It is an incredibly risky thing to take someone's gaze and keep it- who knows what someone might think of you, or what you might expose yourself to, in engaging in that wild behaviour!
I'm sure people could meet, have conversation, share food, have sex, all without looking into each others' eyes, but I think I may have done all these things just looking into someone's eyes.
And i don't mean cow eyed eyelash fluttering, I feel i mean, windows-of-the-soul, truthful, unconditional-trust-type looking.
Phew!
We danced to drummers, played zils, spun in the sunshine with silk veils, clashed sticks in Saudi folkloric dancing...
Happy, too happy.
happy enough to cry.
I do hope no one think s I'm a nutter, now, and doesn't visit the blog, any more!
la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
xxxxxxSarah
I'll paint tomorrow!

2008-04-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

I've made a few visits to Natasha's garden, in the past week; the weather's that bit warmer and brighter, the sea that much flatter...

Anyway, it has been a case of driving over, hoping the weather holds long enough to produce a bit of work.

Natasha walked me round, despairing at the lack of growth, the cold, and the unusually icy North wind, which has done some damage.

I can empathise with Natasha, now she is committed to opening her garden, to the public, on the 15th of June- she has become an artist with an exhibition pending:

In her mind, the critics arrive, clipboards in hands, casting hostile glances at any perceived imperfection, all the elements out of the control of the gardener, having done their worst.

I would fret about having enough new work to satisfy returning visitors, worry a new style or theme wouldn't be well-received, or just pain worry no one would turn up.

Natasha has a picture already in her mind; she paints with plants, imagining species complimenting and contrasting, ruthlessly pruning back the out-of-place or the ailing specimen.

She chooses her palette, composes, plays with form, colour and light.

Her canvas is enormous, 3 dimensional and apt to get horrendously soggy, or dry as a bone.

My materials, at least, will go in the back of my car.

I'm glad to say I haven't lost the pleasure of sitting sketching in this garden because an exhibition is planned around the work; I spent lovely summer days, last year, away from the self-imposed pressures working to exhibition, being free of thinking a work must be completed to hang on a wall.

I had a little holiday, and that feeling is still with me, surrounded, as I am, up in that garden, by the plants, the sights and sounds of wild birds, and an occasional visit, by a red squirrel.

Natasha is committed to her garden vision, probably alot more focussed, on the one project, than I- I'm sure visitors will delight in her creation, and I delight in my privileged visits, behind the scenes!

2008-03-26T02:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I gather the storms, this weekend, put pay to alot of holiday plans, but I get a real buzz seeing the sea so wild and messy.

The kids were prised from the sofa, and we all went to sit in the car, at Bamburgh, to watch the sea. The car rocked with the wind, and foam blew onto the dashboard, each time I opened the window to take a picture.

My partner and I ventured out, to lean into the wind. I wasn't as intrpid as some: I watched a figure, tripod and camera at the ready, heading down to the stag rock.

I've never seen the water at Budle Bay so close to the road, and so choppy; small waves carved their way along the bank, which is usually grassy and exposed.

Unfortunately, I lost all of the photos I took, that day, due to a misunderstanding between myself, and my newly repaired laptop. I did visit twice more, though; On Saturday we drove up the coast, looking at Embleton, Beadnell, Annstead and Bamburgh. The wind had dropped, it was sunny and the waves were more defined. I began painting on Saturday afternoon.

I like elements of the sketch: I like the immediacy of the brushstrokes, and oil suits the subject matter, for me. It slicks onto the surface, and I feel I echoe some of the movement of the water.

I want to work more en plein air- these are from a photo, and feel I can get alot of information, about the shapes the water makes, and the texture, which satisfies my need to own these beautiful patterns, but I enjoy the energy and unselfconscious mark-making of the en plein air work. I think the studio studies help me build an understanding of the patterns and shapes made by the sea's energy, but the process of working outside, and even just spending time watching the water, adds the energy to the paintings. I don't want to lose the movement and power, which I witnessed first hand, this weekend.

2008-03-18T03:18:00.000-07:00

I've been a bit under the weather. Trying not to bump into too many folk, and have to go into an explanation about my shoulder-in-spasm, (Sounds like an unpopular relation.) as it inevitably forges a pattern for the rest of the conversation...Still, (and I have been, very still.) I'm on the mend, able to put on and remove my own clothes (could have been quite sexy, but for the shrieks of pain- mine, not his, and my insistence on a little attention to detail- 'No, the other way round...)

March, I find, is a funny month, anyway; Nature stirring: lambs, daffs, birds, yet my own sap seems reticent to rise at the same rate. 'Perhaps when it's warmer/less windy/not raining- Oh, is it April, already?

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't done a stroke, this year, but I do feel something has got away from me in the past week; Outside the window, stuff happens- bursts, buds, blossoms, squawks, shags, while I have to content my drug-addled brain with Series 1 of Green Wing and a hot water bottle. with eagerness I anticipate another round of acupuncture; and with less enthusiasm, a round of muscle prodding and shoulder manipulation.

Friends call. (Call yourself a friend? Ringing me up, in my misery to tell me how many exhibitions you're booked to do, how well the painting's going?) I execute a range of moves, set to increase my range of movement, guaranteed to make me look like a duck defending its nest.

Quack.

Never mind, My dear old Ma would say, never mind. How about a nice cup of tea? That'll do nicely, for now.

Wish me speedy recovery, folks.

2008-02-27T05:24:00.000-08:00

I went to my friend's this morning. We drank tea and planned a weekend in September for an exhibition:

Natasha will open her garden ,and I will exhibit work, painting in the garden. The weekend is the 13th and 14th of September. We discussed the idea of a private view, on the Friday, but, rightly, Natasha fears for her more delicate flora, the risk of a drunken body tumbling over in the fading light (probably mine).

We have a building, in which the work will be exhibited.It does need a window and electricity, but we are high on the adrenaline of a new project, and optimistic.

It was sketching in Natasha's garden, last summer, that drew me from my studio, and back outdoors, to work again.

Her garden is freshly cut back and weeded, awaiting the new flush of growth that will overtake the narcissi and snowdrops.

Her garden, Fowberry Mains is in the yellow book, and is open this summer, for the first time.

2008-02-22T03:20:00.000-08:00

Half term is nearly at an end. I fear I'm about to go into a period of mourning; I spend too long, at the beginning of the holiday, attempting to bravely soldier on- with paperwork, with tasks that come under the title of 'pottering'. It has taken me till this morning, to embrace the spirit and have a jolly good loaf about. I know I've missed my opportunity to recharge my batteries properly

Commissions are varnished; too windy to rouse a family route march, in the name of 'fresh air', I was still in my dressing gown at 10, reading Terry Jones' book on the middle ages, a foot dangling in front of the halogen heater; a pile of dirty dishes in the washing up bowl; a pile of clean dishes precariously stacked on the draining board.

Guilt made me dress, at 10.30am- In my mind, braver souls stay in pyjamas till lunch, perhaps even not stepping over the threshold; Children sprawled on furniture, or gluing the cat onto a collage.

Secretly (till now) I have dreaded the arrival of my Mother-Out-Law, who, with a menacingly cheerful cry, would knock-and-come-in, on her way back from a dawn hike, or after tilling a stony acre before 9am, or having marked a 'solid 'A' sample', from her exam board allocation, before morning coffee.

It is not that she openly criticises my pace of life, but she represents, to me, a way of thinking, set in some women I know.

It has taken me too long, I think, to resist the urge to demure to this workhorse approach to life. I admire my M.O.L. She is an academic, a talented writer, a gardener and all round good egg. She throws herself into her work with enthusiasm, never giving anything less than her best.

I can, at last, (at least, most of the time!) shrug off the feeling that I should be ploughing the same furrow:

No longer will I take pride in having dug the whole vegetable patch. I feel no loss of face that my partner does the lion's share of the hefting, lugging and general heaving of heavy objects. My back gave in long before I stopped feeling like a lesser human, for not being able to carry a sack of coal on my back, or wrestle an ox.

I resist the compulsion to batch bake for charity, which has seen me icing cakes before breakfast, or panic buying bun cases.

I say 'no' to charities that ring and ask me to sell raffle tickets, and feel no guilt.

I step down from the bar, it's simply not my bag; I spent too long, trying to do everything, trying to be everything, an achieving relatively little.I can divide myself into artist, dance teacher, writer & mother, but fit little else into this life. I only spare a little time, occasionally, to regret the time I wasted trying to be.

I meet women very like my M.O.L. who do so much, work so hard, so selflessly, and sometimes detect the whiff of bitterness, or remember my own, wondering why everyone wasn't working as damn hard as me...

Anyway, I think I've said what I wanted to say, this morning, in a round about way, but I really must go and do something, (I think I hear my M.O.L. calling...)

2008-02-06T02:22:00.000-08:00

I added pictures to the blog, this morning, after entertaining the possibility that some readers may like to know about THE WORK.

I'm currently working on a couple of commissions, with a couple pending.

I have, of late, made trips to the coast, to paint en plein air. I was really very self-conscious, about the act of painting, but am finding it much easier now, not to rush the process of making work when I feel I may be under scrutiny- (By seagulls?!)

I especially enjoyed a foray to Bamburgh, in the wild winds in December. The experience, in the end, was all process, as the pictures were adorned with cat paw prints before drying out, unfortunately!

I began sketching outdoors again, last year, in a friend's garden:

My kids are now of an age where they are able to feed themselves, argue effectively against going places with Mother, etc. So, I was able to pack pastels and drive over the hill and sit in the sunshine, surrounded by a horticultural vision.I want exhibit the finished work and sketches sometime, perhaps in a building near the garden (It will be open for The National Gardens Scheme).

I will have some work from the garden to show on the art tour, ( details to follow) in the meantime.

I said what..?

2008-01-19T12:13:00.000-08:00

So, lovely little party; drinks on Friday, just a few of 'the girls'. Boy, was I looking forward to a bit of social...
It has been a hectic few weeks, starting classes means rehearsing dances and planning- plus a couple of commissions I'd rashly promised for the end of the month.
Yessir, get me out of the old painting smock-and-beret, and into something a little more sophisticated- something a grown-up might consider. something that doesn't sport a dollop of oil paint, pasta sauce, or mud.
Well. I woke somewhat painfully this morning, the memory of me drunkenly announcing- completely out of the blue- to a group of well-to-do and well educted women 'And I got a pasta machine for £3.50 from Boots!'
Ye gods.
Climbing the dizzy intellectual heights once more- someone just lever that wineglass out of my hand and show me the way to the kettle.
Or just keep me in my studio, where I can't hurt myself, or other people.
Crowds can watch from a safe distance, at feeding time.
ho hum.

New Year

2008-01-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! One and all (or, more likely, one and another one.)
'It's all over bar the shouting.' My old dad used to say. Not exclusively about the christmas period, you understand- about lots of different, mostly farm-related stuff. The harvest, for instance, or the sheep dipping rituals.
The saying puzzled me briefly, at each count, for with my dad's particular method of farming, shouting seeming de rigeur at all points before and during whichever task dad had employed himself to complete...
Not strictly true, actually. The shouting usually depended on the attendance, or, indeed, non-attendance of one, or even both (God help us) of my elder brothers.
Such contrasts were not unknown to me, as witnessing my pa, (always a weathered shade of pink, at the best of times), his paternal eye on some grazing stock, enjoying the serenity of the moment, then, in a flash, his head to appear is if to boil from within, the puce of blind rage, fists curled to white-knuckled tension, at, perchance, the sight of a combine harvester dancing across the top of some hedge, issuing it's precious gleening of wheat, alongside the straw; A heedless son attendant to the rhythms of a (New-Fangled) radio. Or sometimes it would take only words; the mere issue of some telephone message; (In the days before mobile phones a farmers wife may have trekked miles to deliver words of wisdom from a vet, or sought out a signature, orworse, a cheque...)
yes, farming out in the open air, the green grass, the blue sky, the blue language...fond memories- dad's little sayings- 'Oi, Buggalugs,' His term of endearment for any family member within earshot (Oh, how my mother suffered.) 'For the want of a nail...' from, of course the famous poem- and Dad's reasoning for keeping every mortal key, nail, screw and old fuse that he ever came across- pick a scrap, go on, any scrap. dad was an expert, a specialist in his firld (and it had to be a big field, because there was alot of scrap- the family, in ill-humoured moments were apt to drop the 's'- possibly in the spirit of throwing away something that was no longer needed.)
...Yes pointto something, anything, (oh, well, maybe not that- the collie killed that, this morning. Dad would proclaim 'That, now that is the longward up-adjuster for a 1936 Massey-Fergusson threshing machine...'
Fabulous, Pa, I bet the rest of it is around here, somewhere.
'And this is the rankle forstwinder for a German FirstWorld War Helmet-Shuffler.'
Somewhere in time and space, some technology would have an application for the kind of brain my Pa enjoyed. Somewhere that didn't really mind where things got put, but, had a need for the identification of randomly placed, unrelated articles. Nevermind Dad.
He landed 'farmer' instead, and a modern farming operation requires more, an eye on modern farming methods, business acumen and a nose for trends...
Oh, you know what? my youngest has turned the telly on, and Simpsons have successfully switched off my mind.
perhaps it's just as well.
I had set out to talk about being ill at christmas, and kids throwing up before opening their stockings, but, maybe there are a million other blogs recounting the same...
Ta, Dad.

All back to mine, then..?

2007-11-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

So, getting the place ready for an open studio event...
I am looking forward to getting new work back from the framers; to getting the house, (at least the ground floor,) all spruced up, to having lots of lovely things, by some very talented people, arranged in the house...
I am in utter disarray, on all levels, but will hopefully rejoin the rest of the human race next week,(always next week.)

So, what was it I was doing..?

2007-11-09T12:11:00.000-08:00

It's been a goodly while, since I've ventured up to the school gates:

Not so long ago, I was a regular; A desperado, a loner; a woman on the edge- of society, that is, and not able to see my way to breaking into the hostile-looking clusters, scattered around the yard, waiting for Bea, Henry and Lotte to finish school.

It was not their fault, I realise now- A happier woman ,am I, knowing I was never destined to fit in with a posseof polo shirts, or the chava chums, so, somewhere in between, for years I stood- wallflower of the dance, eager to fit in, to see the circle open, to embrace me, yet always deflated, rejected, returning home without my playdate confirmed.

A little exaggerated, yes, I'd sometimes bribe women to have cups of tea with me- by kidnapping their children, and forcing a social interraction.:

'Speak to me; I've been on my own all day.'

'Erm...'

So it went:

The self-torture, the feelings of insecurity lack of self-worth- I revelled in it!

Oh, how I longed for a subscription to 'Boden', wished my life involved more lunches. The more I whipped myself; flayed the skin from my bones, unable to recognise neither a character from 'Hollyoaks' or a Chanel accessory, the further I prostrated myself at the feet of a bunch of females maddened only slightly less by motherhood, than I was, myself.

What posessed this working mother of two? What poison altered her thinking so? Why did it take so long to wean myself from this strange humiliating ritual?

I actually had very little; Very, very little, in common with anyone else, save childbirth.

Severed, now- this chord. My babies past their first flush of academia; the skip merrily, on their way, in the mornings; Their road-sense assured; their image positively devalued by me being at their side.

Remember when it was not so? Remember the flush of pleasure as a little hand sought your own? As you re-buttoned a tiny coat? or shrieked, 'The Car!!!' on that daily jaunt, toward First School.

These days, I can successfully spend entire days without crossing the boundaries of the property, and look back at my regular constitutionals with the same regard my own experiences of school- some content being fun, of interest- sentimentally, too, of value- but mostly just somewhere else to go, in order to be glad about getting back home.

Aah, I see. Doomed to leap into the wheel, again, till she has learned her lessons properly- So, what, Dear Sarah, have you learned, today, at school?

1. Nobody has to like you, and in turn, you don't have to like every body.

2. The answers aren't out there- and nobody else is going to do it better than you.

3.There are rules, but they aren't the ones written on the poster in the classroom.

4. you might as well have a laugh, while you're on.

In the Summer, I celebrated. I clinked, not a few, glasses to the end of my term (never mind the kids!). Feeling like I'd got through something.

I have admitted, since, that no one made me linger, attempt conversation, invite folk for tea- I brought it on myself- for what? For the learning of my valuable lessons?

5. You are fine. You don't need anyone's approval (mostly- I am an artist, and reserve the right to bathe in adoration!)

6. You are fine. Now get on with it.

7. Everyone has got their own s**t. it is just that you forgive some folk theirs because you like them.- (that's one for just me!- make up your own mind)

I'm over this now, like a bad boyfriend- that strange addiction to pain. I'm over it. ('But I saw him on the street, today- he was with another woman...') I will acknowledge a longing, though, to be included in a social group- get a thrill at receiving an invitation, feeling liked, worthy; Even though I know my way of life, my standards and my mythology to be a world away, from this group, whose common denominator is having reproduced offspring.

Does it appear perculiar? Weak? Laughable? That a soul can be cast adrift on such territory? That someone gifted, one might say, with creative tendancies, floundered out there, rather than seeking solace in texture, colour and balance- almost flouting an opportunity to shine, for the sublime moment of being complimented for her sticky toffee pudding..?

I was standing on the dunes, late this afternoon, holding on to a piece of board with one hand, making a thick slick of oil paint, across it's surface.

The wind blew. My fingers were pink, and sore with cold.

The sea boiled.

It was definitely worth the wait.

2007-11-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

Interesting experience, last week:
Invitation to dance at a local curry house- a fund raiser (meant I had to go and say I'd do it for nothing).
A good experience, nevertheless, to a world I was sure I'd miss- the geographical fact of the matter being there are only so many performance opportunities, in Northumberland, that don't involve the phrase 'stag do' or 'phoaarrrr!'
I'd have the chance to dance to a non-dancing audience, perhaps pick up a few new class members, maybe a nice party gig...
I doesn't matter how you dress it up, what you wear, or how much you try and dance with your knees together, belly dancers have a bit of a rep, don't they?
I researched my folkloric tunes- wore appropriate costumes- still a fair showing of eyes agog and snarling women.
Cheeky. I do cheeky, yes. Mostly to the women, in fact, who will often reply warmly.
I've never jiggled lewdly at anyone (not just for the fact I'd look a tad sad, desperate, even,) but it doesn't matter- the western audience has no previous experience of this kind of entertainment.
In the Middle East, where the dance is still permitted, a dancer is prerequisit at family celebrations, and often have the same kind of following as movie stars.
(Don't get me wrong, I'm only hankering after low-level adoration, and would find constant attention and fanmail a nuisance.)
I do like a good boogie, though, and want to spread the word about belly dancing (it's common term.) It is such a feelgood activity- encourages multi-generational, cross-cultural relations, support networks and charities have blossomed, as well as being a bloomin' good laugh, and damn good exercise.
The dance is such a multi-facetted thing- all things to all people- I suppose I have no right to tell someone they've no right to disapprove, or oogle (if that's what floats their boat).
As long as no one's hoping I'll stop dancing, or telling me to go away...
I felt...naked under the glare of a greedy pair of eyes (and I'll say again- I'm not bigging up meself- I think any moving flesh would have done) and had to work hard to banish the feeling I should stop, go and put on a big coat, maybe a veil- hide myself in shame because someone's seeing me in a certain way...
(Damn it, I was going to be funny, irreverent, whatever, but have had a rant, instead.)
I stopped myself from flouncing off, saying. 'It's an artform, actually.'
I worked really hard, on my performance- practised and put together a set. I am mindful of the appropriate styles of dance.
I could have jiggled my baps to 'The birdy Song' and would have got the same response.
No, not from everyone. There were a number of folk from my class there, and they did their part- clapping at the clappy bits, and being rowdy- sharing their energy (though not their naan breads).
I haven't reached any kind of conclusion from my experience, really. (Banning blokes from these performances seems churlish.)
I just needed to share.

Just an old-fashioned girl

2007-10-30T09:14:00.000-07:00

I was at a tribal dance residential course, at the weekend. I mostly dance and teach in an Egyptian cabaret style, but have become seduced by the fusion of belly dance, flamenco, ( any style that comes to hand, really,) that is Tribal Style (or American Tribal Style, if you want to follow one particular school of dance,). I eagerly signed up to a class that promised to give my Tribal a new edge of 'Hip Hip' attitude, to be drilled, for 1 and 1/2 hours by a charming sadist (or was she an optimist? Half my age, 3/4 my height, and 10 times my stamina.) whose 'warm up' left most of us for dead, never mind her 'little combinations'...
She said. 'We'll do the worm. Just imagine you are climbing into a tight tunnel...' She demonstrated. We gamely tried to follow her. Unfortunately, I seemed to get stuck in mine, and had to engage the emergency services to pull me out. That, though, was fortunate for the lady behind me, who needed resuscitation, after an enthusiastic attempt to 'pop'.
I'm just glad she didn't.
My point being, I suppose, that, in my mind, I'm throwing some shapes on the floor, with the best of them. In reality, I'm throwing out my back on the floor, in agony.
I can, really, actually, 'lock' without appearing to be having a seizure, but won't be appearing on a bit of lino, anywhere near you, soon.

2007-10-23T10:37:00.000-07:00

I had a dream- woke up with the sensation there, behind my eye lids:
In an exhibition; a woman,a critic, I think, or a journalist, was standing in front of my work.
Her face was very close to mine. She was waiting for me to finish what I was saying- moaning about- I presume, arty things.
She said' But, That's what I love about your work, it has relevence!'
I say 'But it has no relevence.'
I am awake.
Dreams sometimes have a magical quality to them, I think; Like being a visitor to some world, with only a 2 zone pass; Places, images, symbols remain mysterious, often seductively so, and i will ponder on a dream for days...
And sometimes they are akin to being told, by a stranger, that your skirt is tucked into the back of your knickers.

First Post

2007-10-22T01:32:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Sarah; this is my first blog- Okay, not exactly my first; My really, really first was on myspace, and...well, Ididn't enjoy it very much. I don't like to talk about it. Oh, really? Well, okay- I'll tell you:

I set up my own page (lorluvaduck, little old me?) to promote myself as a painter, a dancer, and general all round finger-on-the-pulse networking creative. Without really checking out the 'scene' I joined the tens (hundreds?) of thousands of profilers, who all seemed so profficient at updating, networking...generally being hyperactive in cyberspace.

I agonised for days over a photo, then had to go and have a little lie down, after seeing myself, there, on my little screen, and knowing anyone, ANYONE could go look, and comment...I took my photo off my home page. Baby steps, Sarah.

I was not ready to jostle with the legions of razor-fringed, pouting babes, out there- this was supposed to be a serious attempt to establish my profile as a serious, proffessional painter/teacher of dance. All I seemed to have succeeded in doing, so far, was establish myspace as my untamed monster, fit to air my most groomed hang-ups, rather than promoting my bestest features.

Terri liked me, so did Toni, and Trish. Paul wanted my to listen to his songs, so did 'Bad Blister', or somesuch.

I thanked them all.

Like the party guest in the kitchen, my profile hovers by the crisps, saying 'Hi' to anyone who wanders in, towards the fridge. Folk say 'Hi!' Grab a beer, and go and join the party; which, it seems, (by the flashing, throbbing, disco-strangeness of each profile I'm invited to read,) going on in another room.

Be gentle, dear reader, make comment- I can take literary critisism, but let this myspace refugee in!