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.

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

Birds & Beds

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.

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.

Thank you

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.