St Abb's National Reserve
View from my office
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Friday, 21 August 2009
NHS
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.
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.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Culture Vulture
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!
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!
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
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.
xx
Thursday, 30 July 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Beach Walk
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.
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.
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