studio evening May 28 2020

My place of work on the evening of a day of warmth towards the end of May. This month has seen day upon day of gloriously fine weather.The evenings have been particularly beautiful, calm and filled with birdsong; the bees working the cotoneaster outside the sitting room window do not leave their labours until late, so can be heard humming throughout the evening hours.

On my drawing board lie drawings made of eggs; the lower image showing 'looking glass' eggs, that is, drawings made of decorated eggs, drawn from my imagination, inspired by the oriental glass egg which can be seen gleaming softly in the tranquil evening light. I am looking forward to making further drawings of decorated eggs; eggs with landscapes drawn upon the surface, when I receive the Japanese papers, as the lokta paper, which I am using at present, is too soft; the fibres easily disturbed. It is good to have these drawings to work on, however, whilst I await the arrival of the Japanese paper and the Eyewitness Handbook; I am also moved to procure some plain wooden eggs to draw upon, having first rendered the surface with gesso. I would love to try silverpoint, but will begin with graphite and colour pencil; after all, the decorated eggs may not be as I wish them to be!

These small drawings, despite the fragile surface of the lokta paper, give me much pleasure to make, and I am reminded of the delight I have in Japanese cups and saucers, particularly those with delicate little landscapes painted thereon . I remember wishing to make a series of photographs entlitled, 'mountains, lakes and little houses', the series documenting the painted cups and saucers I have in my possession; I suppose I could yet fulfill that desire.For now, however, I shall refrain and direct my attentions towards the drawings, it is enough to fill my workplace with frail, small drawings, a plethora of 'painted' eggs.

studio afternoon May 28 2020

My workplace on a breezy, sunlit afternoon in May. We are experiencing a run of fair weather; the days are akin to Summer days, and our little garden is burgeoning with new growth. As mentioned previously, the ox-eye daisies are at full throttle; a mound of snowy white blooms massed over the path. Buttercups and pink campion, the elegant  lustred bells of the tall campanular we brought from the lodge in Hampshire, columbine and thick grasses; all are flourishing and gladden my heart when I sit out in the garden.

I am restless, about to begin new work, awaiting the arrival of the Japanese papers and the Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness Guide. There are preparations to be made; tracings of the outlines of birds eggs as depicted in my old books- I can at least make a beginning, although the 'collection' of tracings will not be completed until I have in my possession the Eyewitness Guide.

Small pieces of tissue paper to make tracings of the eggs are needed, so, under the supervision of our gentle tabby cat, I begin to tear down large sheets of tissue. It feels good to be making these preparations, and although I am a trifle fidgety, it is the positive restlessness I experience just before embarking upon a new series of drawings.

Do I need new pencils? Choosing and purchasing new pencils is one of life's pleasures. One of the preparations I shall make is to sort through my pencils and select 'egg' pencils; subtle ochres, velvety browns, greeny blues and ink blacks. As I sit to make this post in my partner's little study at the back of the house, I can hear the flutey sounds of a blackbird in the garden; it seems most appropriate to be about to embark upon a series of drawings of eggs at this time of the year.

studio evening May 26 2020

On the drawing board lie my old books on bird's eggs and my Observer's book on astronomy; I do also have an Observer's book on bird's eggs, but have frustratingly misplaced it. I have made a beginning to the long series of drawings of bird's eggs, by tracing the outlines of some thirty eggs on tissue paper, to be transposed onto the Japanese paper when the paper arrives; I have, with great excitement, ordered a pack of fifty sheets, which I should be able to tear down into four pieces, thereby yielding some two hundred small sheets.

I have also made a return to drawing imaginary configurations of stars on black paper, whilst I am awaiting the arrival of the Japanese papers, although I may work on both series of drawings concurrently. It may be that I make drawings of the named constellations on black paper; I would love to do this , but am uncertain about my capabilities. Even so there is something about the connectedness of stars and eggs which stimulates my mind, and makes me long to depict the named and 'real' as well as the imaginary.

I did make a series of 'looking glass', or painted egg drawings; I have in my possession a glass egg, with a scene of mountains, lakes and little houses painted upon the inside with great delicacy and exquisiteness. I believe it is Japanese. Using it as inspiration, I drew a small series of my own, painted eggs, even depicting the small hole at the base of the egg through which the paintbrush was originally inserted. Where are these drawings? I no longer have them. Periodic departures of self confidence and bouts of despair are a blight upon my practice; I destroyed the drawings, but that does not mean that I may make no more, indeed, I have determined to begin again, this time with, I hope , enhanced skills and clearer vision. Perhaps I may even draw an egg covered with stars, or with a starry sky depicted, as it were, on the inside of the egg.

With the same thrill of excitement with which I ordered the papers, I have also sourced a copy of the Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness Guide to bird's eggs, and ordered it; when both arrive, I shall embark upon the long series of bird egg drawings about which I feel so much optimism and anticipatory pleasure. The book will come from a bookshop in Petersfield, Hampshire, which is where one of my sisters lives with her husband, so I feel a sense of connection with my family, and with a little town  I know so well, and for which I have great affection. A link with home.

workplace evening, May 2020

Grid drawings made over the course of the last few days. I have worked intensely upon these drawings for a number of days, but am without warning plunged into doubt and insecurity; are these careful drawings just a  means of passing the time, a kind of therapy without artistic merit, or are they drawings to be taken seriously? I cannot decide, and am somewhat cast down, so take my wavering self into the garden where the sight of the ox -eye daisies, just now at full pelt takes my breath away; they are exquisely beautiful and so generous in their beauty. I am restored to myself; resolve to put aside the grid drawings for the present, and begin a long series of works for which I have made some preparatory drawings, namely a series of drawings of British birds eggs. I have a couple of old books illustrating bird's eggs, but according to a dear friend, L, the best book to be had is the Eyewitness Guide, published by Dorling Kindersley. I am also seeking papers on which to draw, and she sends me links to an Art Supplier who carry Japanese and Chinese papers.

Resolve, newly awakened and made keen, is a wonderful restorative. I hasten indoors, where I clear my drawing board, put away the grid drawings, and find my books of bird's eggs, promising myself to order the papers on the morrow, and perhaps to order the Eyewitness Guide.

the evening after

My work place on the evening of the day before my mother's birthday. I have just short of a dozen grid drawings made over the course of the past week. They are difficult to photograph; it is easier to show them thus, perhaps scanning them directly into the computer would be the ideal. Each drawing takes around two or three hours to make, and involves intense concentration and effort. If I have one or two drawings at the close of each day, I am delighted. Sometimes, on a good day, I achieve three. After each couple of drawings, I re sharpen my pencils; a deeply satisfying ritual, and then set aside time to appraise my work. I keep the finished drawings in the top drawer of our plan chest in the back bedroom of our rented house, where I have an old Lloyd Loom chair in which I sit, the chest drawer open,  so that I can look upon the work accumulated  during the course of the past days.

This particular evening is warm and windy, the wind chime sounding with vigour from our neighbour's garden. I can hear, as I have been able to all week, the sound of the bees busy at the blossoms on the shrub just outside the open window.

It is difficult to explain to my mother just why we shall be unable to visit her on her birthday and spend the day with her; she does not understand the notion of 'social distancing'. There is pain in my heart, as I should like to be with her, to sit in the beautiful garden together. As it is, I try to persuade her that her birthday is to be postponed, not cancelled, or not celebrated, but just put back for a while, until restrictions are lifted. I may as well attempt to convince a three year old. Part of my mother's undoubted charm are her child like enthusiasms and candour, but in this instance her tendency toward child like behaviour is robbing her of the capacity to cultivate patience and thereby attain something approaching peace of mind.

studio evening May 2020

My place of work on a balmy evening towards the latter end of May. I have made a return to the 'grid' drawings and am intrigued by what a good friend describes as 'ritualistic drawing practice'. It would seem that that is what I am engaged upon. Here is a drawing before the graphite is laid down over the coloured squares. I find that my colour palette evolves as each drawing proceeds. I enjoy using pencils with multi coloured 'leads'; so called 'rainbow', or 'magic' pencils, and have added neon pencils for this particular drawing.

I work in long series, or sequences, this sequence being entitled'with my mother in her garden at sunset', in commemoration of an evening we spent together, whilst I was staying with her for a few days.

deep field

My mother once gave me an ornamental cup and saucer upon which were inscribed 'to thine own self be true'. I still have the cup and saucer; I still hold the sentiment in my mind, although I find it most difficult to adhere to. Knowing oneself, or coming to identify oneself to oneself is a life's work, and seems to be a prequisite for being true to oneself.

I rediscovered these drawings whilst looking for a fresh supply of black paper; I had thrust them to one side, in my customary fashion, having decided that they were not worthy of note. To my surprise and, I have to admit, immense gratification, my partner lighted upon them with an expression of delight, obliging me to re consider my decision. I take myself into the garden, and sit beneath the cotoneaster; a rampant shrub which is just now in flower, and thrumming with the wingbeats of bees as they go about the business of collecting nectar from the myriad tiny blooms. Gathering my somewhat disordered thoughts it occurs to me that my response to the fightening and challenging situation that we are in, is to work; not necessarily to produce drawings that reflect our situation, but just to work, to draw as though my life depended on it.

It moves me to consider, in the light of the current global situation, that the deep field galaxies, before our time, are visible to us with the aid of most sophisticated equipment, that beyond this time, the Universe will continue to exist, until one day expanded and cooled so as to make all existence impossible, there will be nothing, a void where once was life.

comet

This drawing is around the size of a postcard, and is made in comemmoration of the evenings that my sister, my mother, my then tiny nephew and myself spent watching the comet Hale -Bopp, sometime during the late 1990's. I am aware that the configurations of stars against which the comet makes it's passage are purely imaginary; it is beyond my powers to denote the stars with the accuracy of a telescope.

studio evening May 13 2020

My place of work on the evening of May 12 2020. On this evening, I share my workplace with the black cat, Minos, who tucks his paws close to his chest, and purrs the while I am drawing. The place where I work is bathed in the warmth of electric light; usually I prefer to photograph my 'studio' in natural daylight,  particularly enjoying the cool light of evening. I am working on tiny drawings, which have yet to be titled; drawings of stardust and supanovae remnants this time on Daler Rowney Murano paper.

studio morning May 10 2020

My place of work on a blowy morning. I have made a return to the tiny star drawings, and felt the need to experiment with crumbled pencil sharpenings as I used in the stardust drawings. The paper is Daler Rowney Murano, which has a fine and stable surface, without the inconsistencies of the Lokta paper, which I find, nevertheless, so beautiful. It is more suitable for detail work precisely because of that reason.One can achieve fine precision when applying the tiniest of white marks to denote the stars.

It is a Sunday. Sounds of our neighbours busy in their gardens drift through the open windows. It is difficult to believe that there is anything wrong, yet we are well into lockdown and as yet there is no prospect of change. I remain unconvinced about the purchase of the stencils which I mentioned in an earlier post, and so continue to make work as I did before the beginning of this period of restriction. The difference is a slight, but gnawing feeling of unease with regard to my work. Should I be responding to the current global situation, and if so, how? I feel it encumbant upon me to do so, yet I cannot conceive of a way forward. I am in danger of losing my way, stumbling through the 'forest dark', having unwittingly strayed from the straight forward path once more. I tremble at the prospect, remembering just how difficult were those seven years during which I could make no work. This is a time of profound doubt and apprehension, yet there is consolation to be found; if I cannot draw, at least I shall be able to write, I know that from experience. This online diary may well become my mainstay.

studio afternoon May 9 2020

My workplace on a fair afternoon in May. Although I had found some pleasure in a return to colouring in , the drawings made did not satisfy my eye sufficiently enough for me to continue. Casting around for a way forward, I light upon some tiny drawings made at the end of last year, drawings of stars and meteorites comprising tiny white marks on black paper. I wonder about revisiting this work, or is it as before when I had lost the straight forward path. At least placing tiny white marks to denote the stars is soothing and fulfills my need to be drawing. I shall devote my afternoon to this activity.

studio evening May 8 2020

My place of work on the evening of May 8 2020. I had finished the day's drawing, and laid down my spectacles. Our gentle tabby, Silas, joined me and, as you can see, wanted to take part in the proceedings. After a day of heat and brilliant sunshine, the air drifting through the open window was cool and refreshing, the light softened. Both the cat and I sat peacefully, myself enjoying the sound of the birds singing their goodnight songs in the gardens.  Although reasonably pleased with the day's work, I was aware that the drawings completed over the last few days did not have the spark of something that fully satisfied my eye. Back to the drawing board.....

studio May 7 evening

My work place on a calm, warm evening, blackbirds fluting in the garden beyond the open window. This evening's finished drawing lies on the notebook from which it has just been removed. Work proceeded calmly today, I took pleasure in colouring in each small square, to the accompaniement of the cries of birds and the delicate occasional chiming of the wind chime suspended in our immediate neighbours' garden.

 Dusk is my favourite time of day. I remember winter dusks at the lodge, the red stain of the setting sun on the horizon, the crackle of the fire in the grate within. Now living in a semi detached house, with other houses surrounding, our situation is very different, but I take comfort in hearing the sounds of our neighbours going about the end of day business, and the plentiful birdsong in our urban gardens.

studio afternoon May 7

Beyond the open window, a deliciously warm afternoon, the air filled with bird's cries. I am about to begin setting down  the final layer of graphite on this drawing when the sound of the telephone causes me to start. It is my mother, who is longing to see her family and is finding it difficult to understand why I cannot call upon her and relieve her loneliness. I try to insert a positive note into the conversation and promise to sit in the garden with her and read poetry to her when restrictions have been lifted and it is possible to travel once more. I have this image in my mind to hold on to; the both of us seated in the green garden chairs beneath the spreading boughs of the venerable Bramley apple tree, little birds filling the air with their song, myself, having wrapped a blanket about my mother's knees, reading Christina Rossetti aloud.

studio evening May 6 2020

Before adding the skin, or membrane of graphite; the unifying layer of soft grey through which the colours glow.

I have grown to love Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto, particularly the quiet, sombre second movement. There are passages of hymn like beauty in the first movement; I usually stop the disc after the second movement, as the third is a little too rumbustuous for my ear.

On this evening, a warm gracious evening in early May, I sit by the open window to draw, in the interval before dining. I have completed the 'colouring in' and am about to take up a graphite pencil to finish the drawing. My work place is tiny, just the size of my drawing board, made for me by my partner. My chair is one of an original group of six oak dining chairs from around the 1950's; it was given to me by my parents. Thus seated, frangrant air drifting in through the window, the sounds of bird calls outside, within, the poised perfection of the closing notes of the second movement of Beethoven's Fourth, a glass of wine to hand, I experience a moment of rare peace, a stilling of the inner turmoil to which I am accustomed. Within and without are in as perfect balance as the final notes from the piano.

grid drawings, or 'meditations'

The 'grid drawings' began as an exercise to temper my eye and hand and calm tumultous emotions at the time of my widowed mother's hospitalisation in May 2016. It was a particularly beautiful month that year, generous warmth during the day, fragrance from luxuriant Spring growth by night. I remember the apple blossom glowing snowy white at dusk, the scent hanging on the air like a perfumed curtain, when I walked alone in my mother's garden after visiting her in hospital.

Guardian of the house for the period of my mother's sojourn in hospital, and, having previously purchased on impulse a trio of squared paper notebooks, which I had with me, I began to draw. Following a directive unfathomable in origin, I coloured in the tiny squared enclosures using a selection of coloured pencils from a pencil tin of my late father's which I had found in the house during my stay. I came to settle upon a square of thirteen little squares by thirteen ( there were thirteen differently coloured pencils in the tin). This seemed to satisfy my eye for the moment. I became aware that the drawings needed something to unify them, and thus applied a layer of graphite, like a skin or veil, through which the colours glowed softly. The graphite membrane seemed to function as a visual metaphor; a device to suggest distance; the shadowy reaches between experience and recollection, or between the inner world of the mind, and external reality. I drew each day as though possessed, even taking the notebooks to the hospital so that I could draw in the hospital canteen between visiting hours.

I did not know then, that four years later I would still be compelled to make these tiny, intense yet subtle drawings and that the drawings would have evolved so much in terms of their poetic and emotional resonance. I draw every day, as though my life depends on it, aware that, as before, owing to difficult circumstances, I need to assuage panic and focus my attention beyond the narrow confines of my mind.

Titles for the pieces came, and come, unbidden to mind. Often they are generated by the memory of a place, or happening, a person, or state of mind. I frequently dedicate pieces to people, thus a piece comprising four drawings entitled 'over the hills and faraway', is for my partner, and refers to the period in our life together when we lived in rural isolation in Hampshire. 'My sister's harlequin slippers' is dedicated to one of my sisters and refers to  her chequered velvet slippers, which, as a child, she loved so much that she even wore them in the garden.

When I frame the pieces I follow the counsel of someone I trust, who suggested that I reference the notebook. Thus, I frame them in such a way as to show the edge of the page where they have been torn out of the book. Notebooks of drawings are like visual diaries; to show only removed pages is to imply that there is other, hidden material, perhaps too intimate to reveal. Certainly such a drawing, once removed evokes the invisible notebook, and is suggestive of the activity of keeping a diary; the reflective, quiet setting down of thoughts, responses, dreams. Notebooks are portable and private, both attributes which I value. The drawings made within them are my journal entries.

studio morning May 5 2020

A return to 'colouring in', and the 'grid drawings', or meditations, about which I shall write in more detail in a following post. Suffice to say that colouring in a small square of thirteen even smaller squares by thirteen in a carefully chosen palette gives me pleasure and soothes my mind. I am thus able to follow Mary Potter's dictate; "draw all the time...".

studio evening May 4 2020

Without electric light, my work place is suffused with the magic of dusk. On my drawing board lie drawings made earlier in the year, and earlier during this time of lockdown. The diary I kept of drawings executed the while lies open. This is where I feel comfortable in the evenings, throughout the long Spring days. This is where I commit to paper my ideas, thoughts, responses, where I sip wine and coffee, from where I call my mother on the telephone, where I can always be found.

the Sun one day

We have time, before the final blossoming of the Sun and the subsequent extinction of life on Earth. Have we time to address the most demanding contemporary issues that have such devastating long term consequences for our home and redeem ourselves as a species? Shall we  discover a new world and live in an epoch where interstellar travel is the norm? Shall we be able to observe from a safe distance the gross ballooning of the star that once warmed our skin and caused the Earth to bloom?

studio May 4 2020

My place of work on the morning of May 4 2020. Not an auspicious date, but nevertheless a day of great beauty; breezy with sunshine and the scent of blossom on the air.Unable to sleep, I begin work early, searching through the boxes where I store drawings , seeking the drawings I made of the transits of Venus and Mercury, determined to photograph them and post them in this online diary, which I did in the previous post to this. That is my work for the morning, despite the pencil laid across the piece of paper on my drawing board, as though I had just put it down after making a mark.

We are in, I believe, week six of 'lockdown'. I find myself unable to respond, in terms of making images,to this desperate and strange time. I read of artists who are documenting the strangeness and fear, but I am dumbfounded, as though the breath, the words, and the images have been thrust back inside myself. I speak with my sisters, and my brother-in-law, and we compare strategies for surviving the fear and the out of kilter slant which now characterises our days.

I wonder afresh about the stencils I mentioned in an earlier post; those of the man, woman, and child. Do I purchase them, and make an attempt at describing through drawings something of the unusual isolation those of us who are not keyworkers are experiencing? I do not, as yet, know the answer to this question. I believe that I have spent the days of this curious period effectively, for the most part, taking photgraphs of the work that has occupied me for the last four years, during which time this diary remained silent and bare of image, and posting them herein. I have also sat for hours in our little garden,  the abundant sunlight to caress my skin, enjoying the sight of the Lily of the Valley coming into full glory to scent the air with sweetness, the elegant pale irises gradually unfurling.

 Just now, there is the whiff of woodsmoke on the air drifting through the open window of the room in which I sit to commit these words to the diary, a rich and evocative reminder of past bonfires, both in the grounds of the lodge, and my parents' garden. I recall that only a few years ago, my mother was still able to gather garden debris and , with my help, build a fire at the bottom of the garden. She is now unable to do so, indeed, can no longer even visit the garden unaided. At this time of the year, the burnished crown of the year, the garden will be as a lost wilderness, a riot of burgeoning spring growth, peonies, bluebells, yellow poppies and tall grasses, philadelphus and honeysuckle. There will be birds threading the sequestered air, unseen by my mother, who is now confined to one room of the house. We all tremble at what the future may hold.

transit of Venus

The transit of Venus. Unfortunately, I do not know the date upon which this transit occurred. I made several series of drawings of the transits of both Venus and Mercury, fascinated by these momentous events. As in the earlier posts of the transit of Mercury, Venus can be seen as a small black disc making its way across the face of the sun. I wonder what events were taking place on Earth as Venus made its journey.

the phases of venus

A series of twenty three drawings depicting the phases of Venus. I decided not  to show all of them!

It is awe inspiring to consider the phases of celetial bodies and the true vastness of the Universe in which we live. When I draw celestial bodies I feel open to the Universe in a way that is sometimes frightening, but always inspiring. I feel infinitesimal, as I am indeed, in universal terms, but bigger than a ladybird, bigger than a cat, nevertheless tiny. Insignificant? I wonder.