My week at the Hide Artist Retreat.
The steps up to the suite where I’m staying.
It’s Tuesday August 5th, almost lunchtime and I’ve decided to record my time here in a blog. I also love to write by hand and am keeping a daily journal. It’s helpful to write about things ; lists, memories, poetry, ideas about each day and what is noticed.
I arrived on Monday 4th. Travelling alone, listening to music I’ve not heard for a long time was reminiscent. It’s fascinating how music reminds me of places, spaces and feelings, like being transported back in my mind to being 11, then 17, then my 20s and 30s. Specific memories present themselves in my mind and suddenly I’m relocated.
I’ve come away here to find some stillness, to percolate some historic and recent events in my life, to explore them in writing and visually with whichever materials feel apt. Home is where we start from but not where we necessarily end. As I write I can see a pigeon flying past the window with a twig in its mouth, repeatedly. Maybe it’s gathering materials to build a nest. My art practice has always been a way of me communicating with myself to make sense of my experience, to build a home. I keep thinking about a quote by the South Korean Artist Do Ho Suh who at the time of writing has a remarkable exhibition on at Tate Modern, London.
“What you are here and now relates to who you were there and then”
Do Ho Suh
So simple, those few words but so loaded with meaning. There and then can mean so many past times, which ones are most memorable, which would we rather forget. To live a whole full life I want to embrace it all. I’ve been finding out about my Dad who I didn’t see after the age of 2. My mother met his at Sunshine Holiday Camp and I was born in 1967, they were married the autumn before and the mrraige ended unhappily when I was still very small, I’m not sure exactly when. There’s not much to go on but I’m making some progress. His life has been like an unknown cloud, vague and unreachable, that’s followed me. Now my Mother has gone I feel more able to research freely. Some people think it’s best to protect children from the truth but what they imagine can be worse. There goes the twig pigeon again, a sudden distraction.
I recently discovered some sad truths about the end of my Dad’s life, which I’m still processing. It feels strangely right to refer to him as my Dad despite not really knowing him, I don’t think he was a formal or austere man and I feel a sense of compassion I expect my Mother wouldn’t have supported when she was alive. It’s comforting to have time to respond creatively. I don’t plan the paintings I make and sometimes I overwork them, make the lines too solid. I keep thinking about curtains, patchworks, where edges meet each other. It’s hard to put into words so I’ll make some art and share what I make when the time feels right.
This morning I went swimming to the nearby Lido which was wonderful, half the size of Tooting where I usually swim but equally cold and with interesting Brutalist design elements.
Stratford Park Lido, Stroud.
The secret location lake
Wednesday 6th after breakfast, drinking tea. I love tea and teacups but more about that another time.
This morning I went swimming at a lake which was wonderful. It felt warmer than the lido and somehow ‘different’. Something about wild water feels more special than other places, like nature’s bath. I bathed and was soothed. Each morning when I wake there’s often a sadness. Gerard Hughes in his book ‘God of Surprises’ speaks about this, how the state we wake up in is indicative of our baseline mood or affect. I’m so attuned to my emotions and on a good day those of others that it’s almost an affliction. So doing things that take me into my body and out of my mind are good; like swimming. I’m not good at meditating unless I’m moving. Swimming for me is a kind of meditation when I’m alone.
Growing up I moved a lot, from 3 consecutive places my parents lived (they moved for my Dad’s seasonal work as a Variety Entertainer ) to my grandparents, to an attic room in a boys boarding school where my Mother and Stepfather worked - to a house they owned, to my aunt and uncles home, to a solo flat near art college, to my first marital home (also an attic) to another flat, then back to my Mother’s house with my first husband and baby daughter (with lodgers there) then to a flat in Croydon, then a rented house where our son was born (in the hospital) then I lived alone with the children, then to the first home I’ve jointly owned with my husband. Our bedroom has sloping ceilings like my earlier attics, I have an affinity with them.
I emailed the Coroner and the Hospital patient liaison service yesterday and I’ve booked an appointment to view theatrical archives where my Dad last worked. I can relate to those detectives in crime dramas on TV that rarely seem to sleep. Once there’s a case to be solved it’s hard to put it down. I’m not like that, I’m working at a reasonable pace but I want to finish what I’ve started.
Writing and art making is a bit like running (not that I run) the more you do it the more you want to and then it flows over and around everything like the story of the Magic Porridge Pot I read so many times as a child. Fairy stories are timeless and teach us things over and over.
Later today I have a mentoring session with Alice. I’m trying to decide what I want to focus on… I think it’s about being more honest in my work, more real, more instinctive, slower, I want there to be space in it, more space for reflection. I’ve so often worried about being honest but then I read about other artists and how their practice encapsulates so much about their lives. This morning Alice asked me if my Art Psychotherapy training plays a part in my art practice. It definitely does because the training promotes deep thinking, acknowledging the layers, how the unconscious manifests. When I graduated from Art College in 1987 I wasn’t as ambitious. What I needed and wanted was a secure base, a family, a home and a community I felt part of. It didn’t occur to me to find a studio and take my art practice more seriously. I’ve never fully lost it but somehow that part of me dozed for a quite a few years - until I began to find myself alone at weekends, the children with their Dad. So much else has happened in between then, mostly positive but it’s taken this long to find my way back on to my path.
The work I make now partly echoes what I made at Art College. An interest in objects, of placing and spacing, of ritual, the domestic. The model of Art Psychotherapy I trained in was Psychodynamic and Object Relations was the theory that interested me the most. So my interest in physical objects - the material things that matter to me and relational objects - the people who nurtured and shaped me makes sense.
Bodies of water are significant too, they are the cushion to float on and look up at. Water holds us, it can take our weight, it can be cool and soothing or warm and comforting. Clouds change, they provide rain, they literally look like cotton wool or maybe cotton wool looks like clouds.
Water is life giving but it can also be poisoned. Bodies of water can be still or they can overtake and drown. The sea can decimate in seconds. Whenever I swim now I.m grateful my Dad didn’t die in water. The association would be too much.
Stratford Park Outdoor Lido
Thursday 7th mid morning.
Swam here again this morning, that’s 3 swims in a row. I brought my yoga mat with me too but not got on it yet. I’m a social yoga person but a less social swimmer, not like the women in the photo. I often don’t chat to anyone at Tooting Bec where I usually swim (I have a few acquaintances I’ve got to know there) but sometimes I do. I go alone and see what happens. It’s the water that draws me. Swimmers smile often, I’ve found. There’s a shared love of the experience. Most people think I’m really chatty and I can be but growing up an only child forces one to spend a lot of time quietly doing things or talking to inanimate objects or oneself. It’s been really nice travelling to swimming with Alice my host, we’ve had a laugh too which is a sure sign of a kind relaxed human being.
My mentoring session with Alice went well, it was helpful to spread out what I’ve done so far including the pile of books I brought with me. I can find in person crit style scenarios unsettling but when I start my MA they’ll be part of my experience so it’s good to reacquaint myself. It was really helpful, quite vulnerable as my time here is focussed mostly on my family history which in itself is a discombobulated story. I’ve felt a bit lost but responded to ideas as they’ve come and will continue to do so. I’ve been experimenting with different materials, masking fluid, acrylics, crushed egg boxes, tissue paper. One suggestion was to place my artist books down and write a note on why each one feels pertinent to my practice. Then to move things about, regroup them. It all feels a bit disparate like a garden with different plants that grow up at different times so the landscape constantly changes, it’s unfamiliar. Alice mentioned a helpful quote about change which was helpful, I’ll hold that in mind. I’ve taken photographs of the books and the art I’m making . The books range from abstraction to observation to paintings of people and faces. Rebecca Solnit’s Field Guide to Getting Lost is wonderful, especially the essays on Blue.
So back to Dad research. I’ve heard back from the Coroner’s office, the Hospital and no records that old are kept. I’m still waiting to hear back from the Crematorium and have a 2 hour slot next Friday to look through Theatrical Archives where I think my Dad performed or directed plays. It’s something about wanting to see his face.. I have an image in my mind from a photo I can’t find. I’m not sure I want to make a bad image of it on paper.. I might try.
So much greenery - a perfect place to write or draw or just watch the trees and skies changing.
Friday 8th 8:55am.
For some reason I wanted to be specific about the time of writing. I might do a writing or drawing meditation today which involves noticing at each minute what is noticed, writing it down or making a drawing.
No swimming this morning - I felt like a slow start as I had a late night. Yesterday was a mixed day, after writing the morning taken up with essential family admin and messaging then looking at all the books I’ve brought with me and noting down why, taking a photo, then some painting which failed. I’m checking my emails too much and getting distracted and put my phone in the bedroom as there’s a pull to keep checking that too. Had a brief exchange with some artist friends on whatsapp then worked in a drawing book in blue pencil and charcoal mostly. I’ve lots of larger paper with me but reticent to use it yet; maybe it’s the exposure it brings. I usually feel comfortable going large, maybe the intimacy of a smaller book is what I need. I like the way the pages unfurl (It’s an octopus concertina book).
Early pages in my drawing book.
Tidied up and walked across the common through the cows in drizzle to have dinner with an Artist I met online years ago and catch up with virtually every 3 months or so. She lives close by and it was great to see her.
Yesterday morning I had a nice email exchange with a woman who works for the Hospital records department who wished me well and said she’d had a similar experience to mine, it seems many lose people in their families and never find out much about them. I have the feeling it’ll be the same for me but it’s important to mark it and make marks about it. I listened to a radio programme about the life and music of Nick Drake the singer yesterday whilst drawing, his songs resonate. He went to the same uni as one of our sons and studied English too but was more interested in playing music. Sadly he took an overdose and died in 1974, the same year as my Dad. Now I’m wondering if my Dad listened to his music, but I think he became more well known posthumously. Also I’m not saying that listening to the music of depressed musicians leads one to the same ends. It is tragic though that despite talent and creativity, so many artists (meaning all disciplines) end their own lives.
I’ve always had an interest in mental health and have worked in the field for years as an Art Therapist and now I’m moving further away from that and it seems that similar issues follow me.
I came back to my drawing book and worked on it until midnight listening to Nick Drake, theres a word ‘Saudade’ pronounced Sow (as in female pig) Dad, not Saw Dad liked I’d hoped; it’s Portuguese and describes the feeling of longing. melancholy or nostalgia with especial reference to songs or poetry. I appreciate it.
Another thought provoking comment Alice made was concerning the tense of my work and thinking, that it’s rooted in the past but for it to come to life it needs to include me in it too. I’m thinking about that.
Time to get up. I’m enjoying the way the curtains in my bedroom are like veils or shrouds, I traced some of the photos I have with me yesterday, I becoming increasingly interested in layers; layers of time and physical layers.
View from my bedroom at The Hide
The portable Playmobil House I have in my studio
Saturday 9th, 11am no, earlier, my watch has stopped, phone says 9:30am.
I watched a film last night ‘Tiny Furniture’ after a lot of scrolling I found it on Curzon online. The story is about a young filmmaker who returns home after graduating to live with her Mother an Artist who photographs dolls house furniture (something I have done) and tries to navigate her post college life. Our youngest son is in the same position and I’m busy with my art practice so it resonated somewhat.
When I graduated from Art College 38 years ago I wasn’t so ambitious as the girl in the film; creating a home, a secure base was my priority which I achieved for a while. It’s taken a long time to come full circle to owning my practice and developing it and I’ve done many ‘day jobs’ that felt unrelated to art at the time. It all feeds in though. 2 nights ago I watched a film ‘Jane Austen Wrecked my Life’ about a young French woman who works in a book shop whilst trying to write in her spare time. She’s awarded a place on a Jane Austen writer’s retreat (I won’t spoil it) but watching it made me relieved I’ve been as productive as I have. There’s a line in the film about ‘finding your ruins’ in order to make real and engaging work which stuck with me. Sometimes I wish I could make work about more superficial things but even if I do there’s something beneath, a reason for the connection to it. It’s like looking at one’s life as if it were a house and either knocking on the door or passing by.
When I worked as an Art Therapist with children, small world figures often came out of their boxes. It was fascinating. I had a dolls house growing up but had a friend who had a really great one with electric lights that worked! House envy again.
I have a few photographs of me aged about 3 with 1960’s furniture, it’s like an image from a doll’s house. So moving to the present what did I DO yesterday? So much thinking can get in the way of making. I had a long chat on the phone with one of my best Artist friends, we met at Art College. It was helpful, then I listened to an interesting conversation between the painter Henry Ward and art historian, educator and author Dr Ben Street which discusses the “dumb ritual” of painting and how it’s like conversation, speaking; how a person forms their conversation on the go and a painter rarely knows what’s coming next (if their practice is a call and response way of working) like mine is. It helped me to get going with paint listening to someone talking about painting. Like when someone talks about food and cooking it can make you feel hungry. So I started 4 paintings on paper, 50cm x 70cm all portrait orientation. It’s taken me 3 days to be able to start painting.
Dad research. I rang the crematorium and was informed of the date my Dad was cremated in 5 minutes and given the name of the still operational Funeral Directors to enquire about the funeral/ceremony and ashes. Apparently, they have records going back to WW2 in paper ledgers but nothing listed for my Dad around the time of his death and cremation. I expected as much and sadly I think he might have had a ‘Direct Cremation’, which was called a ‘Pauper’s funeral’ in those days. I wonder if the funeral director was being discreet, which is something I’ve got used to, but I didn’t feel I could press further and maybe its for the best that I focus on his living years now.
The paintings I made feature motifs: a big blue bow, a stage, an oversized pink eggbox, clouds, a column like a building or an upright coffin, a pink mattress and angel wings. Curtains like those you still see at theatres: a deep red velvet, almost the colour of blood.
Today I’m going for a walk to the Church Community Shop at the top of the hill. It’s very cool. I’m looking forward to meeting the other artist here, who is here for a month later, for a drink and a chat before I go home tomorrow.
Open House
Such a lovely evening. Sitting in the garden and time spent talking about creativity. Genuinely sad my week is coming to an end. It’s been really special.
I worked hard today, after a trip to the Community Shop located in the front part of the local Church. The coffee shop is in the main body of the Church and so are the tables and chairs. It was thriving with local people chatting. Such a sense of community. I had plans to do more in my drawing book but it was more important to spend some time with Alice, Piers and the other Artist here, Catherine. Really interesting listening to some of their experiences. We talked about residencies and what they entail and the ups and downs of of the Artist life.
This afternoon I listened to some great talks online by Amy Silman on Drawing and Jenny Saville on Cy Twombly. I also enjoyed listening to Miranda July talk about her unique practice. I might have a gallery day next week and see some exhibitions on my list.
Going to sleep soon; it’s 11:30pm and lots of driving tomorrow. I’ll take photographs of my work before I pack it away.
Closing the book for now, but not for long.
Sunday 10th, 10am
It’s my daughter’s birthday today. 34 years ago I still remember the room, the country and western music outside the window from the Hospital Fair. The hours passing, the drama and then a wonderful baby. My Dad was just 34 when he took his own life, so young, in that road near where I’ve lived (previously unbeknownst to me) and worked. I’ve sat in the Theatre where I think he worked in the early 1970’s. So strange to walk on land that he walked on and to not know for so long.
As part of my research into his life and death so far, I ordered copies of his birth, marriage and death certificates. I’ve only known his birthday for the last few months so will honour that too when it arrives. After a week away with my husband I returned home to a brown envelope containing his death certificate. He died on 4.08.1974. How strange again for me to receive this news and travel here to spend time thinking about him, continuing my research, writing and making art. On the very anniversary of his death. Initially it was sad to read the certificate and the bluntness of the cause of death quite shocking, but it confirmed what I’d been told in so many ways. It was oddly comforting to have some proof in my hands of his existence, that he had a life which ended sadly so young.
So now I’m going to focus on finding out the parts to celebrate if I can. The shows he performed in, he was a comedian, he sang and acted and probably danced (I love dancing) I also quite enjoy standing up in front of an audience and being me, reading what I’ve written. People tell me it’s funny sometimes. I like that: it connects me to him.
What I’ve learned this week is the value of a daily writing practice, which is something I’ve dabbled in before. Being in nature is helpful and healing, inspiring even if my work doesn’t directly reflect my surroundings. The calmness of having less, just what I need in the way of clothing, food etc. Most of all it’s the quietness I’ve loved. It’s been the space I’ve needed to begin to unravel my story and put some pieces of the jigsaw together. My husband at home has been going through all the lego we’ve accumulated over the years with four children. His own kind of catharsis no doubt; it’s good to sort things out, find the pieces and build. He is an architect after all.
Oh and by the way, I’m allowed to say now, my daughter is expecting her first child, which is very exciting. Also, it was one of my very best friend’s birthday on Monday 4th, the same day as the anniversary of my Dad’s death. Something to celebrated each year amidst any sadness that might surface.
I haven’t written poetry this week, I’ve had words spring to mind and titles for the work I’ve made. It’s a work in progress but for now here’s a poem by Mary Oliver.
Today
Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though I’m really travelling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
Mary Oliver
A blue bow, a crushed pink eggbox, a photograph, another pink eggbox, whole.
Wednesday 20th, 9:28am
It’s taken me a full 10 days to work on this and finish it, although what’s begun is still a work in progress. I put the art I made away for a week, then looked at it again and took photos of it in my studio. I’m sharing what I’ve made, which are like sad celebrations of what I’ve found out so far.
Last Tuesday 12th August, I went to the site where my Dad last lived and died. He was living at the YMCA, which has since been demolished. An office block built, demolished, and now it’s a flattened site of gravel surrounded by blue boarding. It was surreal - especially considering I lived in Croydon for 6 years and have worked for a charity there for the last 3, so close to the site. I wanted to be there for a while and a kind construction worker offered me a cup of tea when I started to cry. It took me by surprise, the tears not the tea. Who can tell how one will respond to a situation like this until you’re there. Grief has been buried for as long as my Dad’s memory has been. I knew so little about him and what happened to him. I still know very little. I have found out that the man who worked directing plays at the Ashcroft Theatre was not my Dad but someone with the same name. The newspaper article I found at Croydon Museum archives on microfilm states him as being a comedian, nothing else other than falling on hard times, suffering with depression and despite being in touch with a few people who cared about him he fell on hard ground too which led to his death. So sad and violent. It’s been a shock to find out the brutality of it but I’m glad I know now.
I’ve had the help of some wonderfully supportive researchers and I still might find out more. I’m not sure about any extended family connections there might be, it was a long time ago but I’d love to have just one photo of him from his happier years, on the stage entertaining his audience and making them laugh.
‘Two Cups’ Charcoal, pencil and paint on paper, 50cm x 70cm
‘A little bit of Sunshine’ Charcoal and pencil on paper, 50cm x 70cm
‘Big Blue Bow’ Acrylic on paper 50cm x 70cm
‘A reservoir of thoughts’ acrylic on paper 50cm x 70cm
‘Fear of Falling’ acrylic on paper 50cm x 70cm
‘Clipped Wings’ acrylic on paper 50cm x 70cm
Thanks to Arts Network Sutton for funding my week here at The Hide.
Thank you to Arts Network Sutton for funding my stay and to Alice and everyone at The Hide Artist Retreat for having me, it’s been a very special time. x
