Build Up - We Wish You a Merry...NOT YET!

 

Christmas is coming. Commercially, the big build up began around September, as always, and started to wind me up immediately. I can’t stand it. As a Christian, I look forward to Christmas and celebrating the birth of Christ. Non-believers please respect as I do you. This year, the build-up seems to have annoyed me more than ever. I felt brain washed into thinking I was behind with my own preparations. I’ve grumbled at every TV advert and moaned about decorations being displayed early. Bah humbug. December 1^st is soon enough. My whole year has been a roller-coaster ride consisting of more downs than ups with no end in sight to balance things out. Everyone, well, nearly everyone wanted me to address my 70^th birthday with bells and whistles. I didn’t, but anyone who wanted to celebrate on my behalf was welcome to go fill their boots – at their own expense. There were some special moments. Thank you for the fine dining, you know who you are. I was so glad to go and hide and hibernate for a couple of welcome weeks at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway, out of the rat-race and with a fabulous view.

Of course, the Christmas build up was also under way in Castle Douglas and Kirkcudbright, but in a nice way and I could cope quite happily. I’m better suited to the pace of life there.  We’d missed the arrival of Santa who made his annual sail into Kirkcudbright harbour the week before we got there. It is a spectacular event and great for the children. We’ve seen it before and filmed most of it, still on a camera somewhere. As I fretted over Christmas and not being ready, I did some gift shopping as calmly as I could, keeping panic mode at bay. I enjoyed a quiet afternoon using my new, birthday present pen to write the cards that required posting. Anyone receiving my card through the mail can be forgiven for thinking we’ve moved, at last. I wish.

The build up to Christmas continues at home, now that we’ve returned. With four excited grandchildren still of an age to be enchanted, I can’t be too ‘humbuggy’. Our tree, old faithful that I intend to replace and say so every 12^th night, was hurriedly put together so the kids could hang their chosen decorations. It’s since had a small tidy – sorry, but I had to – and looks okay, if a bit askew.

This week, I’ll return to the school library and enjoy the company of more excited children in Christmas jumpers, and some naughty elves, I’m informed. My eyes will be moist as I hear their carols and Christmas songs coming from the hall, and I’ll put maudlin to one side for a while.

This is a poem from a Christmas card I have in a frame and bring out every year,

Christmas Memories

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought –

And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…

Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.

Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.

Patience Strong  1907-1990

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Ekphrastic Poetry

When poets are writing Ekphrastic poetry there’s a fair chance they’ll be looking at an object from years ago. How often are they watching the piece being made? I had this chance when following Nick Williams, artist and poet from Preston, creating his River Clock sculpture in the summer of 2020.

During this time I was curious about aspects of his work and asked questions. I’ll just give his replies:

I follow simple rules. 1: No tools. 2: Only use what is found at the place. 3: There must be an element of balance and balancing involved in each work. 4: Anything of interest that I feel could be used in a different way goes in the rucksack which is the most useful sculptor's tool.

a beginning

I choose each place by feel and by the wood that is in that place, looking carefully at each shape to see if they speak together...glad you like the stones, am interested in building the dry stone pebble wall outwards into spiral arms next time I go out... they reminded me a little of old harbour buildings and cairns and buoys too... some of the wood won't stand up alone even though I want it too so after propping it up with a another it felt right to begin to build the base of stones around. I breathed a sigh of relief when I removed the prop and nothing fell over.

Every painting and poem and sculpture whether site specific or not has a story, every artwork in every medium has a story, the whole thing, art from the body decoration, drum beats and shamanic dancing to the cave paintings through to modern times has a story, even science is an art, numbers have a story, astrophysics theories and quantum theories all have a story, we are the story of the universe (a small part of it).

Nick in the act of creation

This has always been central to all my work as an idea. Time and space and the story made by them both. A sculpture made in the hinterland, in the tidal flood plain, the space between two states of being, the borders between land river and sea, dwells in two states, one submerged at certain times of the day or week and one unsubmerged in the water flows and adds a new dimension to the sculpture and this movement of water and weather and random things happening to it, slight minute changes which occur over time help continually co-create the sculpture, my hand, my eye and my mind guide the building of the repair and nature provides the accident and the transformation of static into narrative. At least that's how I see it. 

I went today to film the tide coming in and build an extra part of the spiral but the wind was very cold, and the tide didn't rise as far as I expected after yesterday, yikes, but even through my heavy duffle coat my shoulder whilst waiting for the tide to rise was cold to the marrow of the bones (they call this suffering for our art I had heard tell once - me ?) I decided that my arm had suffered enough after several hours of waiting and realizing the tide wasn't going flow completely over the banks.

You must have just arrived after I had left... not so worrying that it hasn't washed it away as I tested it under flooding conditions and the water rise does no damage... more worrying is, as you say, the lowness of the river but have seen river fall like this before so is hard to tell... the reason for the river flood at this part of the river is not the Ribble water coming from its source but the sea tide which comes in from the coast and mingling with the river water, hence the salt you occasionally see on the grass like a thin film of dust.

River Clock

It is called river clock... the shadows line up with the wood at approximately 1.33 pm afternoon and that line of shadow is approximately at the ratio 1/2 thirds which is golden section (I know most clocks and sun dials would use 12 noon to 12 etc but I like the oddness of 1.33 plus if you take off the last 3 and turn it round it's PI 3.1(4).

Yep, sheep very numerous if I sit still long enough I get sniffed which I quite enjoy. I have found if I become completely still most animals become calm around me, even had a butterfly land on a finger once. 

Today was hot and the heron of the Ribble was out to play, sadly yet again there had been some mindless vandalism since I was last there, but didn't take me more than a few minutes to fix (what is currently taking time is scouting up and down the river for large enough rocks and bricks to use for the segment walls as I elongate the spiral out like an ammonite, building method is as follows at the moment build a segment of the spiral as a walled enclosure then fill the enclosure with driftwood and then cover the driftwood with stone (this is symbolic as a burial of the trees yet also allows me to anchor any wood I deem beautiful enough to become a standing structure) carrying the larger rocks back from either end of the marsh is laborious but worth it.

bottle/bomb

The coast guard were there today because I found this (above) and reported it...when I left at 5:40/ 6 pm after answering the standard police questions for reporting such an object the bomb squad were on their way from Carlisle. Possibly a first or second world war mortar with the fin broken off at the back and the cap missing, it matched two items in their little blue book. I thought it was a beer bottle at first.

The sculpture is slowly reaching the right height (currently the outer wall is somewhere close to my knee level), though may have to extend parts of the spiral and central stone edifices being built around the wood upwards in order to have them standing out of the water when the tide is really high - currently am in two minds about whether I should cover the wood entirely with stone as am adapting the idea of it as I build.

I haven't worked on it or seen it since the thunderstorms when my boots got holes in so hopefully no-one has pinched it and started adding rocks, the only bits left to do are to cover the wood still sticking out of it with stone walls like a cairn (so it won't be any higher than maybe one stone above its current height).

stormy weather

There is wood underneath the stone surface in between the outer spiral wall and inner spiral wall anyway which is deliberate and will allow for the eventual and slow decline of the structure over a long period of time once finished. As each of the hidden pieces of wood rot down the pebble-stone overlay drops further towards the ground and thus over a period of three to ten years or longer the sculpture may slowly collapse into itself and become a ruin with an inner and outer spiral structure - again time and the long term or short term transient nature of all man made things are explored in this longer projection of the sculpture so that the slow collapse is part of the artwork too. If I came back in forty years time for example would it be covered in moss having become part of the landscape itself to be uncovered later by archaeologists who wonder what it was? Or will the river have eaten it and the flat salt marsh it rests on turn it at first into a lone island which slowly collapses into the river as the erosion takes it gradually away? All of these questions are being posed by me as I build.

PS: Today Nick told me that the River Clock is still there.

x marks the spot

River Clock
(for Nicholas Guy Williams)

OS map 102
Reference SD482287

a place needing boots
sandwiches and flask
in a lightweight rucksack

that was slipped off
onto the grass bank
of a tidal plain
and another viewing
of what is going to be
difficult to explain

a spiral of old bricks
pebbles rocks flotsam
branches boughs and twigs
which is all true enough

but doesn’t take into account
that it exists in two states
as my mate tried to explain
submerged or unsubmerged
linked by quantum entanglements
of water and weather and time
or a peacock butterfly
flapping its wings

unlike today as swallows
flit on a brisk wind
scudding their calls to my ear
and there’s a touch of loneliness
on a base of green and grey.

First published in Acumen, March 2022

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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The Greatest Dancer - It Isn't Me!

Sunday afternoons in the winter, watching the ‘Hollywood Musical’ at the home of my school-friend, Lorna, were very happy times. It was cosy, relaxing in front of the coal fire, drinking tea or sometimes hot chocolate while Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire had us mesmerised. It didn’t matter which musical was on, there was dancing and Lorna, her mum and I wished we could do it. Sometimes we would try to spin each other round or make a few steps up – not much space in the living room – we would lose balance and end up in a heap of laughter. It was simple pleasures for two fourteen year olds sharing an interest. Not surprisingly, neither of us became dancers, apart from a few twirls round our handbags when we were older. Great memories. R.I.P., Lorna.

As for the greatest dancer, I think I’ve established that it is certainly not me, but not for the lack of trying. From a young age I pestered to go to dancing class, when I decided that I wanted to be a ballerina, quite a common aspiration for little girls in the 1950s. I remember the disappointment of not being given a frilly tutu but I soon accepted being in the tap class and loved my noisy tap shoes. Apart from loving the sound, I couldn’t get the hang of it. I couldn’t follow instructions, even literally one step at a time. I just wanted to tap my feet but not in any particular order. I was probably too young or awkward, but the teachers didn’t give up on me straight away. They were planning a little concert and chose me to be the Pink Toothbrush and someone else to be the Blue Toothbrush as we did a simple tap dance to Max Bygraves recording of ‘I’m a Pink Toothbrush’. I don’t remember how far we got into it, but it didn’t happen. One of the teachers gave my mum what would be my costume. It was pieces of something pink, later I knew it was seersucker. It had been cut out from a pattern and just needed sewing together, apparently. My mother did many things but sewing dancing costumes was not amongst her skills. Popping a button back on or repairing a hem was about her limit, so she would task the costume to my dressmaking grandmother. Before that happened, dancing class and I parted company as it was decided to be not my forte. Many years later, I was helping my grandmother to sort out my late mother’s things and there, in its paper bag, was the fabric for my dancing costume.

In my teens and still at school, I escaped to London as much as I was allowed during the holidays. An aunt, uncle and cousins lived in Roehampton and were always happy to have me to stay. I usually travelled on my own by train and my aunt would meet me at Euston station. One such visit, I met Kathy, who was the family’s au pair, close in age to me. She was, well, still is, lovely. We are still in touch. Kathy didn’t speak much English then and I didn’t speak German – she’s Swiss-German, but we became friends and managed to communicate well enough. We went to the cinema one evening to see ‘The Boyfriend’. I really liked Twiggy and enjoyed the musical, but it was Christopher Gable who stole the show for me and I couldn’t take my eyes off his dancing. He made it look to easy, like Fred and Ginger did. That was my introduction to the ballet dancer Christopher Gable. He became a director of the Northern Ballet and was involved in ‘A Simple Man’, the ballet about L.S.Lowry. The combination of the greatest dancer and my favourite artist.

My poem,

When I was a child, I longed to dance
And I was given chance after chance
By a kind lady at dancing class,
Who thought I was a sweet little lass.

I was picked to be the ‘Pink Toothbrush’
My mum could make my costume, no rush.
It was all cut out, ready to sew,
Pink seersucker with satin bow.

The teachers had to admit defeat,
I was cute enough, but two left feet.
I tried my best, all the ‘heel and toe’
Tap, tap, tapping, but I had to go.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Forelegs Good!

Quite how we ever learned to balance so well on our hind legs without the assistance of a powerful tail we shall never know. That secret (along with the tail) lies lost, several millions years back along the evolutionary trail, in the East African Rift Valley of our distant ancestors.

We've gotten to be pretty useful with our forelegs though, more so than any other species on the planet. We learned how to make tools and clothes, how to dress ourselves, how to tear our hair out, how to draw, paint, write, play musical instruments, pick our noses, drive cars, fire guns and press nuclear buttons.

Of course this week's theme of Four Legs Good (which I've wilfully misinterpreted so as not to repeat what others have already written) derives from a slogan coined by George Orwell - 'Four legs good, two legs bad' - in his political allegory of the Russian Revolution, Animal Farm, a story in which the animals of Manor Farm rebel against their two-legged overlord, Farmer Jones.

Orwell, born Eric Blair in India in 1903, chose his pen name for his love of the Suffolk river Orwell. He could conceivably have gone for Horatio Stour or Rudyard Gipping (for the Stour and the Gipping lie in close proximity), only he didn't - and that's enough about him for now, although he remains one of my favourite English authors of the mid-20th century.

In his famous farm fable, Orwell wrote about how the pigs, leaders of the revolution, gradually became more like the oppressors they had overthrown as power began to corrupt their ideals. The slogan was amended to read 'Four legs good, two legs better' as the pigs took to aping men (ding! - pun intended) by strutting around upright  on their rear trotters - a wicked satire, though fanciful, of course.

It got me researching four-legged creatures that actually do stand on their hind legs at times so as to put their forelegs to good purpose. The list is a long one, when you think about it: bears, meerkats, squirrels among the most obvious. I knew about hares boxing on hind legs but I was intrigued to discover that foxes do the same.


Fox Boxing Day!

They rear up on hind legs and face off in feats of strength, usually resting their forelegs on their opponent's chest or shoulders and pushing as hard as they can. In truth, it's probably closer to wrestling than boxing - and even closer to plain shoving, but fox boxing has a ring to it (ding again!) so I'm going to stick with the more resonant phrase.

Cubs acquire this behaviour as early as ten weeks old; it forms part of their learning play, is used to settle sibling squabbles and to establish a hierarchy. Male foxes occasionally indulge in the practice to settle territorial disputes (though they more commonly resort to ground-level tussles involving much rolling and nipping).

Sometimes a dog fox and vixen act in this way (as photographed above) and the almost dance-like quality of such performances has given us the term foxtrot for the lively ballroom dance consisting of quick and slow steps. However, I was delighted to learn that fox boxing is most common among vixens. Go bitches!


Vixens Mixing It!

The females of the species resort to fox boxing to settle domestic squabbles, competition for male attention and general uppityness. The rules of the game appear to be very simple: you rear, you engage, you snarl (as shown above) and you just keep pushing until one or other fox falls over. A single fall or submission decides the bout; last fox standing wins; and there is rarely any physical injury sustained, merely loss of pride for the loser.

I thought I'd have a go at writing a poem about boxing foxes with foxgloves off, inspired by my research - but it's not made the cut, so will get completed at a later date. In its place, a brace of foxy loxy poems by a couple of poets I admire. I hope they serve as adequate substitutes.

The first is from the wonderful John Clare (1793-1864).

The Vixen
Among the taller wood with ivy hung
The old fox plays and dances round her young.
She snuffs and barks if any passes by
And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.
The horseman hurries by: she bolts to see
And turns again, from danger never free.
If any stands she runs among the poles
And barks and snaps and drives them in the holes.
The shepherd sees them and the boy goes by
And gets a stick and progs the hole to try:
They get all still and lie in safety sure
And out again when safety is secure
And start and snap at blackbirds bouncing by
To fight and catch the great white butterfly.

                                                               John Clare

The second is from the equally wonderful Ruth Padel (1946 -     ) from a series of twelve monthly poems about her urban neighbours 'The King's Cross Foxes'.

Excavation

Travelling ends. Fur's losing condition.

Each ginger hair-tip will snap. Rubbed patches appear

on the rump as they squeeze into underground tunnels,

flatten themselves under fences in wet sieve of rain,

scuff through concrete holes, four inches square.

Greeting the year with a clear soul, the looks

for a family earth. Her mother, her grandmothers, dug

in cement - under lock-ups, a doorstep, a grave;

this tower of Ford Capris in a breaker's yard.

Try these twigshadow brambles, back door to the Free

Metal disco, a narrow space in Argyle Walk above

a fourth-floor false ceiling; the architects' office.

Flub in through an air-brick and broken pane

to some under-the-kitchen haven in Brill Place.

Go on, sweetheart, look, all dry; and warmed

by the cladding and pipes. Room for the cubs to play...

No way. Fifty days pregnant, three to go, she's eeling

under a flatpack shed on Coopers Lane.

                                                                Ruth Padel

Thanks for reading. Have a happy Bank Holiday weekend, S ;-)

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Exposure

There's a dynamic involved and it's all a question of finding the appropriate amount of exposure, that perfect point between 'under' and 'over', regardless of agent or object. Take photography: too little light and nothing is illuminated; too much and everything is obliterated. Or publicity: too little and your adoring public never gets to adore you, (probably never realises you even exist); too much and familiarity breeds the sort of contempt that eventually stales careers. Find the balance.

The Dead Good bloggers have opted to profile some scary, nasty stuff this week and I'm afraid I'm not going to buck that trend. I've got it in for diesel. I've just heard on the news that the price of diesel is at its lowest for five years and per litre, is cheaper than petrol for the first time in the UK. Shudder.

Here's the problem with diesel - more specifically exposure to diesel exhaust. Diesel engine emissions, commonly known as diesel 'fumes', are a heady mixture of gases, vapours, liquid aerosols and particulates containing the products of combustion: soot (lots of it), nitrogen, water, carbon monoxide, aldehydes, oxides of nitrogen, oxides of sulphur and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons. Most of the contaminants are adsorbed onto the soot. You don't get much soot from petrol engines (whose greatest pollutant is carbon monoxide). You get lots of it in diesel fumes and the latest research suggests that it could be a significant long-term health risk.

Not only can diesel fumes cause nausea and give rise to or exacerbate asthma; exposure to them in significant quantities for a period of time can cause cancers, lung cancer being the most common. They do this because the tiny size of those contaminant-laden soot particles (less than 0.1 microns) allows them to penetrate the human circulatory system, organs and tissues, with ease -  meaning they can do damage anywhere in the body. What they are particularly adept at doing is inducing the growth of new blood vessels, which could trigger the formation of tumours in previously healthy tissue.

It's just a little bit scary to think that one consequence of our efforts to reverse the greenhouse effect (by reducing the percentage of petrol-burning vehicles) might be a big increase in the incidence of respiratory diseases and cancers over the next couple of decades. Health agencies around the world are starting to take this possibility seriously. I don't mean to scare-monger; I'm just sounding a note of caution about diesel (with an implied plug for green energy).

Today's rather gloomy poem takes it to the stark, dystopian extreme - but in the real world it is all about finding the balance.

Diesel Death
On a gridiron plays a youngster,
his head a hollow, aching sorrow
for the prefabrication of a grave tomorrow,
where gigantic blocks
of cancerous concrete
tower over
tunnels of diesel death.
No green shoots relieve
this brute monotony;
no birdsong challenges
the echoing cacophony
of revving engines, squealing tyres;
no sweet scents stir;
just this fuming pall of diesel,
rising, rising,
inexorable,
invisible and deadly.

On a deathbed lays a sick man,
old before his time,
summer born, now autumn torn,
monolith monstrosities
reflected in his fatalistic eyes.
Though medicines relieve
and mute his symptoms,
no miracle exists
that can reverse
the racking cough
from wheezing lungs;
no faint hope stirs;
just this foul disease
spreading, spreading,
inexorable,
insufferable and deadly.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week and drive less! S ;-)

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