penzance

the sea is calm,
blue grey and silent.
seals swim
and fronds of seaweed float gently by.
i eat my lunch on a bench
and gaze into never ending space.

later,
the sea is calm,
deep teal and still.
vivid orange buoys are scattered like full stops
beyond tide-stretched rope.
this day is drawing to an end.

exhibition fears

my art degree was split into two very different stages. i began a fine art degree at a university because there was freedom to work in any media and you didn't have to specialise. but it turned out to be very academic and conceptual course. i completed a year and had to get out. i swapped across to a much more hands on design-based textiles course at the art college across the road for the remaining two years. i didn't enjoy that either. i scraped through my degree and received the piece of paper which confirmed it. and in combination with some other reasons, i gave up art in a very final way, which i thought would be forever.

the fine art course was academic, theoretical, placed more emphasis on written and verbal critique, ideas, concept and analysis than on the work itself. tutors actively discouraged and dismissed drawing and painting as being out-dated, old fashioned and unprogressive. they loved the words "cutting-edge", "innovative" and "london". the textiles course was practical, you got to do and make things but it had to be done in their way, their logical linear order. design work was to begin in the sketch book showing your "inspiration". this involved filling your work space with cuttings and samples and objects - drawing them, changing them, manipulating them, taking them through different processes and media to create a "finished design". the more transparent and coherent this process from written brief to final design, combined with a high quality of work, the more accomplished you were considered. you were deemed safe and consistent as a designer and ready for work in the industry.

what both courses had in common were weekly crits - on your own with the tutors and once a week with the rest of the class. on both courses we were encouraged to hone our analytical skills and told that a personal opinion such as "i like it" wasn't helpful or valid. on the fine art course we were asked 'why, why, why?' we were urged to express and justify our work using long and impenetrable words and phrases of art jargon - the more obscure, elite, esoteric and confusing the better. in fact if you had no practical skills of artistry but were able to 'talk the talk' you could still get a high mark. and on the textiles course we were asked 'why, why, why?' we were banned from saying "nice" or "like" and pushed towards constructive criticism. we were told that "liking" something isn't helpful unless you can say why you like it. but more important was to "help" someone by telling them what you think they could do better, what they've missed out.

so last year, having not exhibited my work since my degree show the thought of my exhibition at the poly felt like a daunting prospect. unlike most galleries where there are staff and distance from the artist and the public, i was going to be there in the gallery with my work on my own for the whole week.

i had geared myself up for criticism. was i strong enough to take it and still continue to do what i loved? i was expecting the big 'why?' why birds? why 100? what's it all about? what does it all mean? i hoped there would be some affirming comments to balance it all but i was anticipating strong criticism and psyching myself up to be equally strong to deal with it.

i work intuitively. i often don't know the 'whys' either at the time or in the future. sometimes years later they become crystal clear, sometimes a misty understanding is partially revealed and sometimes they remain buried never to meet me in this life time. this is fine. this is me, and i don't feel the need to know. if i wanted to know i wouldn't be doing this.

but the surprising reality of the situation at my exhibition was that nobody asked me 'why?'. nobody even criticised my work. the general public, it seems, are not hung up on the 'whys'. no one felt the need to dissect, pull apart and scrutinize at the mercy of my deepest form of self-expression. people took my work at face value. most people liked it, some loved it and some really loved it. and i'm guessing that those who didn't just looked and walked away without me knowing. they didn't feel the need to give feedback - so-called constructive criticism. 

my art is personal and subjective so how can another person's criticism be constructive? they are not me, i am not them. how can they know what is in my heart? it was great to chat and share ideas and make connections. to be honest, most of what i ended up talking to people about had very little to do with what was on the wall in front of them.

so it seems a shame that i felt so much anxiety and fear of something that was never going to happen. and so i strongly question the validity and interrogation of those art school crits. how does that instill confidence and why are art schools preparing students for the world of art critics instead of real people? who cares what an art critic thinks. they are just one person. and why should their opinion matter more than your next door neighbour or granny? 

washer-driers on the road......

the washer-driers have finally gone. there will be no washing of smalls in my studio, or anything else of a sweaty clothy nature for that matter! i'm sorry if this disappoints. there are a few who've tried to encourage me to keep 'at least one dryer'. but no....... NO! penryn is now bereft of any community washing and drying facilities. but as one door closes, another one opens. there are plenty of empty shops in penryn. an opportunity for someone who fancies a dabble with other folks dirty washing to fulfill a latent laundry ambition hovers unclaimed upon the horizon. but hey - that's not me. not my calling in life. 

i do have a great book i found at a car boot sale called 'the art and practice of laundry work -  for students and teachers' should anyone wish to borrow it? like most of my things it's not exactly contemporary. it doesn't reveal the most modern of practices but i find many of the old ways are often the best. it's nicely illustrated and tells you how to do just about anything laundry-related.

the laundry lovers bible

well done maud!

the premier box mangle - for those who feel the need for a BIG mangle 

how to clean your beaver hat with petrol and flour! but beware if your beaver is dark gray.....

some of you will understand why i had to include this......

just how have i lived for so long without one?!

but what of the washer-driers? well, they have moved on to pastures new and what exciting ones they are. this isn't just a figure of speech. they are bound for a breezy outdoor existence of festival wonder in the fields. while i spend the summer working stationary in their place they will be hitting the road and touring to glastonbury, womad, the green man and the end of the road festival to launder towels for saunas. i'm envious. they will also go from john o'groats to land's end for the cycle race. i'm not sure what they will launder there - maybe more towels. so where festivals are concerned it seems we've swapped lives. last year was my first summer without any festivals. i used to go to lots but now i just go to a couple of local smaller ones and the summer doesn't feel complete without them. but my exhibition was at the end of august and will be the same again this year. with the studio to complete and a huge volume of work to create it's unlikely i'll make it to any. but, just incase, or so friends can go and find them, with the point of a screw i etched a little 'jo' on the back of all five machines! this gives the impression that i felt sorry to see them go, which couldn't have been further from the truth. their new festival existence just amuses me and that out of all the people who could have bought them (they also had nigeria on the cards), it was a guy who used to live in a truck right next to where i used to live in a boat in west yorkshire. so it's all worked out well.

i no longer feel as if i'm trespassing in someone else's launderette, i'm unlikely to discover any more stray knickers, can let go of the amusing but slightly worrying soap opera that's been slowly unfolding (which unfortunately i can't write about here as it'll get me into trouble!) and can begin to see the building as a space at last. and this is incredibly exciting.

nearly washer-drier free.....

on accepting the weight of an empty bird cage

so...... back at the scrap yard but a bit of a role reversal and a whole new experience. yes, i sold some metal! 

i pulled down the metal grid that held the horrible itchy mdf tiles on the launderette ceiling - pulled it apart and packed it into sacks along with the aluminium ceiling light covers and some other light transformers. and that means that about a foot and a half of new ceiling space is revealed. the good thing about the shop at the moment is that it's growing bigger and bigger every day. i'm mid-way through uncovering an old granite wall, a lovely wooden beam and and now have the original ceiling with plaster mixed with horse hair. so not only is it growing larger but it's becoming more attractive too.

anyway, back at the scrap yard. selling this metal was like going on a very very short holiday - i had to take my passport (and it was raining!). it was all very official - they won't give you cash anymore but the choice of a bank transfer or cheque. i opted for a bank transfer for my £3 worth of aluminium, £6 worth of iron and £9 of 'motors'. so £18 of profit. but what were the chances of me leaving 3 scrap yards without buying something....... very slim!

at the 2nd one i found a beautiful old brass bird cage. they weighed it for me and it came to £14. what's the use of a bank transfer when you want to buy a bird cage from next door? maybe if i'd sold my ceiling grid to this scrap yard i could have done a direct swap and that would have been easier. fortunately my friend had cash i could borrow. so another £1 for a piece of copper with some nice blue patination and miraculously i came away with £3 - phew.

the bird cage is a particularly nice one. it has a removable bottom tray and two little bowls and it's a worn dusty colour with tiny speckles of light powdery blue. bizarrely there are also two brass birds on a perch that must have hung inside at one time. but do i want another bird cage? i don't know. there is something i like about an empty bird cage, especially one with the door open. it may be cliched but it's a symbol of freedom. and i think it may become a light in the new studio. that would be a nice new life for it.

experimenting with it as a light and burning a candle in memory of the caged bird

'on declining the gift of a cage bird' by gladys hunkin

o lark of all delight!
soaring in joyous flight,
flooding to earth your stream of song,
while blackbird from his tree,
loving his liberty,
pours silver notes through flute of gold;
bright robin on the ground,
rings his roulade of sound
alone, unheeding the world's wrong;
gay chaffinch carolling,
the linnet note in spring,
an echoing cuckoo call twice told,
some winter-daring thrush
or wren in the rose bush,
with lyric note can soothe my pain;
the swallow's gliding quill
brushing my window sill
in early morning ecstasy,
the bold swift hurtling by
with gulls on windy sky,
lift up my weary heart again.
your gift i could not bear,
for i so truly share
the prison of this bird once free,
feel the encircling bars
pressing upon old scars;
sad bird and man make melody:
o hand that bruised the wing,
caged bird myself, i sing.

who was gladys hunkin?

last weekend we went to trelisick and i discovered an amazing little second hand bookshop tucked away behind the courtyard. there was talk of an accident. a horse had been hit by a car just along the road. nobody knew exactly what had happened but i was filled with a sense of dread at hearing this. i longed to browse through all the books but not wanting to spend too much time or money i homed in on one i liked the look of.

it was a small matt grey hardback with a black ink line drawing of a bird, flowers, moth, shell and a fish radiating out from a central anemone-like flower. it was a book of poems called 'cornish crystal' by 'gladys hunkin'. i'm not one to adhere to 'never judging a book by it's cover'. when i'm in second hand shops i'm always drawn to particular books primarily by how they look and feel followed by the sound of the title and the name of the author. only then do i open them to see what might lie inside.

in this case, i liked the look and feel of the book, the title and the name of the author. inside was a dedication to a. l. rowse and i loved the roughly torn edge of the thick pages. some were loose and i was careful not to let any poems flutter away. there was also the odd correction - a letter crossed out and replaced by another in faded blue fountain pen ink. skimming down the list of contents i immediately warmed to many of the titles - the sea, the windswept thorn, solace, on declining the gift of a caged bird (this one in particular), cornish chough, sea sorrow, tears into pearls, coracle of spring, secret stream, the stuffed kingfisher, song of the sea at najizel, nostalgia, unanswered, the dead fliers, storm spar, burning the lifeboat, dark flower, birch in winter, the wishing moon, hoverfly, miss marshall muses, fire enchantment, flower of peace, moth light, rainbow chromatic, white verge of sleep, shards of memory....... to name a few. 

buying the book proved a little tricky. first i was asked by an older lady if i was 'in a panic'. i took this to mean 'in a hurry' so i said no, i wasn't. but it was on my mind that my hot chocolate might be arriving at the table in the courtyard at any minute (and i suppose it was possible that the thought of it going cold could induce a very mild panic..... but it was unlikely). she informed me that she was showing another older lady how to use the card machine so i said that was fine. the lady in training fell into a deep state of concentration and the shop echoed with concerned voices, people sharing their stories of seeing the horse lying under a blanket. i caught little snippets here and there and tried to work out if that meant it was dead. but there was trouble with the card machine and they were going to have to phone the helpline. they apologised and said 'i bet you wish you'd never tried to buy this book don't you!' i really didn't. i went and rescued my hot chocolate. eventually they told me i'd have to go and pay for it in the shop. this took a while as the system only worked by scanning and there was nothing to scan on the book, just a figure saying 7s. 6d. in the end i could have made up any price or just walked away with it - all a little test of my honesty.

later that evening i started reading 'cornish crystal'. there are some very moving and beautiful poems. some short and to the point and others rich with visual imagery but minimal description. they are very personal poems that come from the heart. and throughout the book runs a strong individual authentic voice with a refreshing lack of religious morality, stuffiness and controlled form which i often find in  writing of this period. 

cornish chough

strange that this shy and gentle bird should choose

to build its nest within the tidal caves

of granite coasts, where mighty ocean spues

in spindrift, tossed from crests of mounting waves.

storm- buffeted into the wind it sails,

trailing its glossy plumage ruffled, black

against the lightening glare; despairing wails

"kee-ow, t'chuff, t'chuff" the waters echo back.

so desolate and solitary it goes,

almost extinct, yet proudly carries claws

of crimson, sickle-curving beak of rose;

unknowing follows where death's twilight draws

a beckoning finger, careless of a doom

as sure as that which took our Celtic speech;

but unforgotten these linked names will loom

in history that time will not outreach.

solace

a peacock butterfly slipped down

from the buddleia tree

to my folded hand,

spread there its intimacy

of velvet brown

with purple and blue inlay.

i can never understand

why a thing so frail

could draw the veil

from my clouded day.

hoverfly

mysterious, delicate,

terpsichorean thing

on invisible wing,

swoons on the buoyant air

with joy in its brief fate.

while i disconsolate,

pitiful puppet-thing

on intangible string,

swung over the void of despair

am less articulate.

and i love the way gladys doesn't hold back! upon reading this one i was filled with total respect for the poet...... bowed to her sheer poetic brilliance as demonstrated in the 16th line...... and wanted to know more about her.

the stuffed kingfisher

now in the gay kingfisher weather

i watch the stream in vain,

no vivid flash of sea-dyed feather

will come this way again,

no halcyon blue will skim the platinum water

in effortless delight.

"i waited weeks and then at last i caught her

and shot her dead at sight,"

he said. "a shame," i muttered.

"a shame? why shame?"

he spluttered,

"it's all a game!"

this careless man had chosen

to shut his captive in a case,

he proudly showed her motionless and frozen;

i longed to smash his smug white face!

how could he know my heart was crying

for beauty lost beside the water's edge,

for broken wing and ruffled plumage lying

crushed upon the sighing sedge.

but i haven't been able to find out anything about her and i'm very intrigued. she writes for fellow cornish poet and historian, a. l. rowse and is heart broken at the death of a lover (could it be rowse?) and is trying to come to terms with her deep grief through many of these poems. but who was her lover and did he die in the war? it's hard to tell. some of the poems are written in the 30s and 40s and the book,  by fortune press, apparently was published in 1952.

i found a little excerpt from the london gazette 17th january 1939 stating:

"NOTICE is hereby given that by a deed poll 

dated the 29th day of December 1938, and duly 

enrolled in the Supreme Court of Judicature on 

the 29th day of December 1938 GLADYS HUNKIN 

of Fern Glen St. Ives Cornwall Spinster heretofore 

called and known by the name of Gladys Vellenoweth 

Hunkin renounced and abandoned the use of her said 

second Christian name of Vellenoweth and intends 

henceforth to be called and known by the name of 

Gladys Hunkin.—Dated the 6th day of January 1939." 

and someone has done some research on the hunkin surname (nearly all from mevagissey) and on his website there is an entry for a william verinder hunkin, son of henry hunkin and susan ley, born on the 24th april 1854 in mevagissey. occupation- fisherman. married sarah ann clark in 1880 in st austell. died 3rd july 1915 in mevagissey and is buried in mevagissey. he had 5 children-  ada, gladys, percy verinder, claude and cecil. so i'm guessing this must be gladys, but i'd love to know more about her.

down the launderette

exciting news! i have a launderette! slowly it will become my studio with space to run workshops, have exhibitions and it may even have a piano too. so far i've found a pair of black lacy knickers, an odd sock, a hidden alcove and a lot of fluff. my friend is determined to unearth a cellar and has excavated a tiny area under the floor!

there's a lot of work to do as i'm stripping it back to its shell but it's lots of fun. sadly i can't find my two crowbars and my most favourite of wrecking tools, a cat's paw. it's a bit like a small crowbar with a sharp hooked claw that pulls out deeply sunk nails. oh how can i have mis-placed these essential things!

no need for a landline........

.............plenty of washer-driers

demolition

the path to the toilet and little pink sink

hair

the problem with wearing my hair down is greeting bearded men. not all bearded men but ones with a very particular amount of beard growth. this happened to me the other night at a private view. my friend's boyfriend had come down from london and i kissed him on the cheek. as i went to pull my head away i felt some resistance. a lock of my hair had become attached to his stubbly beard like velcro. it even made a soft ripping sound when i eased it free.

it's an uncomfortable predicament that seems to have been happening a lot recently. i don't know if it's due to the current fashion for beards and so there are more around, of if my hair has finally reached a beard-loving length. but i shouldn't be surprised. it's always had a will of its own - wild, untamable, light and breezy, and a little bit wayward.

in some ways beards are easier to deal with. there's a brief moment of awkwardness and a possibility that if i tug it back very quickly and with enough wishful thinking, the bearded man won't have noticed..... but really, i think he will. 

beard attachment might hurt my pride but at least it doesn't trap me. sometimes when i go to secret beach, especially if i'm in a hurry or it's very windy, i climb down the overgrown path. i'm feeling light and carefree when, all of a sudden, i experience a jerk, a mild whiplash. it's as if i'm a marionette and the performer has had a sudden change of heart. either a tenacious bramble with a penchant for curls has been patiently lying in wait for me or i'm walking too fast, nature is speeding by in a blur and my hair needs to pause and breathe...... or maybe it's just the wind. whatever happens, i'm ensnared. and wrenching myself free usually hurts. sometimes when two or more brambles have conspired together my hair is so entangled it's difficult to escape. part of me thinks my hair is complicit in this mischief but the other part wonders if it's fallen into a situation beyond its control, and when i tear it free i'll hear a tiny sigh of relief. i guess i'll never really know.