There has to be an easier way . . .

One of the most significant changes resulting from moving my studio to Cornwall is that instead of working in a very creative atmosphere, as at Wimbledon, I am now surrounded by more practical types.  I am flanked by a dog grooming parlour and the store for a fish and chips enterprise.  There are at least two units involved in mechanical engineering plus a shellfish processing plant: sensible, down to earth practical types who know a good piece of kit when they see one.

So conversations range round subjects such as can I keep a look out for the gas bottle delivery or whether there is any life in some old rotavator rather than whether or not to enter a particular exhibition or competition.  It makes a change but, even more than in my lovely artists’ community, I am prone to feeling like a fish out of water from time to time and it is because of this that certain bits of my machinery do not come out until everyone else has shut up shop for the day.

My most exciting piece of kit is a wet diamond polishing machine.  It is a veritable monster!  I use it to polish, rather than glaze, the outside of my work.  It is what gives my pieces their tactile, lustrous quality.

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The diamond polisher is what gives my work such a tactile quality.

It does, however, give me some difficulties.  True to its name, this polisher is wet!  Extremely wet!  So wet that I become soaked to the skin in very short order, despite full waterproofs.  It shoots water in every conceivable direction and leaves no part of me dry.  I have to use it outside in the yard.  If I worked in my studio I would run the risk of finished work floating out of the door.  It also blasts lumps and bumps off the work, throwing bits of grit everywhere.  I wear safety goggles to protect my eyes but they don’t have wiper blades and so it is minutes few before I can hardly see out.  It resembles working in a car wash.

Imagine my embarrassment, then, the other evening.  Everyone had gone home and it seemed safe to bring the monster out into the yard and start polishing.  I had not appreciate the importance of it being Friday until the lovely, young fish and chip man arrived to collect his van for his regular weekend run to the village.  It was blowing a stiff easterly so I was freezing cold as well as drenched to the skin.  With my hair plastered down over my goggles I couldn’t actually see who was talking to me.  A large bin liner worn underneath my  waterproofs is meant to mitigate for the fact that they are not in fact waterproof but what is provides in terms of practicality it lacks in the style department.  The dungarees belonged to my father in law and should have been thrown out years ago when the shoulder straps failed to maintain their elasticity.  They were several inches too long for me so I have sliced them off rather unevenly below the knee, revealing more than is fashionable of a pair of blue floral wellies which have been kicking around the house for years.  It is not an altogether fetching look.

My friendly chippy worked away on his van, his gas bottles and his fish for a while but in the end he couldn’t resist it.  ‘So, there has to be an easier way than that, right?’

Yes, I rather suspect there does.  I need to find out how to tame my monster before I die of drowning.

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Don’t let me drown

On the Road Again.

It is the story of my adult life.  When I know the way around the supermarket, when I can confidently navigate the back roads it is Time.  Time to get the boxes out and say my goodbyes.  My daughter was only seven when she suggested to me that we were Travellers, although, given her creative imagination she was probably already referring to time travellers!

This move is a strange one in that it is very piecemeal.  First we packed up the house and put everything in store.  Then we started creating the house that we will move into next summer. Now I am packing the studio and taking on a temporary space at Lanhay and, whilst the new space will be bigger and cheaper and closer to the building work, I don’t like the act of moving out!  Don’t get me wrong.  I am extremely excited about going to Cornwall.  I have wanted to live there since I was about ten and this is a dream coming true. But Wimbledon!  I feel this is where I have come of age.

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Regina at work on our studio.

 

It is almost exactly four years since my lovely friend Regina suggested that we should share a space at Wimbledon.  This was pre diploma.  My work was amateur and I was completely unsure of what I was doing.

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My work was amateur!

Regina, on the other hand was a skilled thrower who knew precisely how.  Four years on and so much has happened.  I have completed the Course at City Lit and what an experience that was!  If I had not had a space at Wimbledon to practice and develop, the diploma would have been virtually impossible!  Since then, I have had about 20 months of flying solo – Regina left for pastures new and, without the rigour of formal study , I have been developing my practice, honing my skills and getting ‘out there’ at shows and in galleries.

 

And always, in the background, a supportive group of ‘proper’ artists to whom I could turn for advice and support.  We have had great discussions about my work and theirs, they have helped me with my first approaches to galleries, we have held each other tightly when things were tough, we have talked over the kettle about everything under the sun and I have really appreciated their company.

This week I have dismantled my studio in preparation for moving out on Saturday and everything is one chaotic mess.

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The studio is in Chaos!

Well I can cope with that.  But what is more difficult to bear is the metaphoric drawing out of the tent pegs.  The hearing of conversations in the corridor about a future that I will not be part of.  The knowledge, which comes with experience of so many moves, that it is time to let go and get out fast – no fuss, no drama, just gone!

 

I hate this part!

And so I am stalling!  Not really going at all!  Having my cake and eating it!  Making in Cornwall but hanging on by my finger nails in Wimbledon. Thanks to the wonderful Louise Diggle I have a small corner of a studio in Wimbledon in which to lurk.  Somewhere to talk to clients and discuss my work.

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Somewhere to talk to clients.

Maybe even take part in the future of WAS.  I realise that I won’t belong properly and I am aware of how hard that will be but I just can’t quite let go so, Cornwall, here I come but in Wimbledon. . . . . I’m still standing!