A REACTION TO BEING JUDGED

 

When I read in the local Stornoway Gazette that my home had reduced two of the three Scotland’s Home of the Year judges to tears it made me wonder what I had done. Had I perhaps revealed a little too much of myself, shown some tragic vulnerability, or displayed a tortured soul from some past event? Or was it simply the intensity of the care and attention I had put into my home, the love and beauty in those objects I have inherited, collected, restored or created myself. Out of the 73 object I counted hanging in the entrance hall, up the stairs and on the landing, I had created 45, while many of the others I had restored to their former glory, or simply framed. Many years ago during my first exhibition in France, a woman who wanted to buy a picture also wanted to tell me what she felt my paintings conveyed. She struggled for a moment trying to find the appropriate words and then said “ils sont triste”, they are sad. She purchased a small oil depicting the entrance to a field with brilliant yellow flowers, but I was struck by the accuracy of her perception. I learnt then that it is impossible for an artist to keep himself out of the picture.

When Anna Campbell-Jones, Michael Angus and Katie Spiers first entered my home I was there to greet them, not in person, but virtually imprinted wherever they looked. If I myself had been there the effect would have been less dramatic.

I am not what you’d call a successful artist, in the sense that my artwork is not snapped up immediately by the cognoscenti, or that galleries are clamouring to get my work onto their walls. My prices were seen recently as too modest for the London market and required tripling if they were to sell, and they did. However today many people simply don’t have any disposable income for anything beyond the strictly essential. Thankfully like most artists money is not the driving force behind my creativity. If I give a moment’s thought as to a piece I’m engaged on having some monetary worth it will more than likely turn out to be rubbish. So it was with my house, I never considered my restoration or interior decoration in the light of adding value, rather I did it because it was a rational need for my own comfort or that it simply gave me pleasure.

Is my work still sad? I hope not. Today it is full of colour and mischief. I remain in my isolation somewhat disconnected from the harshness and reality of the outside world, and in doing so retain much of my childlike naivety. There is nothing within my home that I have not acquired or made because I find it either, beautiful, useful or whimsical, and suppose that could also come under the heading love.

The fact that I am single has enabled me to follow pursue my aims without restraint, nobody to question my choices or suggest alternative. Like my father I will often use people as a sounding board to bounce my ideas off, but I will always end up doing what I want. Steve Adams who assisted me with a lot of the major work was masterful in going along with what I wanted, and would only give suggestion of how to best achieve that, surely the sign of a skilled builder.

I am glad that the judges came looking with their eyes and their hearts wide open to truly see and feel the depth of sentiment within these walls. Anna said she had never seen such an exceptional example of a home meeting the criteria of expressing the owner’s personality and taste, and of course love. “The overwhelming sense of the person who lives there communicated via the cornucopia of his incredible creations, from painted floors, to the embroidery, to the artwork on the walls and all by his own hand, what a genius!”

 

THE RHYTHM OF LIFE RETURNS

 

It was an understandable mistake, one that many others I’m sure would make, and which illustrates well my own doubts about taking part in BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year. In an article in the local Stornoway Gazette there appeared a photograph of my house with the caption “The house in Tolsta before restoration”. It should have read after restoration as the photograph was taken only a few weeks ago.

 I know for many this scruffy little croft house would look like it is still in need of a serious makeover. It was the 19^th century genius William Morris from the Arts and Craft movement who stated that after the restoration of a building it takes twenty five years for the effects of weathering and nature, as well as the patching up and general maintenance work before charm returns. I bought my little croft house because I saw it had charm and took every opportunity to retain it. For many I am sure the idea of restoration would include at the very least a coat of (look at me) white paint, but that is crossing over into the realms of renovation.

 As an artist I prefer to put paint onto canvas in pictorial form, where it will not require pressure cleaning every other year and repainting every ten years. Equally to live in a house with single glazed sash windows would seem foolish, but to have kept the original asbestos tiled roof must surely be bordering on insanity. The renovation of croft houses in the 60’s and 70’s meant pebble dash rendering, while today it’s that coat of white paint. There then follows a total disembowelling, where all the tripe is either burnt or carted off in a skip and a completely new interior is installed. In order to upgrade and insulate my own home it was necessary to carry out a similar process, but it was done carefully, numbering lengths of V lining so I could reinstate as much as possible. Practically all the floorboards were rotten but I managed to salvage a few. Over the summer months I camped out in the barn next door while the entire ground floor was dug out, damp proofed, insulated and reinstated. The following year I tackled the bedrooms so that now all the outside walls and roof space are insulated.

However, the judges were looking for BBC Scotland’s Home and not house of the year, and so the interior was what ruled the day. I had no choice when it came to decorating the interior, for that was denoted by my possessions as well as my art. I could have chucked my past in the nearest skip as many still do, and ordered a load of flat pack rubbish, but then I’m not that stupid. While many enjoy the minimalist look, I am simply not made that way. I create primarily for my own amusement and to decorate my own home. The objects I live with are either inherited, recued, or home-made. Many of my age group have tried and failed to pass on their furniture to their children when scaling down, only then to purchase modern furniture. Teenage influencers are the saddest of people, but those who discard their past need therapy. A vast amount of our heritage has been put into landfill over the past twenty year as sound, solid furniture was labelled as brown. Even with a profusion of antique bargain hunting TV programs the ignorance grew and there was nothing that could stop the lemming like behaviour of the masses to buy the new and inferior. For many I am sure the home I have created is a nightmare of clutter and certainly not deserving of any award let alone the accolade of Home of the year. What appeared on the BBC Scotland’s program was simply a visual record, an outer veneer, which obviously could not convey the stories that lay behind every object. I was impressed that the three judges, even without knowing any of these stories were able to sense that depth of history as well as the amount of my own creativity. It is indeed rare to see such an interior and some would more than likely be assuming to pay an entrance fee to see the like. A common question is who does the dusting? Well obviously I do, and although that is perhaps a twice yearly event, it is one I take great pleasure in. I get distracted by each object and the memories they hold, so dusting can take days. I enjoy the annual collection of brass on the kitchen table, and the smell of metal polish that takes me back to my childhood and helping my mother. Washing the blue and white plates in the kitchen is also a yearly event as a solid fuel Rayburn does create dust. When the plate rack is full it reminds me of my father and how the only time I ever saw him at the kitchen sink was when he returned from a day at an auction and would carefully wash his purchases. I have a vacuum cleaner but it gets sparing use as I find sweeping the wooded floors sufficient, and brushing the stairs carpet is particularly enjoyable in that I can take a leisurely look at the close hung images. Being fully connected with every item within my home is what makes it home. While my father was a collector, I am a displayer, not like the peacock who wants to impress the world but simply, and some would say selfishly to please myself. A recent visiting friend described it as feeling safe and perhaps that is all that we should require, and why it makes it all the more shocking to see the destruction of peoples homes.

The judges made only a brief mention of seeing no modern technology, and I found that refreshing to see that its absence didn’t immediately freak them out. I live without television, internet connection or phone, which provides me with the peace and calm that I require. I realised many years ago that I wouldn’t be the person to change world events, and so with that knowledge I have preferred to remain blissfully ignorant. It is said that artists must if nothing else attempt to depict and relate to the present day, and while some are drawn to comment or be influenced by the terrible things that come to pass in our ever more connected world, I, in my insular ignorance, create whatever pleases me. Some would say I’m not even an artist, and like most people I find it difficult to comprehend art speak. (A system of queer relation, an algorithm of data, anonymise the identity of their referent, a practice of creative etymology, bearing witness to the psycho-sexual scene of the self.)  No, it doesn’t matter how many times I read such things, it still makes no sense.

So, how much did you win? That’s been the first question some people have asked, for surely there must be some sort of prize money. I explain that it’s simply the accolade and the tastefully carved slate plaque to prove it. Winning BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year for 2022 leaves me wondering what one is supposed to do with an accolade. There seems no appropriate place on my packed walls for the plaque, and it seems premature to be offering it up for sale on eBay, not that I would know how to go about that. 

So for now it’ll go back in the drawer, and I will head out to the moor to cut some peat, later I’ll return to my stitching project and everything will return to normal.