STITCHING MY WAY THROUGH THE COVID YEARS AND CREATING A BOOK.

 

They were advising people to take up embroidery as a good therapeutic pastime during the lockdown period, but then I already knew that have been stitching for years. I had a bigger project in mind.

In many ways it was business as usual, spending days in my own company, hearing the neighbours going about their daily routine of feeding and milking the goats. Lockdown had struck as I returned to Brittany, and there was no immediate way I could head back to Scotland. It was evident right from the start that there wasn’t going to be any quick fix route back to normality. So, I started clearing the garden and digging in a load of well-rotted goat manure deliver from next door. I scrabbled through the seed drawer to discover what seeds I still had that were within date. It turned out to be a bumper year, trips to the supermarket became less frequent and I was freezing as well as giving away masses of vegetable.

For over a year now I had been contemplating how I could construct a needlework book and had settle on a concertina form as the only logical solution. All I had to do now was to decide on the size and start stitching, and from that very point the subject for the first page arrived.

THE ABILITY TO OVERCOME THE FEAR TO BEGIN SEPERATES THE DREAMER FROM THE ACHIEVER.

Within a classical stylised floral boarder I placed the letter of the alphabet and below a small thatched Arts and Crafts cottage with the text “Home sweet home better in being humble”. A white rabbit and brown hound leaping forth from left and right while behind the garden fence a profusion of gigantic roses tower higher than the house. I used some left over ivory coloured curtain lining as the support which gave the image a good clean crisp look. I used mainly cotton embroidery thread for the finer work only turning to wool for the cottage and foreground. For the second page I try my hand at corded appliqué work. I decided on a background of simple black striped ticking and the subject was a stylised floral arrangement in a shallow dish place on a table. The table cloth was made from a more ornate piece of 19^th century mattress ticking and the flowers were cut from some old curtain material sample books. The corded applique was done entirely with tweed wool thread as were the dark red bobbled stems. It was at this point that a friend’s daughter Luana arrived from Spain to do her confinement in my cottage next door. We kept socially distance for a few days, but we were soon sharing morning coffee out in the garden. As we chatted I would stitch and it wasn’t long before Luana asked if I had a spare hoop and some wools. During a particularly fine spell of weather we would sit and stitch or work in the garden. To have the luxury of such good company was an added bonus that I had not expected.

SAMPLE STICHES, PAGE THREE.

I went through a variety of ideas for this page but in the end decided that the simplest solution to display sample stitching was to use a background of ticking. The piece I used has rather fine red and beige stripes, purchased year ago from a depot vent in Morlaix. Mattress ticking in France during the late 19^th century and up to the middle of the 20^th century remained very traditional and often came in very vibrant colours. I used a mix of tweed wools and heavy white cotton throughout for both the stitches and names. I included everything from basic blanket stitch to fishbone cross stitch and Bokhara couching. In the broad central red panel I embroidered entwined flowers and a sample of couched basket weave, while a few insects and a moth appeared stitched in wool.

300 YEAR OLD OAK

During a stroll through the fields across the road form my house, one particular oak tree stood out in the hedgerow as having serious history. Oaks had already suffered their own form of pandemic with die back and I wondered, during its evident centuries of life what the old oak might have seen and endured. I took a photo and from that made a sketch to the required page size. Transferring the image to the background material was as usual a process of cutting up the original sketch and drawing around each segment. There has to be an easier way but when needs must you’ve got no internet connection to access that u-tube video showing you how, simply get on and find your own solution. The entire tree was stitched using wool tweed yarn apart from the very smallest of twigs. There is I’m sure a magnificent selection of colours available in embroidery silks and cotton, but I preferred the limitation of using what I had to hand. I used long stitch, blanket stitch and French knots throughout. The result could not have been too far from reality as Luana recognised immediately the old oak from across the valley. Writing the imagined history of the tree came relatively easily to me as I stitched, but fitting those words into the required page size was a process of trial and error. It took several hand written copies of the text before I found a suitable font size.

300 years ago a tender shoot broke loose from an acorn forcing its way down into a rich clay loam. Days later a vertical shoot ventured forth into a crisp spring morning. During the winter of 1784 the oak suffered by the hand of man a massive shock when its head and five major limbs were removed. This first harvest of burning timber only served to make it stronger. Despite being unable to heal the wounds and rot setting in to the point where it became partially hollow the aging tetard persisted. Many such harvest were made over the following years as the surrounding land continued to be cultivated by man, and while wars raged wildlife sheltered beneath its limbs and within the folds of its bark. The old oak hollow state provided it with added cylindrical strength that also protected it during the age of the chainsaw, when men felled younger clean trunked trees to burn. During the 20^th century thousands of kilometres of Brittany’s talus were destroyed, but tucked away deep within the protective folds of the Ellez valley the old tetrad still stands, silently marking the passage of time.

Tetard, translating as tadpole in French and is the name given to oaks that have had their leading head removed. This often results in a much shorter tree that over centuries of pollarding for fire wood can produce a massive head with relatively narrow trunk that does indeed resemble a tadpole. Such oaks growing on talus similar to the Cornish hedges are specific to a small area within Central Finistere.

GEORGINA AND BILL-LINDA. 

Rummaging through some old sketch pads from my trips to Western Australia I came across some drawings done by Georgina and Nicky when they came over with their parents Charley and Lara on a trip around Europe. I remember well the two girls struggling to imagine just how old my house was. 1692 was way older than anything they’d seen in WA, and they thought the dark interior must be full of ghosts. Having no television meant that pencil and paper came in very useful and aged four and seven they both produced some interesting images that now I felt would translate well in fabric. The first drawing, done entirely by Georgina, required little in the way of changes other than to redraw and scale up to my chosen page size. I kept all of the background detail but enlarged the foreground to include two bunches of tulips either side of the path and to balance that I put two white dogs stitched using French knots. The text, as so often does came after. It seemed obvious that this was indeed Georgina and her lips could only be cherry red to match the cherry tree growing alongside her. The wonderfully hairy sun also has full smiling lips. Opposite the cherry tree is another tree which seems to have come from a warmer climate of palms or maybe ferns. Beyond on the far hills is a small house but also a tepee, which I believe was inspired when visiting Luana’s parents and seeing their tepee. When stitching the two fluffy white dogs I included a small blue glass bead for the eyes, which I had coincidentally bought while out in WA. I had no idea at this point just how significant these blue glass eyes would turn out to be when I started stitching the accompanying image.

Once again the drawing of the little girl was provided by Georgina but the irate fat man was from Nicky’s hand. In placing the finer pink silk material used for the face over the green background it gave the poor child a five o’clock shadow. I reminded myself that I do not make mistakes when it comes to stitching so decided to go along with it and add a Dan Dare cleft chin and stubble. What sort of monstrous child was about to be revealed. Very trendy for these confusing time I realised this would be Bill-Linda, cheekily apart from the stubble, resembling my neighbour Belinda. Only when I had added the earing and blue glass beaded necklace did the full sordid story become obvious. Those eyes were indeed the same as appears on Georgina’s fluffy white dogs. Bill-Linda has a necklace and ear rings made from the eyes of fluffy white dogs. The wonky roofed house was provided by Nicky, but the tree made with a fragment of Arts and Crafts movement upholstery material was taken from one of my own drawings when aged four. Bill-Linda comes fully equipped for the butchery of fluffy white dogs, as poking out from her handbag can be seen an axe head and a knife handle. The bag itself, as if one didn’t already know is an I-bag, which seemed so appropriate in this era of I-phones and I-pads. All the detailed work is once again executed with tweed yarn apart from the delightful sprinkling of silver tinsel threaded hearts across the blood red dress.

THE PRIVATE VIEW.

Using the childhood game of head body and legs, I produced some strange images, and with a little bit of mix and match I devised three very different characters. The central character was inspired by a ceramic piece that I had seen thirty years earlier during an exhibition at the Black Swan Gallery in Frome. It depicted a rather pompous looking camel standing on two legs with one hand behind its back and the other holding a glass of wine. I had been making ceramic animals myself and knowing my interest I was shown it by the then director Anne O’Dwyer. She explained it was called the private view, but unfortunately it had been damaged in transit so would not be going on show. I regret to this day not having made an effort to buy it. My stitched rendition of the private view sees three critics; one so short that he cannot possibly see the beautiful rose painting, another snakes up his own walking cane of importance to give them a close inspection through his half-moon glasses, while the central character is all too occupied in drinking the wine and showing off his own stunning tulip tail.

DAYS OF THE WEEK.

As the weeks of lockdown passed me by, I realised that I had totally lost track of time and had very little idea of what day of the week it was. One doesn’t have to look far for ideas, and so I settled on a candelabra style tree. Out in the garden the fattest of exceedingly vocal pigeons, apply named “clatter birds” would smash their way out of the trees as I wandered down to pick the first courgettes, and so it seemed totally logical that these pigeons would represent each day, and crowning them all the dove of peace to represent Sunday. The rather dejected looking pigeons are inspired by naïve images I’d seen in the downstairs cloakroom of my friend Polly Devlin’s house in London. A couple of very oversized butterflies give spandrel balance to the image, while a snail and willow puss moth give interest at ground level along with tulips and the ever present eye of nature at the base of the tree.

FFP ERVE GOUCALOU 1692

I bought my Breton farm house back in 1989 for the princely sum of £15,000. Shortly after I bought the adjoining derelict cottage for £900. In the ensuing years I transformed them into what must be one of the finest houses in the commune. The history is relatively easy to follow as the most important original granite window lintel is inscribed with the then owner along with the date of construction. I did a day of research several years ago in the records office in Brest and discovered it had been inherited by the daughter Katherine who married a Francois Core from Brennilis. Since then it had been owned by every family in the village and most recently by the family L’hours, such was the norm of intermarriage in rural communities. During the inheritance division between the nine L’hours children, the house had been left with the bare minimum of ground, but in English terms that was ample for a good half dozen building plots. The letters FFP stand for fais faire par, made to be made by, and so I decided to make it a marriage sampler between Katherine and Francois. The image of the house depicts it in its present form, but back in the 18^th century it would not have had so many windows. In fact the front of the old farm house probably only had one window upstairs similar to the only other house in the village of that date. The roof then would have been a steeper pitch and the first floor only used for storage. During that period there were few actual farm buildings and the animals lived inside with the people sharing the ground floor separated by a rough wooden partition. The adjoining cottage, which served as my studio did indeed have an outside staircase to the first floor entrance door but it was a simply descent with no roof covering. The chein asseyez, or sitting dog dormer windows also added during the period of extensive renovation. Kathrine and Francois are depicted in typical 18^th century dress, still seen today on the ever popular Quimper ware pottery. The other decorative symbols are those classically used in Breton furniture making.

TEDS DEMISE.

By now I had ceased to listen to any more depressing radio news, preferring to remain with my rather jaded view of the human race and its demise. On waking one morning, my eye caught that of the large teddy bear sitting in the chair opposite. An idea started to form. Ted would represent man, and in two illustrations I could depict his down fall and the reason for it.

Ted thought to make a trap the best idea he’d ever had. Later on reflection he wished he hadn’t.   

The two images arrived fully formed and for Ted I had the sun bleached portion of some velvet curtains I no longer used. By day Ted is seen digging his whole surrounded by nature both above and below ground. The mole I was particularly pleased with as at last I had found a use for the mole skin I had cured a decade earlier. The two wooden spikes lie waiting to be placed when the trap has been dug sufficiently deep. In the second image Ted is shown later that night having fallen into his own trap. It would seem however hard we try, we succeed only in making traps for ourselves. Too clever for our own good, and a natural result of a too bigger brain. Dinosaurs became oversized but they did not cause their own demise. We are too many, too arrogant and selfish, which will inevitably be the cause our own destruction. Does this worry me, not at all, and this led perfectly on to the next page.

WORDS FROM LORD BYRON.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society where none intrude, by the deep sea and music in its roar.

I love not man the less, but nature more.    

These words were stitched on a coarse linen and placed simply within a classical sampler setting. Like so many child samplers of the 18^th century the words are not immediately obvious as they are intermingled with the various stitching technics and patterns.

THE BACK COVER.

I since childhood always had a fascination with insect, and having found two small remnants of floral fabric I decided to use them as a background for stumpwork insects. Due to the raised nature of the work this could only be used as the back cover. Executed in a mixture of cottons and tweed wool yarn these stumpwork insects as amongst the finest detailed work I have produced and although somewhat stylized and exaggerated they do truly seem to be crawling across the page.

ATTESTATION DE DEPLACEMENT DEROGATOIRE.

Throughout the confinement period everyone in France had to fill out whenever they left their home an attestation de deplacement. This gave you the right for one hour to take exercise, to get provisions, to assist a family member or person in difficulty, to attend a meeting with administrators or justice. Failure to fill out such a form correctly with your date and place of birth resulted in an immediate fine of 130 euros. I felt this form now merited its own page in my stitched book and as such should include a few magnified images of viruses other than that of covid. During that summer I took long walks along the valley calling in on friends, but also spending solitary time with nature, revisiting as well as discovering corners of overgrown woodland I hadn’t tramped through in over a decade. Wading in the shallows of the Ellez River, swimming naked in the cool deeper sections, stretching out on its mossy bank to dry in the sun, listening to a world that was sumptuously silent.

PATCHWORK HOMES.

By now there seemed like there might be a window of opportunity that would permit me to get back to Scotland. Although Norman had sent me a mixed box of tweed yarns my mind was increasingly wandering and wondering how my friends and home on Lewis were fairing. It felt like it was now or never and so I booked my ticket, got the necessary checks and headed for the ferry. Such was the level of disorder that I received three different notices to inform me that the ferry the time and place of departure had changed as well as the ferry itself. I eventually made the crossing from Ouistreham to Portsmouth, arriving that evening. Parking and sleeping in the van just north of Portsmouth I was able to make an early start and managed to do the entire trip north in time to catch the ferry across the Minch and home to New Tolsta. Maybe it was the lack of traffic, but even I was impressive with the endurance one has when it comes to seeking the safe haven of home. It seemed only natural that I should now be looking at island homes, as BBC Scotland’s Home of the Year program had contacted me and was keen to see photographs. The idea of patchwork came from an Esher like quilt that Kaffe Fassett made for an exhibition at the American Museum at Claverton, outside Bath. The Fassett quilt depicted a variety of oval hat boxes within a boxed design, and so decided to use this idea but replace those boxes with a variety of dwellings found on the islands. This included various rusty tin roofed dwellings, Nissan hut, Black house and inevitably a variation of my own croft house. I had returned to my island and home.

MAKE DO AND MEND.

For this classic sampler subject I chose once again a coarse linen and stitched a variety of decorative ways of darning. The work involved in darning is to my mind one of the most exacting, and to then add a decorative weave into the repair goes above and beyond the call of duty. I felt at times that I really did require a magnifying glass and could only think that such work would have had to have been done by younger women with perfect eyesight.  The rather random placement of these darning patterns enabled me to choose an equally random selection of early sampler motifs mostly from the early 18^th century. The strange stag came from a Nordic weaving pattern.

LADY PETHERSTON’S REMARKABLE BOSOM.

It was perhaps as a direct result of getting involved with BBC Scotland and their Home of the Year program that my mind became occupied with interiors. After their preliminary visit they had told me to change nothing, but I felt a little light dusting and a run through with the vacuum cleaner wouldn’t go a miss. The image that came to mind, while in my own parlour was that of a Jane Austin novel, depicting a trio of fashionable ladies from the early 19^th century taking tea. It is only now looking back at that completed image that I see it also has a certain doll’s house charm in that everything is slightly out of scale. The fire place and over-mantel mirror are enormous in comparison to the ladies seated around the table, and were a fire to be lit in the grate they would surely roast. The height of the table is no higher than that of the brass fender, but despite this the room has depth with its view into the garden framed by a pair of lavishly draped curtains. These curtains were made using mattress ticking as was the Regency striped wallpaper, and the two black and white prints came from a remnant of toile material. The inclusion of a Dalmatian dog and the none too content cat adds to the drama while the geometric design carpet once again lend depth. The text as so often happens came to me later as I was stitching. During the slow process of stitching my mind wanders to all manner of things, but in this instant there seemed to be a story behind the image. It was only having completed the three figures that I noticed that two of the women seemed to be looking at the lady on the left and more specifically looking at her bust. The resulting text stemmed from this.

During the partaking of tea in the front parlour Sid’s hissing went unnoticed as both Emily and Maude Western admired the way in which a combination of powder blue stripes and Honiton lace enhanced Lady Petherston’s remarkable bosom.

FRONT COVER.

I had gone through many different titles, but in the end came back to simply “Stitched by Tom Hickman” I wanted to impart from the outset a feeling of the dedication to detail and so incorporated that first monastic like “S” to the word stitched. One of the earliest uses of stumpwork was on 17^th century book covers and so once again, being that outer front cover I wanted to incorporate some form of raised work. The still life image of a tray of fruit on a table gave me ample opportunity. The tray, watermelon, pear, cherries, strawberries, lemon, orange and grapes were made using a variety of coloured felt and highlight stitches, while the leaves, tray boarder, candlestick and table cloth were done using tweed wool yarn, all of this was stitched onto a heavy cream twill. The design of the book and how it would fold using wooden hinges took a little time to perfect but with the assistance of a cabinet maker friend Simon we managed to find the correct profile to allow opening in both directions, and turn the all-important boxwood finials and feet that act as decoration but also hold everything together.        

THE FINAL PAGE.

At the beginning of October, and when consulting my Face Book page I realised I’d missed my birthday. Nothing unusual there, but it did remind me of my only ever birthday party when I was 50 years old. It took place in France since at that time most of my closes friends were in Brittany. I held it over an afternoon around the village bread oven. We had done some running repairs to the old granite oven and over several weeks had got it running efficiently. People brought things to cook, which included pizza and bread, but also cakes and rice pudding. I was surprised just how many people turned up. The weather was kind and it drifted on into the evening with music and singing around a fire, and I was pleased that at the very end the half a dozen or so who remained were all French. For this occasion I wrote a text which I attached to the invitation, and it was this that I now felt was the perfect way to finish the stitched book. Having embroidered an engraving like portrait of the author as he was at the age of fifty I then stitched the all-important words.

When as a small boy wondering what life might hold for me, it seemed vast. How could I have possibly imagined: The intensity of love for another human and the devastation of loss. The passion for beauty that would nourish my creative energy and that which I was able to build by employing my anger and hatred of injustice. The constant wonder in nature, the hope renewed with every sunrise and contentment at its setting. The joy of those friendships around the world which confirmed to me that reinforced my belief that there is good in all of us, also the difficulty I would have at times in hanging on to that belief. The determination required each day to combat that cliff face of irrational fears, and the courage to simply say what I think. The fun I would have in playing the fool, laughing to the point of crying. The enjoyment I get from living alone and yet not lonely and the clarity that would bring to a life lived differently at my own pace. The emotions that at times would overwhelm me and the relief in such feeling could not kill me. The satisfaction in the choices I would make and the choices I would take, even those that led nowhere. The pleasure I would derive from cultivating a garden. The changes I would see in my world and the difficulties I would have in accepting them. The knowledge after all those years I would remain remarkably ignorant.

Re-reading this text I can still be reduced to tears, not only for the depth of sentiment behind it but also the fact that I didn’t spot the missing L in overwhelm when proof reading.

Started in March 2019, the entire project took me fifteen months to complete.

 

 

 

     

LOWERING STANDARDS OF LIVING.

 

CHOSING BETWEEN AN ELECTRIC FRIDGE, OR A SLATE MEAT SAFE?

During my trip south last month it didn’t rain at all. Since my return it has done little else but rain. Well perhaps I exaggerate, for I do remember a couple of fine days when I was able to stack the surprisingly dry peat up into cones, and get most of the caorains bagged. However I seem to have missed the window of opportunity to bring them home. My fear now is that if the rain keeps up the moor will be too wet to get a tractor down to the peat bank. Such are the worries for my energy supply and source of winter heating. For many this winter it will be how to pay the energy bills, and maybe some will look at how they can consume less. There is even talk of a lower standards of living. I suppose it depends on whether those standards are related to our rational needs. Do we derive pleasure from keeping up those standards or have they become a way of life that we can no longer afford?

One of the benefits of having been on this planet for the best part of seven decades is being able to remember when motor cars were a luxury, and for those who had them, going out for a Sunday spin was regarded as a very affordable pleasure. I had thought that during my evening walk with Donald we would see an end to people taking that spin to the end of the road, but there are still a few who presumably derive some form of pleasure in driving there and back. By the time I was in secondary school people were taking their summer holidays abroad. I had even been on a sixteen day summer school trip around the Baltic on the Devonian (long since scrapped I’m sure), to include visits to Copenhagen, Gotland, Helsinki and Leningrad, all for the princely sum of £46. Most people now had a telephones, but we had to wait another two decades before the mobile phone started to take off. Unwieldy great things slung over the shoulder and now the young with their slim smart phones can’t imagine how I survive without one. As a child we didn’t have a television and any daytime viewing when staying with my grandparents would only reveal the test card. On Saturday there was Grandstand sport in the afternoon, and I remember well sitting through the interminable football results accompanied by my grandfather’s delightful whistling snore, while waiting for Circus Boy or the Lone Ranger to come on. There were only two channels and now there are hundreds, including playback and films on demand, but all that comes at a price. Today we can be entertained 100% of the time, no time for boredom or creativity.

 My Grandparents had no refrigerator but an outside larder always had a chicken or game birds awaiting plucking. Today my fridge is a slate Eureka meat safe made by Goddard and Son of London, which keeps things cool enough although ice creams and frozen foods do not figure on my shopping list. Some would say my refusal to change with the times has resulted in me missing out on life, but watching the antics of man from the safety of the side-lines has at times been hilarious. I still laugh, but not at the same things. The 21^st century was going to be wonderful; hard labour would be a thing of the past, automation and computer technology would permit us to have more free time for amusements. It turned out that playtime would come with a monthly subscription, and that we were no longer human beings but consumers. Life has become serious, no longer a laughing matter and for many it is a case of survival. Certainly our expectations of health care have taken a knock. We are learning to put up with aches and pains in the hopes that they will eventually disappear rather than develop into something more ominous. My neighbour still displays a large rainbow sign, saying stay safe and save the NHS, despite there being little signs of life and I’m left wondering if it might more to do with gay pride.

Living alone means I am able to carry out cut backs without worrying how it will affect anyone else. If the Rayburn oven is hot then bake a cake or make soda bread.  When I was recently told by one 84 year old neighbour that I should get a fridge, I had to remind him that he doesn’t have a washing machine and still treads it in the bath. We all have our eccentricities as well as our little excesses, but how we chose to cut back or adapt them is down to us. Some would say I carry little fat in all respects, but I prefer to look on that as simply another creative challenge. For more than thirty years now I have not bought any pickles, chutney or jam, and wherever I have lived a productive fruit and vegetable garden has been important.

  

Having no fridge means occasionally at this time of year the milk will turn. That doesn’t mean it’s wasted, and will often lead, via a little improvisation to something as yet I’ve never tried. So it was this week, when half way through a 4 pint container of turned milk that I made the remainder into cottage cheese. The whey separated with a gentle warming and I left the curds to drain. The following day I was making soda bread and decided to chuck in the cottage cheese. The resulting ugly loaf was a beautiful thing to behold, and a perfect accompaniment to the board bean soup for my Sunday lunch guests.