CULTURE SHOCK

 

I hadn’t left Lewis since I arrived back in early May, so the mere idea of crossing the Minch for the mainland left me with butterflies in my stomach. Over the years my home and studio have come to signify safety, and the coast wilderness at my doorstep is a constant joy. While England complained about a terrible summer the islands remained outside the wet weather front bathed in glorious sunshine. I swam several time and the water felt warmer than it had ever felt, which could have been more to do with the accumulation of fat around the gut area. I feel I’ve been as active as ever so this maybe yet another side effect of the treatment I’m on. We may not have all the sophisticated medical equipment they have on the mainland, but there is a level of care that is found only in small communities. The level of public exposure I’ve had over the past years has meant my status has changed and I was informed by Dorothy in our village shop that I was their local celebrity. I can’t say I’d noticed, which has to be a good thing. Calm water are always preferable.

I had friends visiting throughout the summer months, the first coming all the way from Western Australia. Then later from Canada and down south. Now it was my turn to visit friends on my slow journey into England. A friend had recently told me the best thing about England was the sign on the border saying welcome to Scotland. That journey south went well apart from the false start. I’d failed to take note of the new ferry time table and arrived in Stornoway at 6.00 to see the Seaforth sailing away. I caught the afternoon crossing which meant a dismal drive down the A9 in the dark, but I arrived safely at Cupar, my first port of call around 8.00. By the time I got south of Edinburgh the following afternoon it was snowing and during my stay in Peebles I had a great walk up through the woods in beautiful clean snow. I walk with a stick these days and was glad of it during the steep descent.

 It was minus five when I left the next morning and although I scarped the ice from all windows the windscreen washers refused to work. I wasn't the only with that problem having to stop at every service station down the motorway to clean the white salt off the windscreen. It eventually thawed out at Lancaster. I was heading to London for the opening of my exhibition (One man and his needle at Robert Young Antiques) and took the train into the big city. If arriving on the mainland was a big culture shock, London is on another planet entirely. I braved my way down escalators to the underground, followed instruction for the number 19 bus to Battersea Bridge Road and marvelled at the way in which London transport was able to cope with such large numbers of people. It’s so strange not talking to anyone, and most seem totally isolated in their own little world of whatever it was on their smart phones, or being received through their ear phones. The opening evening went extremely well with good sales. It seemed odd to see my name emblazoned on the gallery window but reassuring to see my work so well displayed. There were several familiar faces which enabled me to relax and enjoy the show.  

The following evening, I went to see my cousin but lost my bearings coming out of Notting Hill Gate station, so had to ask a passer buy. I said excuse me and the answer was immediate "I've got no change" and he hurried on his way. Presumably a tweed jacket, colourful scarf, and a shepherd's walking stick put me in the homeless bracket. I found it surprisingly reassuring to be seen as out of place, so shouted back “I don’t want your f…ing money” then burst out laughing. A young woman was far more helpful and pointed me in the right direction. On arriving at my cousins I recounted the story and as he roared with laughter I realised I could dine out on this one for months to come. I've been with my brother a week now and settled into the old routine, me stitching in the kitchen while he watches Bangers and Cash in the next room. I spent a few days sorting stuff for sale and took a van load of furniture and china down to the Penzance auction rooms in the week, but I doubt it will make much. There are plenty more boxes to sort out, oriental and glass are next.

 I brought the crofter's dolls house I’d been making down with me and have moved on to the interior decorating stage. I love the fun and fiddle of small scale and hope next year to present my idea for a children’s exhibition at our local art centre, where my own dolls house would take centre stage.

 

Since my arrival in Cornwall the weather has been miserably damp and any time outside has been spent raking up leaves. I must make more effort to go walking but the countryside is so different to Tolsta and definitely way too many cars. We'll be doing absolutely nothing for Christmas, and no cooked bird. I've suggested pigs in blankets with the roast veg. I know, hardly vegetarian. If I find any road kill pheasants before then the menu might change. I had an email from a friend the other day saying that Banjo Beale’s launch of his Wild Isle Style book at An Lanntair was more of a Tom Hickman slide show as he used my home to illustrate his talk. I'm glad I wasn't there, embarrassing to have that local celebrity status endorsed, but every day I miss my home.

2023 has been a remarkable year and one I didn’t expect after last winter’s cancer diagnosis. I am grateful for every minute of it. My creativity has seen me through some hard times and ideas have come at an ever increasing pace. I seem to have a renewed childlike fascination with my surroundings, small details of colour and form being seen as if for the first time. During those hot summer months I dragged buckets of clay up from the beach the other side of the village and made some wobbly Neolithic style coiled pots. When fully dried I popped them into the Rayburn burner each time I had a cake baking in the oven. I finished another roll of one off weaving and made two of what I like to call my £1000 tea cosies, so good you could wear them, Napoleonic or Wellington style.

 

 Although I was late in getting the veg garden started the warmth meant a good year for soft fruit and jam making. The perennial kale that had gone to seed and abundant foxgloves were full of bumble bees. The bird life has increased significantly as a direct result of my nearest neighbour’s cat no longer being around. I need only whistle and my mate the robin appears.

In early July I dispensed with the radio and became accustomed to silence. I now qualify as one of the least well informed people on the planet, bliss. Earlier in the year, before returning home I purchased a camera to replace my old one. This one has the added feature of being able to make phone calls 07842270108. Whatever next! I was able to walk out onto the moor on a find day and talk to friends down in London, Cornwall or the Midlands, but still being able to make it on foot into my coastal wilderness, beyond any phone signal, were many townspeople would be terrified is a delight.

 One person from WA having only now seen Scotland’s Home of the Year, commented that I was living his best life, a term I hate. Life is life, there is no best. Some of us may seem to be leading and charmed one, I’m simply glad I made it this far.      

 

LET THE SUN SHINE IN.

Now that the clocks have changed and there is already talk of Christmas it would seem winter is truly upon us and yet today it certainly didn’t feel like it. I’ve still been waking early, and maybe it’s something to do with getting older but I no longer leap out of bed, preferring to spend an extra half hour reading. However I like to catch the sunrise when it heralds a good day. During a recent walk out onto the moor I was reminded that this is truly the rainbow coast at this time of year.

Those angel rays of autumn lift the spirits like nothing else can. Getting over a heavy cold and having to be inside meant that the light quality at this time of year has become very noticeable. The dawn is long and slow with the sun being lower in the sky and it also penetrates further into the rooms, highlighting, reflecting and lending a warming glow. My croft house faces due south and the sash windows are generous for the size of the rooms.

I have never been one who craves the massive glazed façade and have as an artist always worked with the quality of light rather than the quantity. I’ve never been a fan of open plan either, as I need wall space and a sense of discovery that internal walls provide. I can’t imagine not having doors to close, not just for privacy, but to keep warmth within a cosy space. I have in the past tended to live in large houses, which I’ve had no trouble in filling, but often found myself deliberately making a tour of the house simply checking everything was still there. The two up two down is a perfect size for me, and filling it with things that give me pleasure has been great fun. I did a count the other day of how many objects within the house that I have made and it topped 130. Now that’s what I call making a home.

I have three embroidery projects on the go and the studio is a chaotic mess, but out of that chaos I know good things will come. In the barn the workshop is equally chaotic as I near completion of another dolls house. A croft house this time, and an opportunity to whittle away the hours over the next couple of months making miniature furniture.

 

I received my free copy of Banjo Beale’s “Wild Isle Style” book this week and it read as if I was talking to myself so much were the sentiments and thoughts on design and not buying new akin to my own. I realise now having got very little space to change things within my own croft house that to play in miniature is a great alternative.

Daylight hours diminish at a pace as dusk and dawn creep in opposite directions. I hear friends talking of duvet days and worry when they’ll ever get the washing dry, while I look at the remains of my peat stack and wonder how long it will last. Keeping warm was easy when I was physically fit and my body could handle energetic projects, but now I must choose which fire to light and move whatever project I have to it. I flit from the kitchen table to studio and back again, but today the sun had warmth and I only lit the Rayburn late afternoon to bake a cake and take a bath in the Belfast sink. Yes, it is possible.

 

STYLE

 

I do love a good rant, so when Banjo Beale’s evening presentation of his book “Wild Island Style” was cancelled due to bad weather it left a gap of disappointment in my evening’s entertainment, a gap that needed filling. I don’t like empty shelves. 

What is style, and where does it come from? I hear it all the time and there is even a colour supplement in one of the papers dedicated to it. It burns as well as any other fire lighting material, but this time I took time to browse through it. Full of fashion trends set by the super-rich and famous, or rather the person employed to tell them. Shag pile carpeting was back along with enormous lurid fluffy coats. Sultry looking android models put even Barbie to shame with the length of their legs. Bodies so slim the plastic clothes seemed more like crumpled plastic bin liners. They looked like they needed that big fluffy coat to keep warm, but would it crush their spindly fragile form. I scrunched it up and lit the fire, but was still left with my questions unanswered. Let’s try a few ideas out, and bear with my ramblings.

As an artist I see myself as a leader and not a follower, so I have never pressed the button at a traffic light controlled zebra crossing. I cross the road where I want to and while I still have good eyesight and am able to judge distances I will refrain from following the masses to the designated crossing fifty yards up the road from where I want to go. As a leader I do what I want to do as long as it harms no others, but what perhaps makes me different is that I require no followers. While some count the number of followers they have on social media, or how many likes they’ve had for the last inane comment, I take no part in on line discussion. I am what I am, it is what it is, take it or leave it, and perhaps that’s what style boils down to. The courage to make a statement in whatever way you choose and not to care what others think. Many people don’t have the courage and so end up being the dedicated followers of fashion. Others simply don’t know what statement they can make, or even how they can make it, once again they also join the herd of followers. We are animals and it is hardly surprising that we choose to stick with the herd, much safer and less chance of being picked out by a hungry predator.

My ears have always stuck out, and I learnt at an early age how to handle being picked on.

I love what makes me different, so when two men walked past me in the street, and one said to the other “look at the jugs on that” I turned around to see who the statement was aimed at. They were looking straight at me and I burst into laughter. They didn’t know what to make of it and smiling nervously they moved on. Then there’s the other side, when I was visiting artist friends for lunch in their London flat I sat with my back to the window, the mid-day sun streamed in warming my back. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this” Brandon said looked at me intently, “but your ears look just like rose buds”. “How sweet of you to notice” I replied “and the nicest thing anyone has ever said about them”, but then Brandon’s an artist and notices these things. So one man’s big jug handle ears is another man’s rose buds, so what. Precisely, does it matter a jot what we look like as long as we are happy in our skin? Does it matter in what way we choose the live, or decorate our houses as long as we are happy with it. What then happens if what we find ourselves looking at no longer ticks our boxes? Do we settle for a good dose of depression, or go looking for inspiration? Hopefully the latter. Much of what I see that my eye is attracted to I simply cannot afford, not because it’s encrusted with diamonds (how vulgar), but simply because it’s overpriced. I go shopping for ideas, and ideas thankfully are free. Out here on Lewis everything has become increasingly geared towards the tourists and if it doesn’t move then sooner or later someone will cover it in Harris Tweed. It’s a style but I’m not always convinced that it’s stylish, or for that matter practical, but as long as it has the Harris Tweed label you can sell anything, great marketing. During the season a few make it as far as my studio, tucked away as it is, but thankfully 99% of passers-by don’t even see the sign as they head off across the cattle grid to tick off Traigh Mhor beach and the Bridge to Nowhere from there list of must see things. 

When I was young antiques were highly valued, and I managed to make a good living from buying and selling them. People would have the contents of their house insured itemising certain specific pieces of valuable furniture. Today these pieces are practically worthless, which means we can now all have fine pieces of 18^th century furniture in our homes and no insurance needed. IKEA in their latest brochure may be tempting you to buy that flat pack bureau that will prove a nightmare to assemble with a special offer reduction of £800, but its 18^th century equivalent in vastly superior wood is only £200 at the local auction rooms. There has never been a better time to furnish a period home. Today inheritance is a dirty word unless it refers to money, anything older than living memory is simply too old. People will buy with nostalgia for the past, but that only takes us back to the 50’s and there is little attempt made to see the beauty in the ancient. Real antiques are unfortunately too old. However one man’s misfortune is another’s fortune and I love the idea of cheap treasures. Let those followers of fashion flit through the latest catalogues and colour supplement magazines of style and leave us the quality.

 Then there are the things I still can’t afford, like this wonderful Dutch master botanical painting of flowering bulbs, and next to it my own version. You can have it if you really want it, was that the title of a pop song or something Margaret Thatcher said?  So, take a good look and see how it’s made. Not always that difficult to reproduce something along the same lines or to readapt a wreck. This is another skill I learnt from my antique dealing days. Scrappers didn’t mean you threw it away, no, far from it, you put it to one side, maybe even took it apart for spares in the restoration of other items. Or, you use your imagination and create something new. I bought two cupboard pedestal ends of a sideboard. The central portion had gone, perhaps already recycled by someone else, but the veneer and timber of the remaining parts were superb and a bargain at £40 if you knew what you wanted to do with them. I took them to a young restorer with scale drawing for two extremely large plate stands. When I say large I mean massive, impressive and a must have.  My instruction were to leave no cut surfaces visible, to give them plenty of leaded weight inside the bases and to cover those bases with the old moth eaten green felt I’d provided. They looked magnificent and were obviously made for a seriously large pair of seriously expensive plates. He had done a beautiful job, costing me £120. The next London fair I went to I sold them immediately for £520. That was in the days before recycling was even heard of. Last winter I rescued some old timber from the entrance to a bungalow that had been sold. The owner had said help yourself and so I did. Out of this scrap came a wonderful array of decorative objects now on sale from my studio.

  

But I digress. If in doubt consult a dictionary. OK my 1971 Collins New England Dictionary is somewhat dated, but nowhere near as old as I am. Style; The manner of expressing thought in writing speaking acting etc. in music literature art architecture music etc. a mode of expression or performance peculiar to an individual, group or period. Mode of dress, fashion conduct or behaviour. So, style just about covers the lot and there’s no getting away from it. When I style of music I’m reminded these days that I prefer silence, and I’m not sure what that says about me. Maybe the same that can be said about minimalism in decorating term, blank white walls. I’m also reminded of that line in the Blues Brothers film, when asked what sort of music they like played at the remote bar the owner replies, “we have both sorts, country and western”, and I often think the same applies to style in most remote areas, where survival has been possible only by keeping a close eye on the rational. Something the designers of our city skylines could perhaps pay more attention to rather than turning it into a giant amusement park of shards, pineapples and Ferris wheels. Nice rant!

 But getting back to the subject in hand, how does one go about creating style? Well that side seems remarkably easy. Just like art is art if I call it art, so style must be style. And what, or who designates it as being any good? Now that I think is where money rears its ugly head. I remember discussing with a friend many moons ago about opening a shop called bad taste, and getting quite excited until we realised that in order for it to work and stuff to sell it would immediately been seen as good taste. End of day blown glass fish could be picked up at car boot sales for a pound or less, but after seeing another friend had covered her entire bathroom wall with them I knew it wouldn’t be long before they became collectable and hence command far higher prices. So, a rather grotesque single fish becomes, when displayed well an extra ordinary shoal of colourful fish. Mass hanging, or display of a collection can be very stylish as was seen by the reaction of the SHOTY judges when they entered my home. I learnt this from Polly Devlin, an avid collector and expert at simply throwing it together in a relaxed way that works visually. It’s not clutter when it’s done well. When Princess Margret started to collect mid-19^th century sailors shell valentines, it wasn’t long before they reach four figure prices. I liked them for their intricacy and textures, but I wasn’t about to pay those prices, so I set about collecting tiny shells while on holiday in Western Australia and making my own valentines. One thing always leads to another, and soon all manner of objects took form, it’s the way influence works, and certainly nothing to do with those who would call themselves influencers. Get a life!

 I can hear them now, saying “Yes but we don’t all have your skills Tom”. Well I’ve got news for you, if you wanted to do it you could, but you don’t want to do it so you can’t. I adore seeing in friends’ homes things they have made themselves. For sure there may be a few of the children’s drawing, which always leave me filled with envy, but often they’ve simply had a go themselves and come up with something totally unique. As an untrained artist I don’t know how to create anything, but the fun part is finding out and that often involves playing around a bit. Remember that, play, a thing you used to do before and between lessons at school. I now refer to my studio as my playroom, but playing spreads to practically every room in my home and certainly out in the adjoining barn, or in the garden, across the croft, out on the moor or down on the beach. Go on, build a sand castle next time you’re on the beach, see what happens, you might just produce something unexpected and stylish. 

 

   

JUST DOING WHAT I LOVE.

 

I wonder what other people did on their 70^th birthday. Some I know will have chosen to celebrate in grand style while others will have let the day quietly slip by, preferring to keep quiet, horrified at what old age has brought upon them. I never been the sort to celebrate any event including Christmas, New Year, anniversaries or birthdays since they all seem to carry with them an element of sorrow. I had made absolutely no plans for my 70^th. In the depths of last winter I had wondered even if I’d make it that far, so simply to wake up to an unexpectedly sunny September morning was enough for me.

First off was to light the Rayburn, for without that there would be no birthday cake. Secondly was to get the washing on and profit from a fine drying day. Then breakfast and my usual generous bowl of porridge. My brother would be horrified, you’re never going to eat all of that. Over the past week I’ve been making Neolithic inspired pots using local clay gather from the beach south of Tolsta Head, and after I finished a larger pot with scratch decoration now ready for drying. I will leave them over winter and hope to fire them next spring, outside in a primitive dug out peat fired kiln.

I then drove to the other end of the village to get mobile phone coverage and phoned my brother There is no mobile phone reception at the house, but strangely there is out on the moor. On my return I stopped at the village shop for butter and milk plus a WhatsApp video call from Western Australia. I dropped in at Donald’s to pick up some crackle varnish that he had ordered for me on line and I hoped I would find time later to try it out on a primitive pig painting on panel. The Rayburn was up to baking point on my return so I got on with making my birthday cake, an inverted orange cake. It turned out a total success and I sang happy birthday to myself as I tried the first still warm delicious slice.

After lunch, (90% home grown) I turned to a spot of gardening, trimming and edging, then bagged up three more bags of peat from the stack. I found half a dozen eggs on the hall table from a neighbour and the post which brought only good news. Well the interruption of electricity was not till next month. One birthday card with some photos of me with friends making me look like the shrivelled little old man I have become. Another with a form to fill in to claim my £300 voucher from the local community wind turbine.

I stitched a little more of the Old English Bantam tea cosy before returning to the garden and sunshine. Bringing in the already dry washing I noticed Alistair and Ewan sorting the sheep so took them round a slab of orange cake. My evening constitutional walk was a solitary one, Donald being away on the mainland and his dog Laddie refusing to come out from under the kitchen table. I took the slightly longer loop around by my peat banks and back along the beach. It was dust by the time I made the final plod uphill dazzled by the useless street lamp.

 It’s been a good day, no celebration, just doing what I love, and I will remember it. Tomorrow is Sunday and I’m out for lunch, but I’ve another pot to finish and some raw umber paint to rub into the cracks on that primitive pig. I think it was Noel Coward who said “working is more fun than fun”.

FLOWER POWER

 

 

I’ve heard certain people refer to gardening as outdoor house work, only worse. That always saddens me as they know not what they are missing, and I wonder just what turned them against such a pleasure. Perhaps it is the boring maintenance of a useless monoculture lawn or the constant clipping of a vigorous hedge that has led them to this point of view. My advice would be to relax, let it all hang out, and revel in the tapestry of textural kayos and abundance of minimal maintenance. 

 This summer on the Isle of Lewis we have been blessed with a particularly fine summer, not simply for being able to swim in the Minch, but for the exceptional growth that trees have made and for the equally fabulous flowering of shrubs, herbaceous plants and wild flowers. It started with the brilliant yellow of gorse at a time when I truly needed hope, and the delicate snow white pompoms of the perennial aconite leaved buttercup joining the golden yellow of king cups in the old drainage ditch.

 I left last year’s kale and cabbage to bolt, and along with the foxgloves my garden became delightful and noisy place, as the buzzing of local bumble bees filled the air from dawn to dusk. I like to think that the tufts of grass surmounting the old stone walls have become home for many of these delightful creatures. At the end of May the white broom filled the ruin of the old black house, while the attention seeking pink of the azaleas stopped me in my tracks. Even the Maritime pine tree put on a show before romping on with fresh growth. 

Now in early autumn the profusion of purple heather has brought a warm glow to the hills, and the roadsides are trimmed with delightful blue of small scabious. Down on the croft yellow flags drove me back to paint, while in the garden the red fuchsia seem at times to have more flowers than leaves. The agapanthus, grown from seed taken from a friend’s garden in Western Australia have produced a record number of flowers. They may not look that special, but I can assure you that here in New Tolsta they can be counted as an achievement.

 I know some can’t abide pink in their garden, but to see the hollyhocks on the gable end of the barn towering above me fills me with joy, as also did if the buzzing of bumble bees was anything to go by. Japanese anemones are slowly spreading and a clump of late gladiolas tucked away behind the studio lift my spirits every time they catch my eye. Beyond the limits of my garden I have planted over the past four years a mix of pine, spruce, larch, beech and alders, which are now romping away. My neighbours spruce trees have almost entirely hidden a street lamp up on the road, and I hope my planting will perhaps do likewise for another at the road junction. The islands of the Outer Hebrides are known for their general lack of trees, but it was not always thus and some are enjoying the challenge of tree planting, as well as the joys of flower power.          

NEW TOLSTA EMBROIDERED TWEED MAP.

 

The idea of a patchwork map of New Tolsta crofts had been simmering for well over a year before I started stitching strips of Harris Tweed together in the summer of 2017. From the outset I wanted to follow my principals of using as much recycled materials as possible, and in the end the hanging turned out to be made entirely from recycled fabric and thread. Over the previous ten years I’d been collecting end of bobbin yarn and offcut scrap tweed from local weavers. For a base support I got an old woollen blanket from the local hospice charity shop.

I really don’t know what I’m doing when I first start any stitched piece, but I trust that if I stick with it something will start to make sense. Working from various printed maps along with a lot of on the ground observation I managed to draw up a design that would fit the blanket. The map originally had a panel freeze across the top with sheep, but in order to include the top end of the village this had to go. False starts are quite common and don’t faze me as they serve to give a clearer picture of what I want to achieve, and in this case it was principally about the map. The offset angle of the crofts allowed space for the village name to be appliqued at the top. The map was never going to be exact as far as scale and by compressing the machair and dunes area I able to incorporate some of the beach and segment of sea. There are 18 crofts in New Tolsta and No 18 has been divided lengthways. Each croft has dividing fences, which create two or more fields for grazing and a gated access onto the machair. Common grazing on the moor is rarely used these days, but the best lambs are said to be those born and raised on the moor. I wanted to keep the portion of the moor that shows the northerly limit of the old Tolsta farm with the single track road continuing on beyond the cattle grid and down to Traigh Mhor beach. This enable me to include a very important part of the history of man’s occupation of these islands, in the days before potatoes arrived and when grain needed to be ground. There are vestiges of two Nordic mills on the burn running out of Loch na Muilne, along with other ancient structure situated on this lower part.

The predominant stitched used in the construction phase was blanket stitch. The burns and drainage ditches were mostly back stitch, which along with constructed features such as houses and barns gave added stability to the structure. I wanted the map to have a sense of history so included any ancient ruined structures stitched using white tweed yarn. These included the remains of black houses and barns still visible on the crofts as well old walls. The older croft houses were stitched in yellow while the more modern structures were in orange. On my little fewed off quarter acre patch all three colours are shown with the remains of ancient walls, black house and barn, along with the original early 19^th century Tolsta Farm stone barn and 20^th century crofter cottage, plus my new studio completed in 2017 and where the assembly and embroidery took place.

The first phase of embroidery was the livestock and that was principally sheep. For the fleeces I used an old crocheted white woollen scarf that a friend gave when visiting in Western Australia. She thought I could perhaps unravel the wool for reuse, but I found simply cutting a section out and couching it directly on gave a good impression of the Black face fleece.

I had already used this same technique for the smaller pictures of sheep on tweed that had proved very popular with the general public, and which had become somewhat of a signature for my embroidery work. In 2019 the map hanging went on show for the first time at An Lanntair in Stornoway during my exhibition “All that I do”, as work in progress, but already it drew a lot of interest as artwork that was very relevant to the islands crofting community, as well as crossing that flexible boundary between arts and craft. While I had already embroidered around forty different flora and fauna I knew this was just the start of something that could be added to over the years. Since then it has been exhibited in a pre-Christmas show in London where on Battersea Bridge Road it proved an arresting sight. New Tolsta was now truly on the map, but there was a lot more to follow. The embroidery work continued, more wild flowers were stitched as well as butterflies. The diversity of nature on the west coast of Scotland is wonderful and it seems at times that I am only just scratching the surface of what can be added.

In May 2023 I was invited to submit some work for the Open Hebrides Studio show in An Lanntair, which carried a theme of “Leave only footprints”. I added a few footprints in the sand and the map was once again shown on the island. Many had not yet seen it and it being the tourist season meant a completely new audience. There was however nobody who could have predicted the event that was to put Tolsta in the public eye and headline news, when on Sunday 16^th of July a group of 55 Pilot whale came ashore on Traigh Mhor beach. There was shock and sadness as well as incomprehension at what could have provoked such behaviour, and I knew immediately that this must be recorded on the map. Having also been attacked by a bullock a few nights before during my evening walk with Donald on the road down to Traigh Mhor I felt that more personal event would also find its embroidered place. This is a piece of folk art in the real sense in that it illustrates the heritage of ordinary people, and in particular the islands crofting community. 

   

 During the latter part of the 20^th century Folk Art had become the endangered of the British Art world.  It remained something rarely seen in academic art, and while Europe can be seen as having a heavy classical art inheritance it was left to more recent democratic cultures such as in America where they cherished their Folk Art tradition. Over the past decade Folk Art has seen a revival and I can only hope that it remains as an avenue into art that crafts people will be increasingly drawn towards.                  

TO SQUEEZE OR NOT TO SQUEEZE.

 

Yes I know, one should never read the side effect of medication, but this stuff was potent, even the list of very common effects was long. So perhaps today wasn’t the best day to make black currant jelly. It had to be done though as I had everything prepared the previous evening, and all I had to do was transfer the big bowl of juice into the pan and add sugar. I’d fired up the Rayburn, washed all the jam jars and everything looked good, even if my brain felt like I was swimming through porridge.

To squeeze or not to squeeze that is the question, whether it is acceptable to lay hands on the old bag or whether it be more acceptable to leave all to gravity when in search of perfection in the making of jelly. Personally I willingly sacrifice perfection for a couple more jars of blackcurrant jelly, and anyway who will notice the clarity when the jelly in the jar is such a deep shade of purple black. I use a mix of black and white currants, which gives the same strong colour, but when spread looks more like a rich redcurrant jelly.

Maybe on reflection I shouldn’t have turned my back on the stove and started the hard Sudoku, but at the first hiss I was off my chair and whisked the pan over towards the sink. The juice rose furiously over the brim, dribbling all the way to the sink, while more fizzed and bubbled furiously on the stove. As I mopped it up, steam rose and the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt jam. Jelly juice seemed to everywhere; floor and furniture, even my shoes. All cleaned up I set the pan back on the stove and kept a closer eye on the rolling boil. The setting point achieved, I lined up the now very hot jars on the table. My jam pan has a pouring spout, swing handle and a side handle so why not use them. The pan was over half full and I thought to start with the largest jar with the widest opening made sense. It went everywhere and like a fool I wiped the spout and had a second go. Disastrous, and so I turned to a ladle, but by now there was sticky hot liquid all over the table, on the floor, down my trousers and on my shoes. There was now a direct correlation with the steadiness of my hand and my impatience, which meant more spillage. There is no way back one just has to carry on even if the idea of keeping calm is no longer relevant. It took me a good quarter of an hour to mop everything down including myself, and

I see now that the hot spilt jelly has partially removed the polish from the end of the kitchen table. Well that’s easily solved but black currant juice is worse than blood or red wine, far stickier when mixed with added sugar. In the end I had eleven jars lined up to cool and the spillage would not have made it a round dozen. The mix was half and half black and white currants, and although that still gives a strong black colour in the jar, when spread it is more like red currant. I’ve had to net most of the bushes but have noticed in previous years that blackbirds tend to ignore the white currant, almost as if they don’t see them. It’s been a bumper harvest and there are still several later ripening bushes to pick. Sure I will never eat all that, but then it’s always useful to have a stock of produce in the ladder for exchange and gifts.    

A WEEK LIKE NO OTHER

 

This has been a week of high drama in New Tolsta. The first took place on Tuesday when out on my evening walk with Donald I was attacked by Harry. Harry being a one tone bottle fed bullock. He charged me at close quarters as we made our way past the group and if I hadn’t managed to roll to the left as I fell heavily onto the road then he would have trampled me and I’m convinced that would have been the end. However I was up on my feet as he turned for the second go, and got a foot to the side of his head before he then tumbled me into the ditch. It is amazing how fast one can move when your life is in danger, and I scrambled out onto higher and rougher ground like someone forty years my junior. The bullock then turned his attention on Donald who was further up the track and I screamed at him to get off the road. Thankfully for us a large van came up from Traigh Mhor car park and pushed the cattle along the road towards the cattle grid, which gave us time to get over the fence and make our way back across the croft. I was limping badly and could see through the hole in my trousers that my left knee was bleeding. Donald drove me into Stornoway Hospital for a check-up at A&E where they found nothing broken, but were shocked at my misadventure. It was the last thing I needed having undergone radio therapy on my back for prostate related bone cancer earlier in the year. I have been conscious all summer of taking things at a slower pace while still trying to remain reasonably active. Battered, bruised and traumatised by the event I slept badly, but by Saturday evening I felt I should get out on the road again for a short walk at least. I took my stick with me although I knew Harry was now confined to barracks for what remained of his life. When the owner came to apologise he also promised me a prime cut, and even though I am, for all practical purposes vegetarian, I accepted the offer. On the way down the hill I kept stopping and turning just to make sure nothing was following me and as I passed the spot I found my breathing getting laboured. I pressed on slowly to what we call windy corner; the headland between Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, and noticed a school of what I assumed were Minky whales about four hundred yards off the beach. It was difficult to say how many there were as they circled in what I though was a rather frenzied manner, and I assumed they were feeding on a big shoal of fish. It had been a blustery wet day and I was the only one venturing out that evening. The final steep slope beyond the cattle grid was a slog and I was thankful of being able to get home and avoid any downpours.

Sunday morning, and Donald called by to see how I was, and I told him I’d gone out for  short walk, but totally forgot to say anything about the Pilot Whale sighting. Even when he said there had been a lot of coastguard activity and police down at Traigh Mhor it still didn’t dawn on me that it could have anything to do with the previous evenings sighting. Another day of rain meant I was looking forward to lighting the fire in the studio and ignoring the inclement weather. However from my studio window I could see there was even more activity down the road as two fire engines arrived. They remained there all morning and after lunch I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. I donned wet weather gear, heading down the croft and across the machair. As soon as I reached the high point where the entire length of the beach is visible I could see it. Just below the cemetery stream outlet there was a group of people in high visibility jackets, and something else. I got my binoculars out and was horrified to see the beach littered with black bodies. I made my way down onto the footpath that runs behind the dunes only coming out above the beach a hundred yards from the disaster. Just below me someone was struggling up with a large bag and heavy camera equipment. I recognised John from the local Gaelic TV station and he explained that over fifty Pilot whales had swum up onto the beach to die there. The entire group including young had breathed their last. It is intensely sad and beyond our understanding, and although they will perform autopsies I’m sure they will find nothing wrong. The urgent question now as we head into high tourist season is what to do with all the bodies. So many decaying cadavers will produce a stink, but my mind was already racing way ahead wondering just how many chess sets or pieces of artwork might be made from so much bone. In the past the islanders had so little that they became very adept at making use of everything. Unfortunately today, just like those on the mainland many have so much that they are constantly throwing stuff away. It is rarely a question of repairing and even the charity shops have difficulty coping with the shear mass of admittedly rather cheaply made stuff. We have for years been throwing our heritage into landfill, and replacing it with inferior quality goods that’s only redeeming feature is that it claims to be made from recyclable materials. Harry’s boisterous belligerence was easy to understand and the solution is obvious, but what do you do with fifty five dead whales?        

THE TOUCH OF WORKING HANDS.

 

Why do you spend so much time stitching? It’s a simple question and typical of one that more often comes from the innocently observant mind of a child. A close look at my hands would tell you that stitching is not the only thing I do.

My stitching is certainly not done for the money, but it’s also not for any form of notoriety or fame. Along with this is no urge to create something worthy of admiration or wonderment. The answer is more than simple, it is for my own amusement and enjoyment. Passing a needle from one side of the fabric to the other is a form of rhythmical relaxation. The past few months has seen me working on a ticking samplers, depicting a banana beaked creature as “The moth catcher”.

Once stitching is completed, to then share what I’ve done seems only natural in a world that encourages us to share everything about ourselves, so why should I be any different from others in that sense of self obsession. Not only do I chose to illustrate the finish item but to show that process of stitching in order to convey the time involved and maybe unravel the mystery of such intricate work. Anything that is made by hand has an inherent quality that draws the observer to want to touch, to obtain more than simply the visual. I’ve noticed during exhibitions of my textile work that the people will without thinking touch anything that isn’t behind glass, despite any do not touch signs. The drive to touch is primeval when it comes to fabric. During a stop off from Western Australia, at Doha airport the entire cabin crew watched me with admiration, as squatting on the ground, I stitched one of my more complex pieces. They were all very impressed and made no comment about me carrying a needle onto the plane, but one of them did ask me if he could touch the embroidery. I remember from my childhood the same sensation when observing my great aunts silk embroidery and wanting to touch those minute nobly french knots and the perfectly regimented smooth chain stitch.

If something is made by hand then it would seem only natural to want to touch it. I have always been fascinated by hands and the marvels they are capable of, and so I felt it a true and spontaneous compliment, when the male nurse who was taking my blood pressure and pulse noted that I had real working hands.      

COLLECTING AND CONNECTING.

 

The mushroom season has come early this year, perhaps as a result of the dry spell throughout May and June. I discovered when living in Brittany that hunting for mushrooms was a national autumnal pastime. It also meant that if someone discovered a productive location it remained a closely guarded secret. Here in the Outer Hebrides it is rare to see anyone collecting mushrooms, and when they see me with a large bag of field mushrooms they invariably say they don’t know enough about wild fungi to risk picking them. Ignorance is not an option when it comes to foraging, and they are righto leave them alone. The same crosses my mind when I see certain highly processed food products in supermarkets. There are many good books on foraging and useful natural history knowledge as well as all the information one could possibly want or not want on line. I still have more faith in the printed word. As our knowledge advances at an ever increasing rate we seem also to be increasingly distanced from nature. I often hear this planet earth referred to as our planet. Such arrogance could only come from a creature with an oversized brain. Sure we have adapted well to become the dominant life form, capable of great and terrible things, but we remain simply another life form on earth and equally vulnerable to climate change.

In Lews Castle grounds the Celtic music festival is about to kick off, but I’m wondering if all those feet might be squashing a greater variety of fungi. Has this early start to the season seen boletus, chanterelle, russula, parasol and prince mushrooms? Are oyster mushrooms sprouting from deadwood, or my favourite hedgehog fungi scattering their milky golden trail through the woodland leaf mould? The recent rain has triggered growth both on the moor and my garden and flowering has been prolific. I’m now on my second batch of elderflower champagne. While the gannet population took a pounding last year and there are no great clouds of them diving of Garry and Traigh Mhor beach, there are other species that have fared better. The cuckoo call has now been replaced by the plaintive cry of the curlew and the progeny of three goldfinch nest line up on the barn roof and washing line. 

While cutting back an escalonia bush I was surrounded by what I thought where blue bottle flies. When one of them bit me I realise they were a very small variety of wasps and I had been trimming right above their beautiful paper nest. In the past I’ve had solitary wasps nesting in the porch, so I was pleased to welcome this little colony to my garden. I would rather be connected to nature than the internet. 

NOW AND THEN.

 

GOURDS FROM THE GARDEN.

Can or should art be considered a good investment? To invest, apart from the literal meaning describing the act of clothing with a vest, it has also come to mean to produce interest or profit on capital, certainly not what goes through my mind when purchasing artwork. As with any non-essential commodity the value of art will inevitably be governed equally by rarity and fashion no matter how ancient or modern.

Like most reasonably successful artists I’ve had those lean years of stock piling that have contrasted with the occasional sell out exhibition. Just as the job is not a nine to five so the income is erratic. One of the many added benefits is to be able to fill the walls of my own home with my art. Looking back I note that the honeymoon period of high prices in the early 90’s was short lived, but there are several painting from that period I would gladly buy back. Following the move to Central Finistere in Brittany my prices had to adapt to the largely rural peasant population. This was the inevitable penalty I had to pay for leading such an idyllic life style. Sales were sporadic and my prices ranged from 100-400 euros, rarely topping the thousand euro mark. Today I still offer work from as little as £50. This still life, painted in 2003 was marked then at 350 euros, but today I would be asking £1350, is that keeping up with inflation? As I grow older and the due date of departure creeps closer I wonder if my artwork can now be considered to have matured like a fine wine ready for drinking, or does a bad photo and a crass comment on Instagram have more influence. While there seems to be money enough for all sorts of instant gratification, I wonder what sort of future we are investing in.  

THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

 

This has been my mantra, and what I’ve been repeatedly saying to visiting friends. We do seem to have short memories, so perhaps this weather is not totally unheard of or unique, however the combination of several weeks without rain and a drying breeze has now been follow by hot still days. The midges would not normally be a problem if this clear blue sky days were accompanied by some air movement. Work outside in the garden has been curtailed as any movement of soil with hoeing or weeding brings up clouds of then. Wearing a net is a misery and a last resort. I have been wandering down the croft most afternoons to Traigh Mhor beach for a cooling dip in the Minch, the only problem being the trudge home leaves me as hot as ever. The sustained heat has meant good early growth and prolific flowering, and from my kitchen window the stand of foxgloves are particularly cheering. Down in the vegetable garden the red admiral butterflies are busy on the chive flowers and cabbage whites seem to be everywhere.

 Thankfully my brassicas are undercover, although there are plenty of last year’s kale plants going to seed. The trees I’ve planted over the past ten years are really beginning to put on growth, while the shrubs have thickened out to provide good cover for nesting birds. There is a significant increase in song thrushes, and all birdlife seems more abundant since the removal of next doors killer cat. I’ve discovered two goldfinch nests and the wrens have found shelter within the old black house walls. The garden seems alive with them. 

The cuckoo has, I think finally stopped his incessant calling, but it has been a real pleasure to hear the evocative call of curlews, both down on the croft and inland on the moorland grazing. When out at Loch Diridean a couple of Bewick swans gave me vocal accompaniment, while I added a few more stones to the old sheep fank crossing. Their deep whistling call the only sound on that balmy hot day, a time when simply to be is enough. 

This morning the rain arrived with a light breeze, now that is normal.   

LEAVE ONLY FOOT PRINTS

 

During the mid-summer tourist season OSH. (Open Studios Hebrides), is for the third year organising a six day open studio event when the general public can follow the trail and meet the artists and makers at their place of work. Since my studio is already open at this time of year, it would be churlish of me not to take part in this public relations exercise. This is seen as high season for tourist, but unfortunately for me that means the low season for sales. Still I remain for ever hopeful. Thankfully the cruise ship passengers do not venture this far even though there are buses that will bring them right to my door. I’ve also avoided attracting any coach tours, although I gather from a friend that some of these can be quite lucrative. This year OSH have also organised an exhibition at An Lanntair, our local art centre in Stornoway, running from 8^th July to the 5^th August. Here will be found a full selection of artwork from the island alongside a themed section which has given its name to the exhibition. “Leave only footprints” is a very appropriate and timely title that opens a window on the relationship we have with planet earth. My friends will know I have a very jaundiced view of this and some may be able to imagine the sort of image I might produce. We have for ease of exhibiting been restricted to a wall hanging piece one foot square. I am assuming these will be hung as a block and it will be interested to see what impact that has.

There are many ways of looking at leaving only footprints, or maybe that could as easily be interpreted as do no harm. As an artist I hope to leave more than footprints, but the title I believe is aimed specifically at our human behaviour, and in particular when we travel to other places on holiday. In general visitors are so taken with the beauty of the islands that they do respect as well as enjoy our environment. There have been the odd case of camper van toilets being emptied onto the moor, but this sort of behaviour is rare and carries a heavy fine. Litter is still a problem but is often more of a local problem rather than one of visitors. So, as you walk barefoot along the mile and a half stretch of Traigh Mhor beach beyond the crofts and machair of New Tolsta, you can indeed leave only those footprints. I have interpreted this theme quite literally with a footprint, however it is not made of beautiful golden or white sand from the Hebrides, but black titanium sand from the other side of the world and collected during one of my trips to Western Australia. In WA there has historically been a problem with rabbits and even today you can still see remnants of that extra ordinary and infamous rabbit proof fence. The introduction of mixi eventually proved more effective. It is now illegal to spread this devastating disease, however that does not stop people introducing a diseased rabbit into an area. When the rabbits were causing trouble in local cemetery here in Tolsta that is what happened.

It spread fast and wiped out a vast population that provided fodder for many larger birds. In times past rabbits were kept in check by ferreting that also provided a free meal. Now nobody wants to eat rabbit. I had to dispatch this poor creature when returning from my Sunday walk, it didn't move on my approach and the end was swift. There are no rabbits, or buzzards, and the knock on effect is that there have been more problems with black back gulls and ravens attacking lambs. Everything on the face of this planet is connected, from the fungal growth below ground to the insects and birds that fly above it, and we are included in this. Over the past few years we have had the scare of a pandemic virus, but in my eyes and in that of natures, we are the virus. So, surrounding that black sand footprint I’ve placed a mass of bunny bones collected from the New Tolsta machair. Macabre, yes and yet beautiful. That is the thinking behind the work, or is it just coincidence that since being diagnosed with bone cancer my thoughts have often wandered to death and bones?