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.   

Gardening in the Outer Hebrides. (Hope and small rewards)

 

Fifteen years ago, when I first started to think about planting a garden and contemplating the possibilities of growing a few vegetables it often seemed an impossible task. My neighbour Muriel King told me anything would grow as long as you could provide protection. She meant from the salt laden easterly winds, and the predominant north westerly, and she was referring to trees and shrubs. So, my first priority was to get anything that would stand up to those conditions. I planted willow and hedging shrubs mixed with pine, spruce, sycamore, birch, beech, mountain ash, hornbeam and alders plus. Some survived and some didn’t, but after a decade I had clumps of growth and even nesting birds. My aim was not to cocoon myself in greenery since that would only lead to problems with the midges come summer time. A typical garden on the Outer Hebrides would have consisted of some well-maintained grass, and that style of gardening in exposed conditions is still visible here on Lewis. I am fortunate in not only having a good depth of soil, but also having a little protection from existing buildings and the lie of the land. My dream of a vegetable garden is to step immediately from the house into it, no fancy flower beds and ornamentation simply step directly into rational practicality, preferably visible form the kitchen window. The choice here was made for me by the best soil, and so I started a veg garden down below the barn, however from the kitchen window I do have a wonderful display of kale in full bloom. Digging was hard going since at one point I ran into the foundations of what could have been the old blackhouse plus a stone paved area. The sandy loam was free draining but with the high annual rainfall it would require regular fertilising. It was also open to the east and those brutal bitter spring winds. I managed to get blackcurrants established and a health row of rhubarb. The results were worthwhile but mixed. Pests such as cabbage root fly would devastate my efforts and one summer storm was so strong it literally blew the cabbages out of the ground. I tried not to be disheartened and rejoiced at the most minor of success.  A small bowl of strawberries, the height of luxury. The provisions cupboard soon started to fill up with blackcurrant and rhubarb jam, and while French beans were a waste of time, mange tout peas if protected did quite well. There was no problem with potatoes, turnips and beetroot and my shopping trips into Stornoway became less frequent. In long dry summer of 2021 I had to water, but the results were wonderful and I was able to give away produce to neighbours. It was the first time I’d grown anything under mesh and it certainly cured the root fly problem.

So earlier on this year I started to clear new ground extending the original plot and creating more cultivation area at the back of the house. Hope is always a strong incentive when it comes to gardening, but it’s important not to set those hopes too high. I’d saved some potatoes from last year, but also bought pink fur apple potatoes for a change. April was promising and the soil easy to dig and clean, however all that changed in May. This is the peat cutting season and I was glad I’d managed to get over half done by the end of April. The rain seemed constant and then it turned cold, and I mean seriously cold to the point that the seed simply would not germinate. I searched along the rows of parsnips managing to discover amongst the weeds the odd plant, but where there should have been fifty there was five. Turnips were the same and swedes simply refused to show. I replanted but with no better results. It was simply too cold. Beetroot and chard germinated but then stood still as if in total shock. I’d planted peas, courgettes and greens inside and wondered when I could risk putting them outside. The courgettes went under plastic on the site of the old compost heap and romped away, and the cabbages went under protective mesh. By the end of the week three quarters of the cabbages had been felled, not eaten, but simply felled at ground level. On investigation I found leather jackets just below the surface. I worked a trowel through the soil and took sadistic pleasure in squishing every last one I found. I did this twice before the felling ceased. I’ve done a second sowing, but while the weather remains so cold there seems little point in rushing to plant them out.

 On the fruit side the currants flowered quite well after a serious pruning last autumn. I had hoped to get more flowers lower down on the new growth but at least they didn’t get burn off like last spring. I may have a crop that merits netting this year. The strawberries up behind the house looked dead, but after cleaning and covering with a makeshift tunnel made from piping and a mattress plastic bag they soon started to recover. They have flowered and today I picked my first very small bowl of strawberries. Such small rewards are what keep my hopes up and hope along with ingenuity is much in need when it comes to gardening this far north.    

A TRIUMPH OF TULIPS

 

Two year ago I planted some tulip bulbs to brighten up the rough patch of grass that grows where the original entrance used to be. The ground is gritty and hardly merits the term soil, which at least means that the meagre grass hardly ever needs cutting. Just as well as I’ve never own a lawn mower. This spring there has been a good showing to the point that I’m almost embarrassed by the vivid violence of such brash primary red that would seem more at home in an urban or town setting. Those petals with the luscious texture of the finest satin have no place in a landscape of heather and heath, and yet that very out of place positioning renders them the more remarkable. They have taken their time in coming into bloom and are unlikely to last long with the lashing of wind and rain we are promised this week, so I sat a while on the bench out front and enjoyed. 

The tulip in native to Central Asia and Caucuses with 14diffwerent species growing wild in Turkey. From the 16^th century onward the tulip became an integral part of Ottoman culture as can be seen across all forms of the decorative arts. The obsession with tulips spanned the reign of Sultan Ahmed III (1703-30) and became known as the tulip era. In Turkey and later in Holland laws were enacted to control speculation. In England and the west tulips with round petals were preferred while the Turks only rated the dagger shaped petals. Tulips appear in Dutch still life oil paintings throughout the 17^th century with masterpieces by Ambosius Bosschaert and Hans Bollongier and the standardised tree form of tulip made popular by illustrations in books such as Crispyn de Passe’s Horttus Floidus, and was used well into the 19^th century. 

Forty years ago a pair of such painting turned up in a house sale down in Cornwall. From the estimated price I thought I might stand a chance of buying them. I was prepared to go up to £10,000 pounds but never even raised my hands as they eventually sold for £21,000. I’ve often found that not being able to buy or more importantly afford something has inspired me to make it myself. In my own homage to the tulips I used a style reminiscent of those 17^th century Dutch botanical painters.              

UN BON GROS DODO

 

I wasn’t totally sure if the young man on the checkout in Tesco’s had been trained to ask me what I had planned for the rest of my day, or if he was genuinely interested to know. Since he had enquired so politely I felt I could at least inform him of what I would be doing on my return home.

“I’ll be stitching a Dodo”, I said.

He looked puzzled, so I added “You did ask”. As I loaded my purchases into my bag I endeavoured to expand a little on what was entailed in my particular complex form of embroidery, but it only seem to add to his confusion. I smiled politely behind my face mask and mumbled my thanks before heading off to the bus station and home. I had started the embroidery the previous day and was keen now to see how my idea for stitching feathers rather than fur would turn out.

 I had found an old engraving of a dodo in the 1889 edition of Chambers illustrated encyclopaedias and had done more research on line to arrive at a satisfactory image. I read early description of this comical and most cumbersome of birds in Oliver Goldsmith’s History of the earth and animated nature as being the most unwieldy and inactive of all nature. Everything about the dodo seem to contradict all the attributes that man had assigned to bird life.  Its body is massive, almost round, and covered in grey feathers. It is only just supported on two short thick legs, like pillars, while its head and neck rise from it in a manner truly grotesque.  Native of Mauritius, the French called it the nauseous bird, not only because of its appearance but its bad taste of flesh. Perhaps they simply hadn’t discovered the correct way to cook it for succeeding visitors reported its flesh to be good and wholesome eating. It was said that three or four dodos were enough to dine a hundred men. It is thought that it became extinct around 1680. There were however some interesting observations made before this took place. One was that it was not possible to domesticate them as during captivity they shed tears and eventually died. The nest of the dodo was made from a heap of palm leaves and only a single egg was laid. Each bird took it in turns to sit during an incubation period of seven weeks as well as protecting the chick when born. Any other dodo coming within 200 yards was chased away. The males would only chase away other males and female would only chase females.  In the gizzard of all birds a stone was found the size of a hen’s egg and it was concluded that they were born with this stone as even young birds had it. They also discovered that these stones made extremely good knife sharpeners and were used in preference to any other.

The images I found were many, ranging from the cartoon character cuddly toys to all possible forms of exaggeration. Using a compilation of the most realistic images along with various descriptions dating from the late 17^th century I produced a drawing, which although remaining comical also does bare some resemblance to an actual dodo. Having transferred this onto white cotton fabric I began stitching, firstly with the tail, then moving on to the separate wing and drumstick leg, which would be attached to the main bird and padded out before then cutting out the entire embroidered bird. To create a feathered appearance I used a rough fishbone stitch that I would normally use for leaves. It seemed to work well, particularly when completed and padded out on the linen support canvas. The rough background drawing was then transfer to the canvas, and although this is never the definitive image it does serve as a guide for the embroidery that will constitute several tens of thousands of stiches. 

When tackling this sort of work I like to concentrate on a small area and finish it, rather than, say concentrating on one colour as one might when stitching a cross stitch kit. The image remained relatively fluid and would also have some raised areas, which were again stitched separately on an embroidery hoop. I wanted to keep most of the background as flat as possible to emphasize the rotundness of the dodo, but would allow some raised work in the foreground. As usual I start stitching at the top with the sky and trees. The sky was mostly in long-stitch, while the clouds and tree foliage were all in half French knots in order to keep the detail small enough to convey depth. This knot is very similar to a full French knot but goes only once around the needle before completion to produce a much smaller knotted stitch. I restricted the trees to three distinct but unknown species, which would leave me with plenty of opportunity to incorporate different varieties of green wools when it came to the foreground. It is a question of contrasting tones as well as colours which eventually gives depth. By the time I reached the half way stage I had passed from sky through the distant hills and forest to the middle foreground. In order again to give depth I introduced some water behind the bird, much as I had done with the Ocelot, separating it from the forested area. Once complete the needlework was stretched and box framed before setting it within the old gilt frame. I had right from the start decided to frame the dodo using one of my old recuperated gilt picture frames. Although in a somewhat decrepit state it was of good depth and a similar size to the French gilt framed needlework it would replace that hung above the headboard of the half tester bed. Any French toddler would immediately understand why I intended to hang a stumpwork embroidery of a dodo above the head of the sleeper. In French dodo translates as dodo, but also beddy-byes, un bon gros dodo- a nice long sleep.

           

A HOST OF GOLDEN DAFFODILS

 

Spring has been threatening for several weeks now, and for me it’s always the bugling bulbs that herald the lifting of spirits. That and the arrival of the cuckoo this Thursday. As regular as the German black forest clock that carries its name, the cuckoo arrives all the way from Africa. Our Scottish cuckoos are not the same as those from England. They are better fed and migrate via Italy, not Spain. The distance flown by birds was in days gone by hard to imagine, when Whooper Swans headed north to their breeding grounds in Iceland each spring it was thought they carried with them the souls of the dead. It is hardly surprising that those of us capable of flying can only manage that in our dreams.

Like squirrels hiding their stash of nuts in autumn we plant those bulbs, and if you’re anything like me you promptly forget where. I’ve often heard friends say, where did they come from, I sure I never planted anything there, and so an added magic is achieved. I do remember planting my host of golden daffodils. About fifteen years ago the wooden tubs that were dotted around New Tolsta had rotted out, and were disposed of in the quarry along with their contents. When dumping some of my own garden waste I noticed some bulbs poking out form the old compost and retrieved as many as I could find. Since then the few clumps have multiplied and miraculously have spread fifty yards up the road as far as the junction. It must be that forgetful squirrel at work.   

HANDS

 

When looking at the massive working hands of someone who has spent a lifetime on the land it seems hardly surprising that people profess to be able to read ones palms. These are not hands to be hidden between folded arms or stuffed away into pockets, they are hands to be shaken, and discovered within that grip, an age when tools had handles and machines were only for those who could afford them. A pre-plastic age when there was still pride in doing and creating all manner of things by hand. When the washing was taken out in a hand-woven basket, vegetables were wrapped in paper bags and milk came in glass bottles.

There amongst the modern supermarket shelves I saw him, a lumbering fossil of a man. Something has been prized from between the pages of my youth, and I await the smell of oily sheep’s wool to waft by. He examines a plastic bag of mixed chopped veg and I wonder does he know about stir fry, wasn’t it just tatties and swede in his time? His Harris Tweed jacket is almost shiny at collar and cuffs as he slumps forward on the bars of the trolley for support. His glasses are half way down his nose, a nose that sprout hair externally as well as internally. The white stubble sunken leathery cheeks speak of ages past, of evening sipping whiskey in smoke filled rooms, and those gnarled oversized hands that attained such grandeur with professional skill of shearing sheep from dawn to dusk. Now they grip the bar of the trolley like two great claws of a perching raptor long since extinct. This is a man of my childhood, from Tarbert market, that lent heavily on the iron gated pens as he tipped his head to the auctioneer and twitched his mouth in a silent bid. The man that held at arm’s length an ash crook with carved rams horn handle to catch a young lamb by the neck. The man who for endless summer afternoons walked with even pace behind the clanking binder, standing oat sheaves into stooks. The man that took my tiny smooth white hand in his and shook it with a grip both firm and tender, leaving me confident that in his presence I would always be safe.

The old man passed and I pulled myself back from another age and century with the strangeness and abruptness of a moon landing, as I stared at the short shopping list in my own hands.