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 The cuckoo call has now been replaced by the plaintive cry of the curlew and the progeny of three goldfinch nest line up on the barn roof and washing line.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?

RESUMING THE RHYTHM OF LIFE.

 

There are days, when I wonder if it hasn’t all been some sick joke. As if everyone has conspired to convince me that I have prostate and bone cancer. How can that be when so many others say I look well? What am I supposed to look like after a big blast of radiotherapy to my back and chemical neutering with female hormones? “I have no thermostat” I told a friend, “women go through this but it looks like I’m permanently stuck with it”. The hot flushes break out day and night, but thankfully don’t last long. I’ve grown used to them; opening my clothing at the neck, turning my head to one side and flapping my shirt to dispel the heat rising from my chest. Some jest that I’ll be needing a bra, but thankfully, as a man who was never really turned on by big tits, I remain firmly flat chested. I have once again returned to putting most of my aches and pains down to old age and either, trying to do too much, or simply doing something I haven’t done on a regular basis. I even manage to convince myself that the pain, or as I prefer to put it, “discomfort” in my back is most likely just indigestion and will pass.

So why, all things being considered do I look and feel so well? It has a lot to do with being back in my own home at 17 New Tolsta. I returned on the 3rd of May, and was thankful that the intense emotions I had been feeling for my home did not result in anything more than that pleasant feeling of being welcomed into a space that is me. Outside the splash of brilliant colour from the tulips and the gorse I had planted across the way said it all. I have since then been busy in the garden as well as framing the needlework pictures I stitched over the winter months. I resumed my familiar rhythm of life, and was grateful that the weeds were still at a stage where I could manage their control. Thankful also that it remained dry and possible to be seated on the ground while clearing the vegetable patch for planting. Digging was kept to a minimum and I already have potatoes, broad bean, beetroot, brassicas and mange tout peas up and growing. The strawberries are in full flower under plastic as are two courgette plants and three cherry tomato plants. The rhubarb has been excellent and a good exchange for neighbours eggs, while the currents look like they will be producing a bumper crop. It has always baffled me why people are so willing to be wedded to supermarkets and yet with plenty of good growing ground they complain about rising prices. Although I’d missed the first abundance of spring daffodils, there was, and will be plenty to follow. While working in the garden I’ve also noticed an increase in nesting birds now that next doors cat has gone. Young thrushes having left the nest too soon call out from the undergrowth to be fed, while the cuckoo has been as vocal as ever, perching on the corner post of the garden fence, from where he commands a view over the crofts and out across the valley to the high ridge and moorland.  

The one big difference to previous years is that I am no longer cutting peat. One of my first jobs on arrival was to rebuild both ends of my peat stack, which had collapsed over winter. For now, and for a few more weeks I’ll burning the remainder of the previous year’s peat stack. I’ve given little thought to how the house will function without peat, and perhaps I am like that ostrich with its head in the sand, or should that be peat. Just as I’ve crossed the Garry Bridge to cut peat for the past fifteen years, I will cross that particular fuel or Energy Bridge when I come to it. For now while the peat lasts life is good and I count only on today.     

Returning home to New Tolsta after an absence of five months.

There have been times over the past few months when I wondered if I’d ever see my home again. Being diagnosed with prostate and bone cancer was no fun and the treatment, a process of chemical neutering has been little better, however I am at last at a stage when I can begin to wend my way north from Cornwall back up to New Tolsta. During those dark winter months I tried to keep walking, but it wasn’t always possible. There were good days and bad, but I kept telling myself you only have today so make the most of it. I walked alone with only my sketch pad for company. Many a time I thought of those evening walks from my island home, and during full moons I’ve imagined myself walking with Donald and Laddie around to Garry Beach. Most of my walks in Cornwall have been in daylight, since any road walking at dusk or in the dark would be seriously dangerous in the lanes around Probus. When out in the surrounding countryside I’ve maintained that Scottish right to roam, climbing over gates and fences to find my own path and avoid the masses of dog walkers. I’ve noticed in the village people often introduce their dog before offering their own name. A few times I driven down to the coast on fine days and rediscovered the beauty of the Cornwall of my youth. Winter is the only time to do this, as summer bring tourists and impossible traffic. The frustration of knowing the sea is only a few miles away but that the route is barred must be awful, better to be in walking distance.

The stitching that has become such an integral part of my life has continued and another flock of sheep on tweed have been worked and ready for framing. There have also been a couple of longer term projects with a jolly hunting scene and a stumpwork ticking sampler entitled “The tulip fancier”.

Stitching is not always the tidiest of occupations, and while staying with my brother it has been important for me to organise a working space in the barn that once housed my father’s collection of blue and white china. The conversion of the barn into a studio/workshop space for me grew into something quite different when I had to house the remainder of my furniture from Brittany. I have simply banished thoughts of my old Breton farm house as it now remains abandoned and unsaleable. Much of what I brought back has been sold or is in the process of being sold, but those smaller items that still give me pleasure form an important part of my practical work space. I like the comfort of clutter around me, and ancient items that still do the job they were intended for give me tremendous pleasure. Working with the builder Andy has given a focus to my days, and now that the work is complete I’m seeing those old familiar item take on a new lease of life as they are placed in new surroundings.

The space has been totally transformed and although not large I will enjoy spending time here next winter if my health allows. For now though my mind is focused on the journey home, no mad dash this time but a calm progression northwards visiting friends on route. I fully expect it to be an emotional return.   

JESUS AND REBECCA AT THE WELL.

  

For the first time Elizabeth felt real concern for her husband’s sanity as Darcy was insistent that during the balloon flight over Pemberley Park with Dr Mc Fee, they had indeed seen Jesus and Rebecca at the old well on the south side of the lake.

What had led to this strange sighting and how had it come to be recorded in an early 19^th century wool work picture?

When my brother bought a fire screen at a second hand shop down in Porthleven, it wasn’t for the needlework picture that it contained. The fire screen simply happened to be the perfect size for his sitting room fireplace. While it did the job of screening, the 19^th century wool picture depicting Jesus at the well with Rebecca had little to do with the later oak frame. Typical of so many embroideries of this period it was done on a background of silk over cotton, and the detailed parts such as face, hands and feet were simply painted onto the silk. With time the silk had split and the face of Jesus had curled away from the body. There is no satisfactory way of repairing this sort of damage.

My brother is a great admirer of the Arts and Crafts movement, and it seemed obvious to me that the screen should contain something more appropriate to it actual age as well as being more appealing to him. So, I took the measurements and inspired by a design by William Morris drew out what I thought would work. The original design was stitched by Morris’s daughter Mary and consisted of a central ribbed baluster vase filled with stylised roses and another flower with more spiky petals. I decided to introduce colour into the leaves and flowers with some painted decoration, while the rest was stitched using Harris Tweed yarns. The screen now holds pride of place in front of the fire place, but I was still left with the question of what to do with Jesus and Rebecca. The damaged wool work picture had no value as such and yet how could I consign the remaining competent embroidery to the bin. The remaining silk would have to be removed and the cotton backing reinforced if I was to add any further embroidery. I started with the now missing heads arms and feet. Never very easy to get a pleasing effect using wool as with silks, but there is a certain charm in the naivety of it. The question then remained of what to do with the large open space above. Since there already was a classical circular temple to the right I decided to incorporate a large mansion house with formal grounds and a lake. For the house itself I left the old cotton backing visible, stitching only the detail of the architecture. I included a tree to the right to help balance out the composition but this still left a large amount of sky. Why not include a hot air balloon, which must have been an adventure equal to the grand tour for those who could afford it. And so the strange image was completed, since I had also been reading P.D. James’s book “Death comes to Pemberley”, the equally odd explanatory text came to mind.