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 19th 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.
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