CHRISTMAS CAKE AND CHEMICAL CASTRATION.

 

 

Tom.

I wanted her out of the kitchen. It’s not a big space with no real work surface apart from the kitchen table, and I needed all of it to make the Christmas cake. I don’t need anyone’s computer cluttering up the place and offering to make me a coffee means she’ll just get under my feet. Tottie was not leaving. She wanted to see how I was going to make the cake, so she ensconced herself at the small table in front of the window. Thankfully I made the mincemeat a few days earlier so the process was quite straight forward. Being a Christmas cake there’s a few more ingredients and if I was following a recipe I could be sure that at least one thing would be missing. Normally I would have put in some glace cherries but homemade gooseberry jam would be a suitable substitute. I slapped everything in the mixing bowl and added flour until the consistency looked right. As usual there was no measuring involved, which still baffles Tottie.

“It all looks horribly complicated, do you really need all that stuff?”

I scraped the mix into the tin which I’d double wrapped with brown paper to stop the outside burning. It would be in the over for a good two hours or more. That done I sat down to run my finger around the mixing bowl, delicious.

“Surely you shouldn’t be eating it raw”.

“Just what sort of deprived childhood did you lead if you’ve never licked out a cake mixing bowl?” I think I touched a raw nerve there. A knock at the front door and a package for me, my medication. There was some different paperwork with it which I felt obliged to read. It turn out to be mainly a list of side effects that I should look out for. It made for horrific reading and pulled no punches. Possible falls and bone breakages. I knew there was a reason I walk with a stick. Thickening of the blood and blockages in the heart or in part of the brain resulting in death. Well that might explain why they’ve had such trouble getting blood out of me. There are times when I wonder if this treatment isn’t doing me more harm than good. To then be reminded that you’ve been chemically castrated is a hard one, and the only way I’ve found to handle that is to ignore it. In the scheme of things sex now seems a pretty insignificant part of life. So, yes my body revolts me, and I make sure to shut my eyes when taking a shower, but there is so much more that fills my days. Do I feel less of a man? Yes, obviously, but does it affect how I relate to other people, no. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been seen as a threat by women and this has enabled me to have had several very close working relationships. Being invited on girl’s night out is something that very few men experience, but believe you me they are a riot. Women really do know how to party. The physical problems and pain I have in getting about are a constant worry, but there again it often amazes me what I do manage achieve. The advances in the treatment of prostate cancer have been considerable, but that also means that there are many more men like myself who are facing a very different existence. There has over the past decade been a plethora of different sexual orientations demanding our attention. I remind myself that however we look at each other, we all have more in common than we have differences. I am not about to spend my remaining years fight some imaginary frustrated corner of oppressed chemically neutered men. Thankfully I have more important creative things that demand my attention.   

Uppermost at the moment is preparing for the Doll’s House exhibition at An Lanntair Art Centre, which kicks off on Dec 5^th. The show will include a large Mystery Hotel that has been created over the past months by schools and general public. They have been supplied with a flat pack box in which they can build a bedroom and bathroom. I’ve seen a few that have already been returned, and that has inspired me to have a go myself. In fact I ended up with two. The first seemed quite straight forward and perhaps contains a certain element of how I feeling just now. There is no bed, but a coffin fills the space. Our dearly departed friend has done just that since the coffin lid has been pushed sideways and there is clearly nobody in residence. The second is the complete opposite with a large four poster bed, and the somewhat untidy occupant would seem to be a keen reader of anything and everything. Detail becomes all important as you construct these rooms, and a story will often evolve around the person living there. The idea of making things smaller in order to get people to look closer seems to make no sense and yet we do it every day. We see a magnificent mountain range and take our mobile phone out to capture a tiny image so that later we can share than moment.    

BEFORE AND AFTER, NOW AND THEN.

 

Does anything we do make a difference?

I’ve always been interested in images of before and after, and I suppose that would seem only natural for an artist who starts with a virgin blank canvas and hopes that with the skills he or she has acquired to make a difference, alter, change, improve, surprise, or even inspire. In my most recent body of needlework I found myself having to step back in time to a period when horse and cart were the norm. In the series of piers ports and jetties Stornoway harbour would have looked very different back then and the arrival of the car and resulting car parks has done little aesthetically for the look of the town.

 

I find myself looking back through images from my past, seeing faces who are no longer here, places that have altered beyond all recognition, and I try to counterbalance these with pictures that depict how nature has continued to flourish. Trees that I have planted that now provide sustenance and shelter to wildlife, walls that I built that give nesting places for wrens and bumble bees, areas that I have allowed to go wild where insects can thrive. Those gardens I have created never included the well-manicured lawn. There is no obvious sign of planning, and much like my needlework they simply evolve. I look at photos taken nearly twenty years ago and marvel at the difference my efforts, but also nature’s resilience has brought about.

  

The brilliance of autumn is often short lived here on Lewis, a matter of hours as can be seen from before and after last week’s storm. As well as leaves we also saw the loss of Tesco’s mobile phone coverage, which has meant for the past week I’ve had no phone or internet. This is not a problem for me as I’ve lived up to relatively recently without either, but with my medical condition it is concerning for others who worry about lack of any response from me. In my arrogant youth it seemed that making a difference was going to be within my grasp, and I found myself driven in whatever way I could to make change happen. Admittedly things did happen, and I was even dubbed the catalyst, one who assisted in a chemical reaction to cause change. I found things did indeed change when I was involved. However during that chemical reaction the catalyst itself undergoes no alteration, and that led me to ask why I was expending so much time and energy on things that were unlikely to endure. What did I want out of this life, and was what I wanted likely to influence in any significant way the human plight. It took me another decade or more to realise that the human race seemed to be on a relentless and horrific path of self-destruction. I put this down to our inability to accept the finality our own mortality with the subsequent need to invent religion and a belief system that provided an essential eternal afterlife. However it does not follow that the loss of this belief is any more likely to lead to better behaviour. It was at that point I started to direct my energy towards the natural beauty of my surroundings, and although this was more often than not centred on nature it did not preclude the beauty of mankind’s glorious creative past. This has sustained me as an artist for more than half my life, but in old age I return once more to the question of, has it, or will it make any difference. For those who have produced children there must always be the hope that the next generation will do better, but when I look to my own childhood and do that (then and now) thing it sadness me. I am sure there is nothing unusual in this, and it is a quite normal condition of heading into the final years of life on planet earth. When talking with people from my own generation the conversation will more often than not include a lot of nostalgia for the past, horror of the present and fear for a future that sees the human race rushing like lemmings for the nearest cliff. With such a jaundice outlook I feel it only right that I exclude myself from any decision making. It has not escaped my attention that those wishing to be elected into positions of power will without fail always feature the word change foremost in their manifesto. Many strive to understand the meaning of life and why we are here. I think 42 is as good an answer as any to that particular conundrum.

 So, can a pretty picture give little more than some fleeting pleasure before being consigned to our society’s consumerist landfill? I recently saw in an exhibition that included two large images of hell and heaven, but to me there seemed to be little difference between the two. Both contained way too many human beings.

    

FOR THE MAN WHO HAS EVERYTHING.

 

Tom

I went for my Tottie top up last Friday, not a good day. I woke in pain and despite taking the pills it raged on, grinding, like bone on bone from hip to knee. The side effect of pain is that you can’t think of anything but the pain, so only when I’d driven halfway to Stornoway did I realise I’d forgotten to bring the medication. You might presume that the medical centre keeps the stuff, but no it is delivered to me to bring in on the day of the appointment. Thankfully it doesn’t have to be stored in a fridge, however when the two elements are mixed together they will coagulate if not administered immediately. I could tell from the start that the nurse was having trouble as the first needle in my arse remained there for longer than normal. The mix had started to coagulate and she needed to get a larger needle. To be honest neither needle hurt, as my attention was still on my aching hip. I had planned to have a morning in town, but all I could think of was getting home. I managed to light the fire in the studio and turn to my latest stitching. At least that seemed to take my mind off the pain.

 

I had for several days been working on a small long-stitch piece alongside one of my piers ports and jetties. This was a little something for me as I realised it would soon be my birthday. I’d already got an old rosewood framed lined up and made the needlework to fit. It was to be an almost direct copy of an Alfred Wallis drawing I’d seen sold last year. His naïve eye lends itself well to being transferred into embroidery. The best presents are without doubt those which you give yourself, and if you’ve also made them then it’s doubly so. There is it seems no way of totally ignoring your birthday if you have a mobile phone. Years ago it was only when we were in the month of October before I’d realise that my birthday had passed without note. I’d hope this year might be the same, but missed calls and messages painted a different picture. What I dreaded most of all was that Tottie might attempt a birthday cake. I’d already made a delicious orange cake two days before and made sure I commandeered the kitchen for a baking day. Three vegetarian cheese pasties and a rhubarb and apple pie. However it didn’t stop her from presenting me with a gift that inevitably was supposed to make my day. If it had been edible and not cooked by her then I was sure I could manage it, however synthetically sweet. At least it was small. On unwrapping the box I discovered a small ceramic object. “Do you know what it is?” she said, and to my relief I did. It was a pie cup or lifter to be placed in the pie dish in order to support the pastry, and it was put into immediate use for the rhubarb pie.

I wouldn’t say the gift filled me with joy, but I was relieved that Tottie hadn’t gone to any great expense as she told me she picked it up for £2 in a second had shop in town.

Tottie.

What do you give the man who has everything and professes to want for nothing apart from better physical health? To be honest I was dreading Tom’s birthday, and although I knew he liked to forget it, I also knew that part of him was hoping that someone might remember. And that someone would have to be me. I’d spent days wondering what to get. There was no point in taking him out for a meal as he hates eating out, and he made it quite obvious that my presence in the kitchen was not required.

 

When I saw a shelf full of strange little upside-down egg cups in a junk shop I have to admit I wasn’t thinking of Tom, but when I discovered what they were it seemed the ideal solution to my gift problem. I was sure he didn’t possess one and even if he never used it at least it was small. A snip at £2. I was delighted when he placed it on the shelf above the cooker and even more so when he used it for a fruit pie. At last I got something right.       

 

 

THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHS.

 

Tottie.

I’ll freely admit it was me who suggested that Tom go through all his old cloths. He hasn’t worn most of them for years now and with those extra kilos they no longer fit. I didn’t however suggest that he throw practically all of them in the bin. There were T-shirts dating from the 1980’s and as you would expect the necklines were somewhat fragile, hardly museum items, more like polishing rags. There were three chest of drawers full; tattered pair of 30 inch waist jeans (friends said he was skinny), socks that needed darning, (if one could be bothered), shirts with almost non-existent collars, and underwear, well we won’t go there. He had to admit that most of it he hadn’t worn in years. I gave him two bin liners for the stuff to chuck, and a large yellow and green bag for what he wanted to keep. It only took him ten minutes, and when the two black bags went into the bin he had to admit he felt better for it. Out in the studio he filled the bottom draw of the store cupboard with what he would need for everyday stuff and left the other bag in the hall presumably to put back in the bedroom. I thought nothing of it when the bag disappeared, at least not until he asked me where I’d put it.

“I haven’t touched it, they’re your cloths”.

“Well you must have done because it’s not there now”.

I was just about to give it both barrels when a strange look came over his face, like a sudden revelation that there is a God after all. He rushed outside and round to the bins and then came back looking very dejected.

“Don’t tell me, you put the other bag in the bin as well”.

“Yep, and bin collection was last Tuesday”.

Now of course it’s all my fault for suggesting the clearing out in the first place, and he’s gone into one of his silent modes. According to his brother he used to do that regularly as a child, or as he put it going off in a huff. Well I wish he would just go off. I’m sure there’s still plenty of rose petals out there. This all happened before he was due to go down to London for the opening of his show, and he was just about to add it to the list of reasons as to why he couldn’t attend the opening night. I stopped him right there. “You have a perfectly good tweed suit of your fathers in the wardrobe”. “Yes, but no shirt”, he snivelled. “Well buy a bloody shirt for God sake!”

Tom.

It’s that time of the month, or in Totties case 6 months, and I’m due for another implant. I do wonder if I should bother, the bossy cow’s been giving me such grief recently. I’m thinking seriously of evicting her, she’s become a real pain in the arse. I’m sure it was her who dumped my bag of good cloths on one of her tidying up sprees. It’s a wonder I can find anything these days, but thankfully my workshop has remained out of bounds and any case the disorder is so total that she wouldn’t know where to start.

So, what would happen if I did get rid of her? Would my life return to normal and would I as they say grow a pair. Foregoing those interminable hot flushes, and losing some of her soft covering would be a real bonus. I could actually fit into my clothes again, well that is I could if she hadn’t chucked them all out. I hate this fat faced pudgy look, and everyone saying I look so well. I want to look and feel like me and me alone. Tom, skinny again, complete with wrinkles and creases.

It is indeed fortunate that I have my studio and my work to keep me from walking of the nearest cliff. The end of year exhibition at An Lanntair is increasingly on my mind as summer is over and I’m sure we’ll race through autumn and those ever decreasing daylight hours. I have six doll’s houses to put on show plus three boxed dioramas, and yet still I haven’t come up with a title. Since they will be lit internally and people will have to peer in through the windows, I had thought of calling it Peeping Tom, which drew a shriek of horror from Tottie. The tree house is nearing completion and I’ve been wondering for days just how I’m going to get it out of the workshop. So, today I removed all additional branches and got it as far as the door and no further. Unscrewing one of the limbs allowed me to get it part way through but stuck. I could just imagine Tottie turning up at that point with some useless advice. There was no way back and a good tug saw it finally outside. Getting it into the studio was via the large sliding door, but there still remains the issue of transporting to Stornoway.

 I’ve added a small tin woodshed shack at the base of the tree, and there is still some vegetation to complete the picture. Attention to detail is all important but so is knowing when to stop. Lighting and photography will be a crucial, but I’m looking forward to seeing what the An Lanntair outworkers, Jo and Moira will be doing with the school children over the next three months, as that will be the all-important other half of the show.

GONE PICKING ROSE PETALS.

 

I don’t suppose I’m the only one who finds there are times when I just need to get away; a change of scene, just up sticks and go. I’d been promising myself just that for the past couple of months, and suddenly it seemed like summer might slip by yet again without me taking advantage of living in such a beautiful place. Tottie had been getting on my nerves more than usual, and so I packed food, bedding and art materials into the van, leaving a note on the front door, “Gone picking rose petals”. I had been due to fly down to London for the opening of my exhibition, but had chickened out finding the thought of London simply too terrifying. Exactly where, or for how long I was to be away was anyone’s guess, but that Saturday morning I had indeed been invited to help a friend pick wild rose petals to make jelly. Over on the west coast it started out dull and damp at Bragar, not ideal conditions for the plucking of petals, but by late morning it had already begun to brighten up. After the gathering I headed on up to the Port of Nis to see if I could make sense of its complexities in preparation for another of my piers ports and jetties. I was away for five days in total, and managed to get a mass of information on piers down the west coast of Lewis as well as the South Lochs or Pairc area, and on the final day I headed down to Scalpay. A night spent out beyond Aird Uig at Gallan Head was wonderful. Very few of the communications building remain, but I could well see why they chose such a place. It’s not the most westerly point of the Hebrides, but one certainly gets the feeling of being at the end of somewhere, yet another Finisterre or Penn ar bed.

I kept my phone switched off since I had no charger in the van and would need to conserve the energy for photos. By the end of the five days I had a head, sketchbook and phone full of information, and really did need to get back in order to sort it all out. That evening a friend called round to check I was OK, and it turned out several people had been worried since gone picking rose petals didn’t seem sufficient. Fortunately Tottie kept her cool and didn’t contact the police to report me as missing. Gone AWOL perhaps, but when the need takes me I go, and I might well do it again before the months out. I have to admit the first night was hell. I found a beautiful spot to camp, but the back seat of the van was decidedly uncomfortable. The following evening I added a self-inflating carry mat and that made all the difference. Next time I will take a little longer to prepare my departure and yes I will give a little more in the way of explanation as to where I going and for how long. The preview opening evening was set for Thursday the 7^th and they had done me proud with an excellent on line catalogue. I was delighted to discover they had also sold four pieces before the night.

Tottie. Tom had been impossible over the past fortnight, and when he simply up sticks without a word there was part of me that was quite relieved, even though the ridiculous message stuffed into the front door letter box saying he’d gone picking rose petals did make me wonder if he’d finally tipped over the edge. On the fifth day, without any sign of life, I have to admit I was beginning to get concerned. Just a short text would have sufficed, but during my trip to Western Australia Charley had told me, when Tom took the Landrover he could be gone for weeks before news would filter back from friends that he’d stayed a couple of nights and was now heading further east to Cape Arid. He would eventually return with stories of his adventures and sketchbooks full. And so, when he did eventually return to New Tolsta he was changed, for the better thankfully. He’s plunged back into his stitching, while I’ve had to try and get on top of the garden. The big gale left the veg patch rather flat, and some of the greens that had already suffered with the cabbage root fly, were now almost ripped out of the ground. The trees took a pounding, and the tops are now ragged with a lot less leaves, while a couple of the spruces lost their growing leader completely. However, now with all the fruit picked I have the freezer full, and we certainly won’t need to be buying any jam.

 

BOXING BRIC-A-BRAC.

 

Tottie here again.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation started, or should that be argument. In any event voices were raised. I’d been up since half three trying to get some writing done (these summer nights are glorious, the sun just rolling along below the horizon), when Tom ambled into the studio to make coffee, and then came out with the same old line about nobody being interested in art. Well I’d heard it all before and usually just ignored him, but this time I’d had enough of being used as a sounding board that wasn’t supposed to respond. “Have you put the sign up?” I said knowing full well what the reply would be. His arms flew up in exasperation, “It doesn’t make any difference when I do, and anyway all they want is to park their arses on a pony.”

I decided it was time Tom should hear how ridiculous he sounded, and so discreetly pressed record.

“I just don’t get it.” Don’t get what? “Why anyone wants to sit on a horse.” Have you ever tried it? “Twice, and I came off both times. The first time was by choice, and the second, well I wasn’t the one holding the reins.” We both know this isn’t about horse riding. You seem to take a morbid delight in having so few visitors. “It’s not morbid, it’s a fact.” Well stop wallowing in it. “What do you mean by that?” Well, you make know effort, no publicity, and no public contact or on line presence, how can you expect anyone to even know you exist. And, if they did come, what would they see, the studio looks a mess, a tip with all this junk and retro garbage. Nobody going to look at old milk bottles and rusty chocolate tins. “OK, keep your hair on.”  You could start by smartening yourself up as well. Just because you’ve moved your bed into the studio doesn’t mean you have to wander about in your pajamas all day. “That’s rich coming from you, you’re always in your lounge pants as you call them, and only the other day you were saying they were trendy.” Alright, forget the pajamas, but get rid of the junk. I can hardly move in here. “But, I like the crowded look.” It’s not crowded, it’s crammed, you can hardly move. It’s supposed to be a gallery but there are more pictures on the floor than on the wall. “So what does madam recommend, that I get my mate Banjo in for a makeover?” Definitely not, the last thing you want is more junk cluttering the place, you need a total clear out of everything that isn’t related to your art.

Well that told him, and he stomped off in a huff saying he was going to do some weeding in the garden. I suggested he might try the same thing in here. “I might just do that Tottie, starting with your bloody computer.”  I knew he didn’t mean that, but all the same decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the morning, and keep well away from the topic of junk and disorderly. Now there’s a good name for a tat shop.

The following morning Tom appeared with boxes and started packing. I said nothing. One step at a time I told myself.

Tom.

Totties been on at me again about my retro stuff, and I suppose begrudgingly I have to admit she’s right. There is little point in it cluttering up the place if nobodies coming to even look at it. So today I started packing. I’m not throwing it out, who knows one day it might be worth something, but in the meantime it’s confined to the loft and I have to say the studio looks a lot better for it. I won’t be telling her she was right since it doesn’t change anything. I’ve still only had four people through this year, but at least there’s less under foot, although the way I work I’m not sure how long that will last, the workshop is a real mess and I suppose that should be next on my list to do, however that’s more a case of burning offcuts rather than boxing bric-a-brac.

 

INSPIRE OR EXPIRE?

 

 

Where do I get my inspiration from, is a question I’m often asked. Unlike the writers of Holy Scriptures there is no divine influence at work for me. It comes from so many different sources, and when combined with my own lifetime library of experience and knowledge, pinpointing where exactly that inspiration derives from is seldom obvious. I was asked this very question by a friend who was the first to see my pier and jetty embroideries. I had to think, where had they materialised from, and why now. It was back at the beginning of 2024 when attending a picture sale down in Penzance that I came across an image by Alfred Wallis. A simple but charming depiction of a fishing boat in high seas climbing an enormous wave. I had never really taken much notice of his naïve work, but the hammer price of £60,000, plus 26% commission certainly made me look again. Over the next few months I came across more of Wallis’s works and slowly it dawned on me how well this style of image would transfer into needlework. Other influences came from Bryan Pearce, (also a St Ives artist) as well as the industrial factory scenes of Lowry. When a neighbour asked me if I could use the old blankets he was throwing out I saw immediately an opportunity. Using them as the support gave me a perfect cream background to stitch onto as well as a border strip to place the title. I started first with an early simple woven blanket and then moved on to a twill weave. In both cases it was essential that the blanket was not one of the later fluffy varieties. This also fitted into my method of work using as much reclaimed and natural materials. I have also discovered during wanderings and research places I had never thought to visit.

 Survival on any island is bound to have some relationship with the sea, and so it seemed obvious that the images I would be working with would be that of the fishing industry and harbours. Stornoway became my point of departure on a journey around the long island. I had already visited many of the well-known piers and jetties, but a quick look at the ordinance survey map showed many more. When working on the embroideries of Stornoway harbour I was tempted to step back in time and look for images that dated from before the more recent developments. Car parks are not that interesting, and I wanted to concentrate more on the fishing industry, which meant looking back to the 19^th century when the herring fishing was in full swing. When looking further afield I decided to work from mobile phone snapshots. I took photos from all angles and then back in the studio I started to draw from memory, adding more precision and details from the photos. In every case I started with a bird’s eye view, imagining myself levitating so that Ii could map out the all-important harbour area. Beyond this the townscape of Stornoway provided a structural boarder, and in one image I found myself moving Lews Castle several hundred yards south in order to provide compositional interest. This idea of folding the landscape or coastline was also employed out at Point where this time the lighthouse was moved northwards into view. The images, although distorted retain the essential character of each harbour, whether somewhat abandoned in the case of the tiny jetty at Calannish, or the still busy commercial harbour at Carloway. The ridged geometric forms of the piers and jetties contrast with the rugged coastline beyond and within each image snippets of island life are incorporated. The embroidery is carried out on old blankets, another reuse of materials that fits well into my recycling way of working. It seems to me that everything can have a second life, or rebirth before finally expiring.

I see its been some time since my last post, and they say no news is good news, but I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work. In my case no news means I’m way too busy to communicate, and so over the past month I’ve been nose to the grind stone, finishing off my latest needle works. I have ten going on show this summer down in London and have been thinking it might be a good opportunity to try out the cheaper flights to Inverness and then onward down to London. I tried discussing the idea with Tottie, but she’s way too busy with her book. She let me read the first chapter, which was a big mistake on both sides. I admit my comment about it being a bit slow was somewhat tacked less, but I do think she’d be better sticking to short stories. I suggested I could illustrate them for her, but the look she gave me was enough, no words needed. So, a little time away would seem like a good idea. I have at last got all the peats up on the top side of the bank and despite us have quite a bit of rain they should be drying well and ready to come in by the end of the month.

 The December exhibition at An Lanntair is progressing well and the miniature library has worked well. I’m now in the process of creating a miniature tree house, which might be a bit of a challenge getting it out of the work shop. Chaos is my usual way of working, but I really could do with a larger space for this particular project.

On the studio opening side it looks like last year’s least visited attraction award was well founded. I had my third visitor of the year this week.