Delicate

It’s all gone very pretty and pink here in the past week or so. A previous tenant must have really loved the warm side of the colour wheel because the little garden by the studio door is an explosion of shocking pink and 1970’s scarlet, with red stemmed peonies about to add to the riot. Above it all and right next to the bedroom window is a delicate snowy cherry, buzzing with life and smelling like heaven – when it’s warm enough to spend any time beneath it. The once gravelled path is about to burst into blue though, all the bluebells must have made a slow crawl to safety over the years, abandoning the lawn and the danger of being mown down.

Thinking about, and looking at, the garden with all its inevitable daily change, is so much easier than anything else at the moment. I seem to be in a very peculiar place, perched on the edge of of something all the time. A lot of time alone means a lot of unproductive ruminating and a noisy inner monologue that ought to be trapped on a page, like a bee in a glass, so that it can be set free.

I turned 57 this week which was odd and I also had a strange experience at work when 3 boxes of my book arrived with the deliveries! I almost hugged Kevin the Parcelforce Man, it felt as though the occasion ought to be marked in some way other than selling the next customer a postcard of Dove Cottage and a copy of the new David Nicholls book. A reality shift. Who is this 57 year old person who has written a book and even been on telly? It can’t be me, and if it is, why do I feel more like this person…?

_{Sweden 1978 – my brother sent me this picture of us being terribly serious (me with my wooden hobby horse) while my dad wrestled with his paintings for an exhibition in Gothenburg.}

I spent my birthday sitting in the garden reading that David Nicholls book “You Are Here” and resisting all the gremlins telling me I was lazy for not working – it was a lovely birthday. What is work if you’re a self employed artist and part time bookseller? Surely part of that is reading and contemplating and it’s just unfortunate that those bits of the job aren’t paid. The book was perfect for me, two people, no longer “young”, who have drifted into solitude and social awkwardness, thrown together on a long distance walk. The Coast to Coast walk it describes, passes through some of the most significant places in my own life and even seeing their names on the page made me feel invested in the story. I met the author in the shop a few weeks ago when he was walking up some fells, in the unending rain, for this article about solitary walking.

Anyway, my little books are a month early which is often the way with publishing – they can arrive in warehouses and even be sold in shops unless they’re embargoed for marketing purposes (if you’re super famous and people are fighting for the next instalment of your series of novels, so that no spoilers can be revealed). The official publishing date was originally this week but it was pushed back until May 30th. Yesterday I spent all day listening to audio books (The Shell Seekers, Mrs Dalloway and the end of Close to Death), wrapping and packing website pre-orders, as well as those from the bookshop, demolishing my slim profit margin by including small prints, turquoise tissue paper and other extras including hand stamping and signing each one. I loved having something methodical to do that felt productive. Now I must wait and hope that any feedback is mostly positive and resist peering into the pit of seeking out reviews online.

I should probably mark the occasion in some way, other than getting giddy with the postman, because it feels like a significant achievement and milestone, more so than turning 57 which has happened mainly by accident. After I’d packed the parcels I felt a bit sad, a bit anti-climactic with a lot of wondering what next? Apart from my 18th birthday at Blakey Rigg (when the DJ we’d hired forgot my name and called me Dennis Taylor instead- the utter joy of being a teenager with glasses in the 80’s ) I’ve not really done much “Occasion Marking” so I’m thinking of ways to make sure I don’t spend publication day alone – possibly by using the voucher my daughter made for a my birthday, “Bun-dles of fun, a Bun-stoppable tour of London’s best a Cinnamon Buns”. How do you celebrate small significant achievements and most importantly, where did you get your most delicious cinnamon/cardamon bun?
Time to put the kettle on. I may take my tea outside and look in the pond to check on my solitary tadpole ,who has greater things to worry about than sugar and spice and the delicate ego of creative folk. I will also say hello to the swallows who arrived yesterday and made my heart leap like a surprise visit from an old friend.

Reading:-
Katie Hale, The Edge of Solitude (pub. July 2024) and Celia Paul, Letters to Gwen John.

Late Bloomer

In January I had a plan, to make a cyanotype print every month using whatever was in flower or leaf, as well as other vague, grand ideas – to revive my sourdough baby, to walk a loop of the fields every day, to read/write more and scroll less, to do yoga before dinner and learn to speak Swedish. Honestly, this happens every year doesn’t it; not intentions as such but just that feeling of a clean new exercise book at the beginning of term as the year creaks into gear and everything is possible. Well now it’s April, the red hands of the Peony shoots are waving, buds are bursting and although I did catch some snowdrops with the blue magic, my starter is still neglected in the fridge and the only words I know in Swedish I learned when I was 10 (Hello and Horse). I have achieved some other things since I last wrote though, and this blog, more neglected than the sourdough, is something I don’t want to let go of. As someone who kept paper diaries for years I like the real time/first hand nature of it, the surprising things you learn about yourself and the patterns that emerge – even if its only written sporadically it’s something to check back on whenever I start gaslighting myself about things!

The barrel pond in March, with a snow topped Whiteside Fell.

We’ve been at Red How for 7 months now and for most of that time it has rained – but for some of the time it has been GLORIOUS! I made a barrel pond and found another, filled in with slate rubble in the wood and decided I’d do a long slow project on ponds for the Cumbria Printmakers exhibition at Ruskin’s home, Brantwood. Only I misread the deadlines and instead of three months there were only 4 weeks until finished images had to be submitted and selected. Panic stations! I decided I couldn’t face rejection so early in the year but kept working on the little collagraph plates I was making, learning along the way. Once I’d taken the pressure off myself I got totally immersed, combining collagraph and cyanotype, meeting all the deadlines almost by accident so that they are now happily hanging at beautiful Brantwood, in Cumbria Printmakers “Reflections on Water” exhibition. The opening day was perfection, we canoed from Coniston and feasted on blue skies, spring growth and friendship. One of those days I felt lucky and happy to be living in the Lakes.

prints in progress, the finished version of the one on the right
includes Latin water plant names in the lower section.

Since we moved I’ve noticed that my mood is generally a bit lighter, I’m not quite as bitter and battle scarred at least on the surface – choosing your own path is a wonderful thing. I walk around the house and garden with a kind of reverence and constant surprise to find myself here; something about never taking anywhere for granted, trying everyday to consciously balance my Hobbity urges to dig deep roots, with a gentle acceptance of the nature of Rental Life . It reminds me of the way I used to wander around my grandparent’s house in Glaisdale when I was little and everyone was outside, almost as if it was a museum or a stage set, making up stories and feeling like someone else – it wasn’t ‘home’ but it was something near and very much loved.

I had a wonderful time back “home” in Yorkshire in February. Before I left my Braithwaite studio and just after completing the cyanotype book I’d started working on a project for my friends at Rounton Coffee Roasters. Dave, his partner Tracey and I met over 10 years ago at a very bohemian party where the rooms had been made to look like woodland and friends arrived dressed as Ash Dieback amongst other things (I’d made a dress and mask themed on The Owl Service)! My old life, parties and music and a little misbehaviour. Anyway, it’s coming up to 10 years since I had to leave the moors and 10 years since Dave started his coffee roasting business so to be honest there was no way I was going to turn this project down even if there was no money in it ( Actually the company were very careful to make sure I charged a realistic industry standard rate for design work which was amazing as it’s no exaggeration to say that I’ve always undercharged for my work in the past). It was just what I needed to break the inertia after completing the book thing. I was commissioned to design the packaging for a limited edition, microlot coffee from Fazenda Pinhal in Brazil. The farm has won awards for its environmental work and sustainability and is also a sanctuary for illegally trafficked birds and wildlife. The whole project is part of Rounton’s commitment to 1% For the Planet and support for Yorkshire Wildlife Trust. So for a number of reasons the launch event felt hugely emotional and is something I’m really proud of.

Design for Rounton Coffee Roasters using original watercolour sketches and digital paintbrushes

It was lovely to turn up at my parent’s place with boxes of coffee and a copy of my actual book after years of being financially and practically propped up by them and their own travails in the Art World. Neither of these projects will make me rich (to date a combined total of just £1,600 which will shock/surprise you, more on this another time!) but I’m not sure I want to be rich, just secure and self sufficient. These small successes in print have been a long time coming and I’m trying to train myself to enjoy the unaccustomed feeling of achievement! I hope the art helps sell the coffee and I hope a few people buy my book and find it useful and inspiring… I’m 57 this month so it’s about time my buds popped into bloom!

A Beginner’s Guide to Cyanotype will be published on May 30th. I’m going to write another post (probably in about 5 years at this rate !) about the writing process and some of the projects included in it but for now the garden is calling me. The sun is out and it’s not raining- yet (rare and notable enough for our neighbours to send WhatsApp messages to our group chat this morning). There are lots of places you can pre-order the book, including my website and Sam Read Bookseller in Grasmere where I work, as well as any lovely bricks and mortar bookshop or online ones .

Thank you for reading this far, I’m off to grind some beans to drink with the last of the Easter eggs outside on the bench. x

Another Mountain

I’m sitting on the much travelled garden bench, looking across the valley to where the sepia toned fells disappear up into a band of softly rising and falling mist, there is birdsong and something that looks as though it might develop into a patch of blue sky. It has rained relentlessly for days and being able to sit outside in these surroundings, on a warm October day feels like the greatest gift. Well it is a gift of sorts.
Back in July I was aimlessly wandering around the garden centre, buying an extremely prickly red gooseberry bush to try and make the rented garden less attractive to one of the neighbour’s 5,000 rescue cats and more attractive to me, when I heard someone say my name. I was in such a daze that I’d failed to recognise the lovely Arwen from Lorton Shop who had lead a wonderful plant dying and printing workshop just a few days earlier. Arwen’s family had had similar experiences during 2020/21 of their rented home being turned into a holiday let, so out of habit I halfheartedly asked if there was anything coming up to rent in the area. To cut a long story short, thanks to that conversation and some kind words on our behalf, within a fortnight we had signed the tenancy on this place and by mid August had started ferrying crates of books (mostly still packed from the last move), lugging plant pots and stumbling through the endurance race of moving house and realising that there is so much STUFF even when you think you don’t have much – only this time we were doing it through choice (so no complaining was allowed out loud) and with an excitement we hardly dared admit to.

So that’s how we came to be here, landing softly with no expectation of permanence, within a bike wobble of the lake, another garden to learn about and new paths to walk; watched over by Grasmoor, Whiteside and Low Fell.
Dearham was not somewhere I ever wanted to be (nowhere is when you don’t choose it) but it ended up being a place to heal slightly – having my good friend Sarah just over the road and our wonderful landlords Carol and Ian treating us in a way that so contrasted with the previous over-privileged rotters that I think it helped to undo a little of the damage. I also discovered how nice it is to live somewhere that isn’t a tourist destination, just a normal place. I drew maps of the garden for the new tenants and we left that little house with a good feeling, gratitude and self respect.
So what now?

Well the big thing is I made the decision to give up my fancy studio unit and move everything back “home” at the end of this month. It has served it’s purpose during the past two years, allowing me some stability to work out projects for the book as well as do workshops and just have a base in the Lakes to enjoy. After the debacle at Newlands I swore I’d try to keep work and home separate but the truth is I can’t afford the extra rent now and anyway I’ve always worked best at home, keeping odd hours and lacking the motivation and discipline to make daily car journeys in the winter. My last few workshops in the Braithwaite studio are this month and I think a short rest from cyanotype might be needed anyway after two years of deep dive into the blues!

I’ve been doing some drawings for a little project with friends at Rounton Coffee Roasters, back home in North Yorkshire, they’re working with a Brazilian coffee farmer who also runs a bird rescue charity helping rehabilitate birds that have been illegally trafficked as exotic pets. Hopefully these drawings will become packaging for a limited edition coffee, raising awareness of the issue.

So one short blog post, the first from Witchmountain Version 0.4, not exactly the “habit” I was trying to acquire in my last post but with awkward glasses, a ton of unpacked boxes and all the treasures of an Autumn garden in Lakeland trying to distract me, this is a big achievement. The sun has come out and I have toucans to draw…or maybe a wander to collect acorns…

Reading: Alison Uttley, John Barleycorn, Twelve Tales of Fairy and Magic

Books and crumpets

On Wednesday afternoon I spent HOURS writing two waffly paragraphs about my adventures in Bookends in Carlisle and how I’d come home and built a cozy nest with tea, crumpets oozing honey and butter and my lovely haul of musty paperbacks (3 for £8!). It was probably the best paragraph ever written about the glorious warren of a bookshop – including a description of the lovely damp and dingy basement full of music manuscripts and Rupert annuals with the bookseller reclining in a rainbow striped deckchair … or did I just imagine that bit? Anyway, it could have been the best paragraph ever written for all you know because due to our dodgy wifi and me forgetting to press save, it’s gone into the ether and the temptation to just say sod it, I’ll have an early bath, is strong but I’m been determined to “create a habit” as described in Bec Evens & Chris Smith, Written, How to Keep Writing and Build a Habit That Lasts, set a timer and lit a scented candle so I’m here for an hour, no excuses!

The books I’d chosen for my dangerously sticky crumpety nest were partly inspired by my chronic nostalgia (I spent some of last month re-reading and googling the real life stories behind Marguerite Henry’s, Misty of Chincoteague books, which I’d loved since I was about 8) and partly by @pony.books on Instagram who had recommended Rumer Godden’s , Greengage Summer and hooked me on her writing. An Episode of Sparrows was wonderful, a kind of gritty, inner city, Secret Garden which could have been written last week instead of 1955 since it ticked all those fashionable contemporary boxes – nature writing, childhood resilience and diversity. I remember watching Kizzy (Rumer Godden’s, The Diddakoi ) when I was small and also Follyfoot based on a Monica Dickens book so I thought I’d giver her another go. Anyway, I’m really digging deep into the sense of security and escapism that children’s books, especially ones from your own childhood, can bring and I wonder which my own children would chose to re-read in their 50’s!

Ok, the alarm went off on my phone just then which means I’ve been here an hour and still not ready to press publish, I’m going to wait until I can hear the washing machine do its final spin instead. That’s enough about books anyway, except for the one I’m meant to be writing! With the deadline of May 1st fast approaching it seems as though I keep remembering more information that I need to include and the fact is when you’re writing about an artistic process you’re always learning or being stumped by something you don’t know the answer to but will almost certainly get asked. Since my very focussed week at the beginning of January I’ve drifted a bit and the next time I set my timer it must be to get on with it.
I’m not sure it’s a good excuse but the need to make stuff, like the mini edition of hare prints, to earn money has definitely been a distraction. Whenever I’m making stuff I feel like I should be working on the projects for the book and vice versa. Everything is designed to distract isn’t it, we should really feel pleased if we get anything done at all when all the screens are tugging at us for a bit more scrolling. Would you go back to life pre smart phones if you could?

I’m going to leave this now because I want to rest my eyes and look at one of those ancient paperbacks instead and I don’t want to get too precious about these posts and end up doing nothing. If I hadn’t had to re-do the first bit I’d have told you about the light coming back and the herons along the A66, the green shoots I saw today emerging from the oily, black mud at Silver Meadow and the walk in a rainforest full of miniature worlds, mossy trolls and not quite enough new trees? I’d tell you about our maiden voyage in the new canoe and how I always pretend I’m Waterhouse’s Lady of Shallot but in reality I look more like Captain Pugwash. Maybe next time, I can hear the spin cycle and it’s time for another cup of tea.

Thinking about busses

Guess who forgot to cancel the WordPress upgrade payment before it was renewed…yes, and so now I have to keep using it or forever dream of the treats I could have bought with the £30 – 10 flat whites from the gallery cafe opposite the bookshop on my work days!
I’m not having a productive day today. After spending the past 2 days shivering in the shop, wishing I was here in my studio, warm and busy, I’ve been struck with enormous gloomy inertia and a headache that is spreading like oil on water, behind my right eye. I think I was looking forward to it too much, I have so much I need and want to do that I think I must have jinxed things. This creative stuff seems to need creeping up on stealthily, probably my creativity is a particularly weedy, shy sort that gets frightened easily and will only come out when it thinks no one is looking (I have deep admiration for people, like my dad, who just get on with it no matter what is going on in their private lives, or those who find comfort and escape in their work.)
I’ve also been thinking about busses and this is why I’m writing…

It’s much easier to write when there’s an occasional picture to break up the words and there’s something about the light and the way the water looks in this one that does something nice to my head, does it do that to you? Like taking off an uncomfortable hat.

Anyway some things have happened recently that I really wanted to talk about because they not only sent me into a bit of a tailspin but also reminded me about the quote from Grayson Perry’s Reith Lecture where he talked about the Helsinki Bus Station Theory coined by Finnish photographer, Arno Minkinnen. The theory boils down to “just stay on the fucking bus” (excuse my language), don’t give up if you get to your creative destination after a long bumpy ride and find that someone else has got there first. The point is meant to be that a creative person needs to have faith in their own journey, accept that others may be on a similar path and not be disheartened by comparison or a perceived lack of originality; because if you keep getting off the bus looking for the totally New Thing No One Ever Did Before, and jumping on different ones, then the chances are the same thing will keep happening. Stay on the bus, grab a window seat and don’t give it up for anyone!

I’ve felt that way about making cyanotypes for ages and it’s one of the reasons I’ve not been feeling confident about the writing I’m meant to be doing about it. I keep trying to avoid looking at other people’s work, wanting to be unique and getting cross if I think people have made work similar to mine, or better or more unusual or even if they just seem to be having more fun! It’s a general insecurity about being original in a niche that is particularly hard to be original in – its all the same colour for a start, and what does it matter anyway, it’s me they asked to write the book so I can’t be on completely the wrong bus…can I?
What happened last week was a very complex thing for me and I’m hesitant in writing about it because I don’t want to be misunderstood. This isn’t a book review but I think if it was I’d be giving “All My Wild Mothers” by Victoria Bennett a 5 star write up …that is if I could read it.
You see last Thursday the bookshop held a virtual book launch complete with a gorgeous, moving performance by The Bookshop Band and by the end I was so upset that I actually howled, yup, one of those weird involuntary noises that come from nowhere like the time my friend said she suddenly mooed when giving birth to her second child! It’s a very beautiful book, a memoir that weaves descriptions of wild and medicinal plants with the building of a garden and a very personal story of loss, parenting and crucially for me, an all to familiar description of the humiliations of rental life.

It seemed to me that Victoria had written the perfect book, the one I wanted to write, not a “misery memoir” but a modern Language of Flowers with a positive message and judging by the way she came across on camera, had remained a lovely person, able to talk about the eventual forced destruction of her garden without any of the visible bitterness and furious bile that has eaten away at me for the past 9 years. I was desperate to ask a million questions but felt inarticulate and ashamed of my envy. Someone did ask if the writing of it had been cathartic and she smiled and paused before saying that it had taken ten years and she did have grief counselling first – this was the point at which I realised my mistake in not doing something about my feelings when we first left the moor. I think if a book, and talking about it can affect people emotionally then it’s doing something right isn’t it, and my own self censorship may seem pretty lax but I think writing a memoir is so open and brave.

I have decided to read occasional short passages at work so I can’t have a meltdown, and I keep eyeing it on the shelf waiting until I dare dip in again.

So I guess I’ve learned a lot this week and one of those things is that I need to find cure for bitterness and envy or at least channel it more constructively and not be afraid of comparison or criticism. Easy right? It’s no good wishing I’d taken a different bus I just need to keep this one on the road and get friendly with the driver.
Ok, it’s definitely time for a cup of something and a snack before walking over to join the yoga class that’s started up in one of the other units. It gave me a fright last week when I was asked how long it had been since I last did a class and I said NINE years! 9 years in Cumbria while my heart still sits and waits on the moors. Time for a big cup of one of Victoria’s flower potions I think – Enchanter’s Nightshade and Cleavers? (Victoria has asked me to point out that Enchanter’s Nightshade is toxic and its inclusion here is just symbolic, partly because it was a prolific weed in the Newlands garden – you’ll find out more about the meanings of plants if you read the book!) x

• In case you need some back story – https://www.change.org/p/the-trustees-of-snilesworth-estate-please-reconsider-the-unfair-eviction-kim-tillyer-and-her-family-from-moorside-house
• Reading: An Episode of Sparrows – Rumer Godden and All My Wild Mothers – Victoria Bennett

Vanishing Point

Yesterday I went for a walk on frozen sea foam, a snow drift of white horses that, oddly didn’t taste at all salty (well I had to find out, you would have too wouldn’t you?). As usual I had the beach almost entirely to myself and, as my daughter said last time she was here, a walk on the beach never fails to snap you out of whatever mood you’re stuck in, it’s always worth the effort. The beach here is vast, big skies and distant vanishing points, biting wind and screaming seabirds, which makes it the perfect antidote to the odd, claustrophobic feeling, that I’m somehow facing in the wrong direction, which I get in this house.
Anyway, I did lots of thinking and one thing I thought was that I need to write a blog post here, splurge some stuff out so that it’s not just taking up space in my head and then, because I got the email from WordPress, I need to cancel the standing order for this site’s “design upgrade” and stop paying for something I’ve been neglecting – I mean who cares about the background colour anyway, I just didn’t want ad’s for ear cleaning services or cosmetic surgery popping up, like reading a local newspaper website.

It’s been the longest gap since I started this blog nearly 13 years ago. I’m not sure blogs are really even a thing these days but that’s just an excuse isn’t it, the real trouble is I can’t concentrate on anything – I’m an addict, a scroller, distracted by other people’s work, often angry and self conscious, more unsure about everything than I ever used to be and that’s saying something! If I could swap all social media for this blog I would, like a shot, but selling mostly online I rely on it too much, just like any other junkie.

The trouble is I feel as though I do have something to say if only I could cut out the noise and kick the habit of turning to a screen, don’t you? I’m always trying to catch the tail of an escaping idea, a train of thought that almost definitely maybe has an important or relevant point … and then thinking, blimey, who do you think you are, why would anyone care? Does it matter? There are loads of people doing it all better. I’ve been incredibly hard on myself, effectively silencing myself and creating nothing but isolation and absolute creative block. I should have just done it instead of letting thoughts get all cottered up. Just draw, just write and stop over thinking.

The end of a year is when we tend to take stock and wonder if we can improve things and this year definitely scored “could do better” in the end of term report. It wouldn’t be life without unseen forces bowling heavy things at the backs of your knees just as you’ve managed to stagger upright but the last two months of 2022 have been … expensive and emotional (like most people I suppose). On the plus side, this year there have been rescued hedgehogs, adventures on bikes, new friends found, old friends treasured, bullfinches and long tailed tits on the bird feeder and studio plans to look forward to. And now I can go and have a big LUSH bath and listen to an audio book because even if it’s waffle I’ve ticked this off my to do list!

I hope 2023 is a good year for whoever has stumbled upon this post. Season’s Greetings and much love.

x

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Ps. This…

Aren’t those words, the image and the sentiment beautiful and heartbreaking – it’s everything I wished I could have said and everything I wish others had said on our behalf back in 2014 and in 2021. To my shame a lot of what I feel is envy – perhaps if MY community had been louder and more angry for us… I just hope it works for this family.
Nick Hayes and the people involved in this campaign have done a wonderful and radical thing ( unsurprising from the author of The Book of Trespass, Crossing the Lines That Divide Us) which is to create a mythical character that can stand for all of us affected by this age old tale, a story centuries old, of people and sometimes whole communities, displaced for nothing more than a landowner’s greed or convenience.

Emerge

How is January from where you’re sitting? It seems to take longer each year to ease into the newness, to emerge out of the fog of the old year and start to feel my way forward. Snowdrops never stop being a surprise and this week the first noticeable lightening of the evening sky and some bright winter sun, has given me a little bit more energy and purpose.
I’ve just got back to Cumbria after my first trip south for about a thousand years (my daughter was having all 4 wisdom teeth out) and it made me realise what a little house mouse I’ve become, my (adult) children joked that “the Hobbit has left the Shire” … I need to get out more. Leaving aside the pandemic and all the associated fears around travelling; I was shocked to discover that I had forgotten where to put my Tube ticket to open the barricades and went into a blind panic at the sight of Staples Corner roundabout (luckily I wasn’t driving). I began to worry that I’d lost all my Londoness, not only that but I worried that I’d lost so much confidence that instead of me looking after Sara, she was actually looking after me, or maybe it was mutual, I hope so. Anyway despite the reason for the trip we had a lovely time, exploring new places and revisiting well loved ones, seeing art, laughing too much and looking at the scraggy bits of the city with the help of our new favourites, the late Ian Nairn and the current Tom Chivers.
One of the most special things was visiting Kew Gardens and finding out that they were showing Blackfield by Zadok Ben-David. I’d seen this by accident nearly 14 years ago when I was doing some work experience in Shoreditch and remember being really moved by it at the time. The surprise as the field becomes colour, suddenly, still made me go “oooh” even though I knew it was coming.

Now back in the North the roads seem so quiet, the air so sharp and clear and I’m all full of good intentions, to escape more, to work harder at the things I love, to write more and to work on finding a better balance day to day. I’ve been terribly lonely since moving to Cumbria almost seven years ago and much as I enjoy solitude I’m really aware of how unhealthy is is to feel isolated. Isolation can become a habit and unless Dubwath Silver Meadow want a resident hermit, I’d better start working on my social skills! I joke but it’s a serious thing, I think I’ve said it before but it needs re-saying, especially after the past few years of global weirdness, check in with your friends, it’s all very well saying “I’m here if you need me”, if someone needs you they probably won’t want to ask.

I’ve been busy in the studio at last, mostly restocking things that sold out last year that I wasn’t able to make while all my stuff was in boxes or supplies stuck in shipping queues. For the first time I had 3 whole days in a row to settle down and work; there was even a few moments where I felt a strange sensation… could it be? might it be? Happiness?!
I’m not sure how other creative people work, there’s lots of talk about “flow”, and for me there is an awful lot of daydreaming, coffee drinking, inertia and making mistakes before something clicks and it starts to go right; this means that interruptions like going to my other (lovely) job can kill the whole process. I’ve been trying to always leave the studio with something positive or easy to come back to, this is an idea I read in a book about Judith Kerr’s work. Having said all that, I’m a bit superstitious this, it all sounds a little too good so please keep your fingers crossed that there is a bit of smooth sailing for a while, I’m tired of wallowing about on the rocks.

Now the super exciting news is that at the end of last year I got a mysterious email which I almost dismissed but which turned out to be a quite genuine commission from Search Press to write a beginners guide to cyanotype printing! I feel very daunted by the prospect but also it couldn’t have come at a better time – I don’t sell a lot of work and I don’t feel like an expert compared to many other cyanotype artists with bigger audiences, so it felt encouraging and “validating” (this is my word the moment recently) to be recognised as someone who might be able to write and share what I’ve learned about the process. It’s hard to stand out in a crowd of blue and white so I’m really flattered they chose me.
The timescale is quite long, I think it’s due to be published in August ’23 and I haven’t spoken to my assigned editor yet but it’s a thing and that’s a better thing than at this point last year.

Well, the sun has just come out, I’m snuggled under my Christmas blanket, from my brother, and thinking it’s probably coffee time. Time to put away the screen. I hope the year has started gently for you wherever you are and as always , thank you for listening to my rambling words.

Reading: Zoe Gilbert, Mischief Acts (published in March) and strangely, coincidentally, Tom Chivers, London Clay which includes some of the same places and story roots.

Gnarly

Last week I met an old woman by the river, she was bent and gnarled and knobbly. I would have loved to climb up and sit quietly for a day or two, listening to her tell me stories of time and the river; perhaps build a treehouse and amuse myself throwing moss and sticks down on to unsuspecting passers by. Isn’t she beautiful (although Ash trees always remind me of my friend from back home in North Yorkshire who once came to a Halloween party as “Ash Dieback Disease”- a genius and important idea but it was difficult to get him in the car and his branches were soon shed for the sake of our eyes and to enable him to bend his arms enough to drink).
This particular Ash looks quite happy and, although I really wanted a tree-hug, the path was busy and she seemed to be leaning away from it to avoid unwanted human attention, can’t say I blame her.

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Trees, woodland and treehouse shelters were the subject of some new prints I made recently for the current Cumbria Printmakers exhibition at the John Muir Trust gallery in Pitlochry. They are only small prints, with a dusting of French knots, and I was cutting the deadline fine but I am really pleased with them because they were the first things I’d been able to make for AGES. Finally, after months of revolting circumstances which made work impossible, followed by more months with things stored in boxes I have taken the mad and wonderful leap into a dedicated studio space and here is the view that now distracts me (a little zoomed in but only so that I could work out where the pot of gold may be at the end of the rainbow) …

The space is big and light, on two floors, so I was able to rescue my poor old furniture from the farm shed it had been stored in (since it didn’t fit in the new house) and begin to realise the joys of not having to clear up at tea time. When I’m there I work and don’t wander off to clean the bath or bake something, paying for a studio does tend to focus the mind on work! I do wish so much that I’d had this space earlier; it would have meant the stability to keep working while the rest of my life was in chaos but, never mind, here I am now. My plan is to gift this luxury to myself for as long as I can justify the rent, I have no expectations of permanence and I’m trying very hard to tell myself that I deserve it as much as anyone (easier said than done), it will be a place I can use to find space to think and hopefully recover something lost … how do I explain what that is… is it solitude or privacy, a safe creative nest, a bear cave to retreat and rebuild? Anyway it’s lovely so far and now I just need to keep busy with plenty of orders so that I have to cycle to Keswick Post Office every day!

Now here’s the thing… I actually wrote this last week, agonising over the final two paragraphs; sitting up until two in the morning and waiting until the next day to take a deep breath, check and press publish. Only the internet had dropped out, the draft hadn’t saved and I made the wrong gesture on the trackpad, deleting the bit I’d needed to say the most, the bit that will keep me awake at night until I do. In self preservation mode, I’ve managed not to think about it until now because it was so hard to write and I still don’t know if I have the ability to explain without alienating readers who are tired of my soapboxing. I do worry that talking about my awful housing nightmare will somehow damage my “brand” but then I know I could never compromise myself just to sell a few more greetings cards and this blog has never been a shop window. I’m not asking for sympathy, I want people to know so that maybe things will change. Silence achieves nothing .
Anyway, having deleted my writing I can’t face trying to repeat what I’d said so here’s the short, less eloquent version, from Facebook…

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Now I’m sharing this for several reasons, because throughout all the months of trauma it has been obvious that our situation, whilst particularly complex and messy has been part of a picture that is very far from rare, especially in rural areas and also because I bet you didn’t know that even if you’re being evicted you still have to give exactly 30 days notice and that whatever the circumstance TDS will only look at the cold letter of the law (in our case ignoring the fact that we had emails agreeing the date and that the Ghastly Gerrish had no reason to claim lost income or any repair bills) In hindsight I wish we had gone to court ( we had been advised that we could claim up to two years rent repayment for living in a house with no safe drinking water) rather than trusting in a system that will almost always uphold the balance of power. Jackie Morris recently tagged me in this conversation with another artist, Jennifer Green who was also facing losing her home because Cornwall, like the Lake District, has seen a rush towards yet more tourist accommodation since the pandemic. Jenn’s words gave me the courage to keep on speaking out because to build nurturing, thriving rural communities, people need to feel able to put down roots, live near their work and above all feel safe. The greed of landlords choosing to evict long term tenants to cash in on the tourist market, and the eternal issue of empty second homes is hugely damaging :

“It is hard not to feel angry when as a consistent renter, the carpet can & often is be pulled out from underneath us at any time. I often feel as a renter I work harder to justify my existence, I pay more & watch others invest in where they live, relaxing into their space. We really need to stop treating people who rent like second class citizens, with huge restrictions. In the past, I have literally painted myself out of a property & I know for a fact people who sell their homes don’t do that…“

The only positive thing I can do at the moment is keep supporting charities like Shelter who offer free advice and campaign for reform. Wouldn’t it be amazing if the Gerrish family donated their ill gotten deposit money to Shelter!

Now I need to close the door gently and leave that rage behind for a while, it’s only safe to visit occasionally or it would consume me. Time to make coffee and head off to the studio where I am preparing for The Great Print Exhibition at Rheged in December as well as Christmas events at Makers Mill , Keswick and Harding House in Lincoln. I’ve also been offered the MOST exciting project ever but can’t tell you yet as I’m afraid to jinx it.
Thank you for listening, I hope wherever you are your nest is safe and warm x

Re-potted

August 17th already, exactly a month since my last blog post; I’ll never get a column in The Guardian with this rate of productivity! What is it that gets in the way of doing the things you really want to do Kim? My intention after the last post was to immediately follow it with another, more upbeat and full of news about exhibitions and observations of the swifts nesting under the street light on the corner the house. Somehow there never seemed to be the perfect moment to sit and think without distraction and all of a sudden the sky is quiet and I think I’ve missed my chance, have they already flown south? It makes me think of all the way-marks that I’ve missed this year because I was looking in the wrong direction, too preoccupied to notice, or care about, the slow unfurlings and now slightly detached from familiar things that used to be quiet sign posts in the year – bracken follows bluebell, meadowsweet and willowherb after cow parsley, bilberries before the heather. I remember when my parents moved to town from the farm, my dad told me he hadn’t realised it was “already snowdrop time” and thinking yes, that is how we almost unconsciously measure time and how precious it is, how much strength it takes to keep on planting seeds and believing you will see them flower.
My new situation has removed some of the familiar signposts but added new or half remembered ones. I’d totally forgotten about swifts (swallows were our summer visitors in both my recent homes) but this summer there seemed to be lots of books about them in the shop and ripples of worry on social media, early in the year, as people waited for their delayed return. It was such a joy when, after we’d moved here I suddenly realised that the cursed streetlight on the corner of the building was actually concealing a swift’s nest and not only that but the insects the light attracted at night meant I could watch bats catching their prey in midair just a few feet from the door (I still hate the street light but this is a exercise in positivity isn’t it) so much fluttering and screeching and swooping about to distract me.

The plants have also been doing their best to show me the way, acting as good examples of resilience and adaptation. The sad, slug eaten lilies, rescued from a mouldy pot at the old house, are ecstatic to be given light and air, they shout at me “look! We’re blooming! We were suffocating in the shade of that place” and it’s true, they are as tall as me now and flinging their petals back in delight – I must try to be more lily, perhaps I was getting root bound and just needed re-potting!

After months of nothing it was a bit of a shock to suddenly have a few things I needed to do with my art work – a couple of workshops and two exhibitions, one at Rheged and one at RHS HarlowCarr. I’m trying to remind myself that it’s not at all surprising that I found this, especially the workshops, quite stressful. All of these events had been postponed multiple times and then seemed to be happening very fast, while everything was still in boxes, I’d lost all my social skills and I hadn’t made any new work for nearly a year. On a confidence level it feels as though all the little highs from last year ( Countryfile, the magazine pieces) have all been a dream and I’m having to start again- so, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I’ve taken a studio space, starting in September.
It’s an outrageous indulgence and (possibly) financially unjustifiable but maybe that’s what’s needed to emerge phoenix like from the ashes of the past 18 months; almost as mad as when I accidentally became Dorothy. Many years ago I’d gone to help paint scenery for the village theatre and somehow got persuaded to take the lead role in their production of the Wizard of Oz; not only being on stage but SINGING – out loud, wearing gingham and ankle socks, in front of people I barely dared say hello to in real life. I was 33, painfully shy and at that time, wracked with panic attacks in social situations and the most unlikely lovie you could have imagined. I went on each night humming REM’s “Walk Unafraid” to myself and it worked. Like some annoying Facebook meme I faced the fear and did it anyway and for the next ten years or so the terror of it did seem to have cured the anxiety and social awkwardness in more everyday situations!
Anyway, the idea is that the studio space will make living in our rented house easier, will separate work from home (always useful when you’re a tenant) and means I will at last have space to unpack those boxes. There’s the possibility of small workshops and open studio’s and basically it’s worth a go isn’t it, it’s not as though MGM want me for the remake or anything so I need to put everything into this small business and believe it might work.

Well now I think I’ll stop here, with a recently completed bit of stitching and some words that leapt out at me from a fantastic graphic novel I browsed though in the bookshop the other day “It’s Not What You Thought it Would Be” by Lizzy Stewart.
The exhibitions at both Rheged and Harlow Carr are on until September 7th and the next will be with Cumbria Printmakers at the Alan Reece Gallery, John Muir Trust in Pitlochry.

PS. In case you were wondering we STILL haven’t got our deposit back, no decision has been made by TDS and I continue to wonder how on earth people with even lower incomes than ours cope with these kind of situations without getting caught a cycle of debt. What needs to change ?

Over the hills and far away

“There’s more to life than a f***ing view”

Where were we? It was probably a mistake not to keep writing, or at least taking notes, throughout the past 4 months; I kept on thinking “when all this is over”, “when we get an internet connection”, “when we get the deposit back and never have to deal with the Gerrish family ever again”, but of course life is never that simple and as time has gone by the story has continued to evolve so that I’m not quite sure where to pick up the thread. The only way to start is to hold my nose and dive in, say what I’ve been needing to say and look at how far we’ve come (and how much greyer my hair is!) since this photo was taken on the 3rd of April.
Rupert took that picture of me after I’d sobbed and sulked up Grey Knotts – like a wounded bear wearing lead boots- and at the top, in the bright Spring sunshine, I realised that he was sobbing too, everything felt broken and the glorious weather and views were no compensation for the unbearable stress we were dealing with. We were still in the middle of Lockdown 2, an increasingly upsetting legal battle with our (now ex) landlords, had had no internet or phone for weeks, had not found anywhere to live and time was running out before the Section 21 deadline. The whole world seemed to want to rent or buy in Cumbria after a year of confinement and it really did look as though the only option was for Rupert to live in his van during the week and for me to give up my bookshop job so we could move back in with my parents in Yorkshire.

Sparkle Jar

Another reason I haven’t felt like writing was a letter we received from the (ex) landlord’s son in the midst of the internet crisis which accused me of saying “unkind things” about him in this blog. It shook me a bit because the whole situation had already left us both feeling violated and vulnerable; for a family so convinced of their own position, why would he be bothering to read this? Without access to the internet I couldn’t even check my emails let alone scour past blog posts for alleged meanness but I did ask other people to read back with a critical eye and that in itself made me think about writing and creativity in general – who gets to censor what I write, who am I writing/creating for and how much of myself do I want to expose? If you speak out in a public space you have to be able to face the backlash and I was already struggling. The letter, and the fear that somehow it would affect our legal position, left me even more isolated, unable to talk about my feelings of loss and even of joy because of the unseen shadow of a lurker, it felt humiliating to let them see my distress. I’m a little cross with myself about that now – they took everything else, I shouldn’t have let them make me doubt my own voice. It also seems vital that people do speak out when things like this happen, because things need to change, especially in “desirable areas” where I’ve heard so many stories this year of long term tenants being evicted so that their homes can become holiday accommodation; the Pandemic Staycation Boom. Ironically businesses in the Lakes, the very ones that tourists want to visit, have struggled to find staff and I’m sure this is partly because even if they fill a post there is nowhere for people to live. More on this another time perhaps.

Some new notebooks for Lakes, Dales, Moors Arts at RHS Harlow Car in August

We left Newlands Valley at the end of May. Our new landlords had left wine, housewarming gifts, welcome cards, and even some treats for Nutmeg, prompting more tears, this time of gratitude and an understanding that this is how it should be. They had planted white Lavender and purple creeping Thyme and there is water that you can drink straight from the tap! The doors and windows lock and there are no cracks to stuff with tissue paper. We are not where we wanted to be and I ache for the solitude of the fell , the smell of bracken and rushes and my walks to the river with Nutmeg but slowly I’m realising just how damaging a lot of it was, like finally walking out of an abusive relationship. Not only did we spend 6 years in a cold, dilapidated place (it now has a council improvement notice on it) with no drinking water, for the past 2, but we were told over and over again to think ourselves lucky…

“…for all the downsides, you should not forget what a unique and heavenly place Newlands valley is and a two up and two down in Eskdale, nearer the power station, will not compare. There is an empty fort at the top of Hardnot (sic) which may be charging a lower rent.”

As a final slap in the face the landlords ignored and then disputed returning our deposit, saying we hadn’t given enough notice – apparently even if you’re being evicted you have to give your landlord 30 days notice (we’d told him when we would be leaving and he agreed in writing but then refused to return the deposit and apparently got a solicitor to scour the tenancy agreement for a loophole) – it is so obviously vexatious (because they had lost their previous attempt to charge us £8000 for disputed/unsubstatiated bills and had to pay our legal costs) that I haven’t the polite words to use here. It took us days to collate evidence and write our response to TDS and as I write we still don’t know if we will get it back and this is the point – we are lucky, we were able to fund the move (with help from family and the kind overwhelming Ko-fi donations), pay two lots of rent in May (to secure the new place whilst still in the old) and a deposit for the new house. We can pay our rent, we did have the time and ability to fight. We are on relatively low incomes but not in any sort of debt. But what about the people who don’t have access to that kind of support, by now they would have had to eek out 2 months with a £700 shortfall, possibly got into rent arrears or even failed to pay the deposit on a new home, all at the whim of a rich landlord who had lost nothing but his pride.

I’m planning to print and sell these to raise money for Shelter

Every story has at least two sides and I’m pretty sure the Gerrish’s are able to justify their behaviour to their own circle, such as the previously friendly, “community minded” neighbour who told us “it’s hard for landlords too”, I’m sure it is in some cases. I’m not anti landlord, just anti entitled arseholes. Renting is fundamentally an insecure position for tenants and my argument has always been that with the privilege of property ownership there also comes a responsibility to act with care and RESPECT because one person’s money making, spare house is someone else’s home, security and the linchpin for an entire life – work, health, family, community. We respected and cared for that place, we were good tenants by anyone’s standards and as I worked in the garden or mopped up floods and rescued damp and mouldy books from the cottage next door I often thought that I would have nothing to fear from Molly Lefebure‘s ghost.
It’s now possible to stay in a garden cottage at our ex landlord’s Welsh manor house (my love of gardens biting me when it popped up on my instagram), the contrast between that and the way we had been living made me reel, sealing a determination to never be afraid of speaking out again (it looks so nice I would have booked it or maybe you would!) It costs the same per week as our deposit and seems to make a lie of the perfectly reasonable claim that he “needed” our home for his own use.
There, I’m mean. I’ve named names and stuck my head above the parapet, maybe you came for the art and the mountains and got this by mistake, I’m sorry. I will post this and be wracked with self doubt but deep down I know that I would do anything I could to prevent someone else going through this and that’s not mean. This could happen to anyone who rents and for those who doubt the stress or think its tough for landlords I invite you to spend this weekend packing just one room in your house and imagine searching for somewhere new within reach of your job, all without the internet, in a global pandemic.

Be Kind

Lovely people, some of you have followed this blog for years and some will have stumbled by accident on what seems like a bitter rant – in which case I’d ask you to read some of the previous posts to get some back story. I’ve agonised over this and it’s not what I want to spend time writing about but it needed saying and having lived through a traumatic Section 21 eviction twice now I feel as though it’s my job to keep talking about it from time to time. Section 21 is a “No Fault” eviction, too often the fault is with a landlord but the stigma remains with the tenant (on many tenancy application forms it was a requirement to state whether we had ever been evicted, for whatever reason).
In the next few posts I’m going to be much more positive I promise; there are exhibitions to tell you about, there are studio plans and my new solace to share with you, the swifts, the big sky, the lanes thick with Meadowsweet, the rippling Solway sands and sunsets over Criffel. When we moved here my daughter said, suddenly like a proper grown up soothing a sulky child “tell me 5 good things” and although I’m very much still in recovery there are more than 5, don’t let me forget that…

Solway light

Until next time, thank you and much love x