I visited my friend Olga today. Throughout the visit, Olga is in great girlish mood: she sits on her settee eagerly leaning forward, her lovely soft animated face smiling, surrounded by fresh coloured blooms: poppies, sweet peas, green curling shoots blossoming on the windowsill behind her. It is a sunny, bright, cheerful winter day. She has large blue eyes, and talks volubly about Colin, the love of her life, and all the while Olga crosses and uncrosses her ankles, sweeps her feet over the carpet, unable to sit still. She remembers her mother giving her a lovely picture when she was 9 years old and in her youth visiting a romany woman in Barcelona with a friend to have her future told (never to be disclosed to her pious mother!...): She was told she already knew her intended husband and their lives were and would always be running parallel to each other (she makes a sign with her two index fingers side by side) and never to part; if either were ever to mistakenly marry someone else, that marriage would have to be broken. Words of warning! We swapped stories, talked about our loved ones, had a cup of tea, the best couple of hours I pent for a long time. I have known Olga slightly now for about 10 years, but since lockdown we have come to know each other better. Somehow that which people mysteriously call the new normal has favoured this increased connection, and what joy it has been. Olga is a sparkling, vivacious, courageous, kind lady of 101 and counting. She will be 102 in the spring and the highlight of her days is coming to church every Sunday and be walked out by a handsome 78 year old young man, since Colin died a good twenty years ago and she still misses him so much. I told her today that I appreciate her friendship, her presence, her company very much and explained why. She said she likes me too, and I believed her!
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The Indian Ocean is an aromatic, warm, dreamy sea. I know it from where it washes on the shores of Mozambique. It brings strange fruits and husks floating on the tide, foreign creatures from far away lands the other side of the world, and sea flora of the most intriguing varieties. And it is warm; it comes in saturated hues of blue, emerald green, even purple but never the harsh battleship grey of the Atlantic. Of course those days I spent on the shores of Angola I could see the softer side of the Atlantic waters, but it never approaches the mysterious beauty of the Indian: It is of course incongruous to say this, but thinking of it brings to mind sandalwood; Zanzibar bazaars; playful octopus colonies slithering among smooth rocks underfoot; delicate, lazy, waving long strands of bright green seaweed; and of course the white empty, smooth beaches of Bazaruto; the white washed minimal structures of Mozambique Island... forgetting the sharks in Beira or the treacherous undertow in Ponta do Ouro. I made this piece thinking of the oyster sellers in Quelimane. Nothing they owned or used looked anything like this; and yet this is for me the perfect translation of all that happened there, including the marvellous spectacle of watching monkeys fishing for crabs with their tails. Those skinny, fastidious little creatures would perch over the water on rocks and dip their tails in the water quite low near the bottom until a crab grabbed on whereupon it was immediately scooped up and dashed open and gobbled up with smacking of lips and screeching in glorious mirth. Little eyes like burning coals. This is my celebration of warm sea breezes, pale sands, sighing waves, vanilla days in the '50s. The other side of this story is the rising sea levels threatening those beautiful islands, much of the low lying coast (most of Beira is actually more than one metre below sea level. I used to bemoan the fact that so many tourists had discovered those lovely places; now I see that rather than being spoiled and soiled, they will just disappear under the sea. Maybe other marvels will take their place of wonder. I have been charting the progress of a piece of work which has taken on the decisions for its own destiny.
I know how this story will end but what happens in the meantime depends on Chris Whitty, Boris Johnson, Sir Patrick Vallance, The WHO, my kiln... and many more. I will just follow the trail and beaver away at this project until it is all over, however many years it takes. And then, BOOM! The Corona Virus C-19 came to my attention at a problematic time, when I had to travel. I had to come and go several times across borders and the flights were al but guaranteed. There were cancelations; Once home I fretted about the next journey, but felt safe; once abroad, I fretted about returning home as quickly as possible for fear of being locked up in a place where I had no support and no health cover. Somehow I managed to do it just in time until the first lockdown happened. Then I sat down to plan my response. The virus was centre stage. Looked gorgeous on TV and starred every evening on the news, glorious in gaudy colours but shrouded in a dark mystery. Many were referring to it in anthropomorphic terms: the virus loves the cold weather; the virus thrives in enclosed spaces; it needs to be washed away thoroughly from surfaces and hands, face and pets... it will be defeated when we have herd immunity... So I latched on to the idea that it grabs hold of cells by spikes and penetrates within, there to multiply and wreak havoc. When I first made it, this afflicted handful of hardened mud, it was a rosy piece with a curving wrap around, nothing much to it. I knew that in time it would become a lot more elaborate but I didn't know, when I glazed it with a soft cream, a hazy jade and an indifferent oatmeal, that the kiln would wildly overfire and endow my hesitant production with a violent countenance, a malicious stare and an aura of fire and brimstone. I like to respect the wishes of the kiln. I proceeded with my plan to furnish the basic form with the news and views, opinion and rage, new variants and new knowledge as time went by. It is possible that some of us are closer to when we emerged from the swamp than others. Or have a clearer connection. I started life in Europe and remember going to the beach as an extension of everyday life, just a slighter longer walk. The great river Tagus was right there at its estuary, mighty, languorous, oily and full of promise. The river beaches were delightful and quiet. But we as a family liked to experience the towering waves of Caparica, its extensive silken sands and dunes and eating sea snails with a toothpick, having to shout over the noise of the breaking Atlantic Ocean.
Children are spectacularly able to express the true joy and fright of facing the perilous sea. There are crabs nipping at your toes; Portuguese Men of War lurking, fluid just near enough to be thrust against your body on the next wave; the hollow of the water suddenly thundering over your head: no wonder there were so many shrieks and gulps of salt water and hysterical laughter and pretending one was not frightened... oh, I remember that thrill. Just along the coast, in Belem, the Portuguese maritime adventure is celebrated in stone. The very pier from which the tiny sail boats left those many centuries ago, full of sailors who were desperate enough or foolish enough to want to go and check if it was really true that the world suddenly finishes and the sea tumbles you into the infinite abyss, the void of nether space... stories so lurid and vivid to make a child's mind fill with wonder and desire to experience adventure such as they did. And then there are the many churches round about, remnants of where the ships and sailors were blessed by the Catholic priest, urging and encouraging them on their way and embarking as well, to spread the gospel and civilise the unbelievers of other lands. It was an innocent time, and a cruel one. This is such a ship. Its pennants wave half submerged, half triumphant, in the mad wind of hope; its chapel enshrines relics and beliefs; its ornate windows shelter cruelties and dishonour, the mission of enslavement and torture, greed and ambition. We pay even today the wage of this crime and yet we also taste the sweet taste of doing something bigger than ourselves. The workshop is full of potential.I started working this month with great energy. I was deeply moved by the work of the Friends of Rowntree Park in York during lockdown. They engaged with all the neighbours, distributed sunflower seeds, planted the results, cultivated one of the garden plots with charming colourful herbaceous and annual plants, herbs, grasses, a plethora of moving and waving friendly plants. It was a joy to visit and sit and contemplate. I am a casual visit but I never miss a chance to check the place out. There are vistas there of a simple elegance that fill the soul with comfort. I take photos, too many photos, of the willows, the pergola, the knitted poppies, the duck house, the meandering water ribbon, the war helmet among the tall trees, the waving pavements of the skateboarding enclosure. There is always something in glorious vigour and always something in faded decay. I brought home the idea of making a series of simple bowls and pots sgraffitoed in celebration of their contribution to my well being and serenity. This is still an ongoing work and there are now several pinched bowls drying out and waiting for the next stage. In the meantime I started thinking of my ever present desire to honour and explore my ancestry. Why do I love ships and boats, the sound of the sea and the shapes that go along with all that? Can I work at making my ships less pretentious, less overwhelming and more true to the origins of sailing and navigating? Can I make them at all, with their flying sails and their sturdy masts? Does wet mud allow me this splendid vanity? Clay has always been kind to me. I sometimes forget to ask nicely, but if I do, and carefully manage the gravitational pull, I succeed. But the next question is: is this a proper idea to pursue? Most people I know make a certain kind of work that they are definitely passionate about; they become extremely good at refining their method and expressing their meaning. They forge a body of work over a period of time during which they deploy a limited range of methods and materials before moving on to the next big thing. I am not that person. I feel a little bit ashamed of saying this and very anxious that failing to curb this waywardness will ultimately not be in my interest. Sadly, I stray and boats have appeared. There are more, of course, waiting their turn to be polished and finished. And while all that happens - it has to be done slowly and carefully so that the joints don't fail - I am looking at the work of people like Jun Kaneko, Liang, Peter Voulkos, and others. They could do something that nobody else thought was worth attempting or even possible. They challenged the perceived idea of what ceramics is for. They invented, they persevered, they got their breaks. They succeeded in being hugely influential and in formative. I want to do that. I want to follow my inspiration where it takes me, but I know that I am not becoming very good at any one thing, but rather reaching out to many things. I am challenging the challengers and what everyone knows: you need to concentrate your efforts and push one agenda only. Its like a disease that I cannot do that. So, apart from all the above, I am also working on making slump moulds for constructing composite sculptures to express abstract ideas. The idea that does not have a face or an objective purpose, but rather propels each human being and circumscribes each person to their inner reality. How can I say this without a multitude of forms and accretions? Those difficult masts will help me achieve those difficult positions. We will see. Those moulds take weeks to dry. So I might start trying yet another....but wait, are the Rowntree Park bowls not dry yet?... At first I heard there was a scary virus in China; then, I heard it had arrived in Italy; It was killing a lot of people. There were marvellous pictures of what it looked like on TV. I understood it would soon be among us - no, it was already among us quietly stalking the restaurants, the streets, the offices, the families. I was told not to be paranoid. It was the flu. I consulted the clay: I made what seemed a good basic start.I fired it and glazed it and had a disaster: the kiln overfired and I had on my hands a nasty virus with treacly blackened gloopy glaze. Was I distressed? Not a bit. It seemed the kiln knew a thing or two I hadn't thought about. I didn't take a photo, though. But I then heard there was no PPE for our hospital and caring staff; there were no tests; there was no cure; there was no certainty of any kind. So I decided the virus needed more information. I started to add copper wire for the miscommunication; bone sections for the dead and dying; turquoises and silver wire for the fat contracts for friends and benefactors of the government ; plastic beads for immigrant variants; wooden tubes for lies and deceit; a golden tissue of yellow quartz for its crown. It is a work in progress. There is much, much more to come. Eventually it will die as we all do. But before that, there will be a bit more fun to be had. Watch this space. FIVE YEARS OF SILENCE Where does life go? I have been hard at work all this time but it has been so distracted and dispersed. The login into my website was lost for a long time. Meanwhile the ups and down went up and down as they do and... I guess the most important change in the workshop has been the addition of a new inmate. This gas kiln is known as THE ALBATROSS and I suspect it will never be anything but that, a scary presence, too demanding, not delivering, too distracting and far too expensive. Behind the scenes, there has been a struggle where strangers are admitted and proclaim too much space; where new mysterious clays intrude into the well established materials in use; where confusion and clutter mount. From this mayhem there is no redemption, no fabulousness, no dreaming. It all seems futile and hard work. Who can propel me into the old enthusiasm and daring? I will make small pinch pots for now and no fancy footwork. The whole thing started slowly, almost imperceptibly. Much like the unfolding of petals or the germination of a seed. Fresh and carefree, the idea of making a few fish seemed fun for a change. No plan, no stress, just a few playful fish to animate the dreary task of testing glazes and techniques. Soon, it became a journey of discovery: the fish were taking on mood and intent: shy ones, fierce ones, hermetic ones, playful ones, serious ones... little ones and big ones, barnacled, strong, slight, fat and sad, flick, floppy, speculative, flirty... Soon, the whole thing had a destination and a purpose.
Phases, moods, directions, retreats and upsurges are all part of the climate of being a human being. The weather systems of chance and choice follow each other, raking our lives, laying us low, lifting us high, overwhelming our sense of control and direction. Stressing us into fear and submission; energising us into creativity and love; nudging us into eddies of calm and numbness, and again whirling us into crashing circles of danger. Growing old takes you past many familiar landmarks, places you have visited before but have not seen with these aged eyes of concern or unconcern, these new distilled impressions, compressed over time, refined and reduced. Hollow echoes of familiar footsteps gain new complexity.8 I was amused by Esther Rantzen yesterday interviewing random people in the street, about bullying and ending up with a bright smile (that toothy smile) "They say the best vengeance is to live well". My goodness, so much contained in that remark. How marvellously true that is: living well, as I do, changes everything, especially the past. This little boat below, some 25cm tall, fluttering in the breeze that moves its hull like the skin of an egg, still pristine and untinted, still raw and uncertain, the water lapping up to the rim, the sky scooping into its bilges, the space breathing fully into the fat chest, that boat lives well. That large vessel above, rusty, tall, riveted, vulnerable, has to be aggressive, has to be desperately lonely and hard, sucked in by misery and despair. War has used it, God has forsaken it, it will stand for the pain and suffering of the hero. We make our choices and we live with them. And they live on after us. The years merge and the iridescence of the glazes, the floating specks of oxide, remind me of the beauty of freedom, its unsurpassed power to take me to a place of unending possibilities. There is a knife edge on which I teeter on the brink of falling towards the despair of not having achieved something powerful I once encountered or towards letting go of what never was nor could be. Enjoying what is and can be. Despairing of what was taken away. Weeping for the loss. They tell me much of the curious colours of dawn on the Ionian Sea, when beheld from the heights of Aetna. I recall vividly instead, the glass green transparencies of sunsets on the Pacific Coast of Guatemala, devoured by the lava grey sand and blasted by the waves. The beach there was so steep that we had the whole vastness of the Pacific, from its abysmal guts to its savage fangs storming against the very foundations of our being. We put on a brave face and sipped cocktails, but the destruction was even then inching into the underbelly of a house on skittery stilts. Fate starring us in the face, taking my mind away to the stars and the grains of sand, counted one by one into the deep. And my fingers reaching and dipping into the green light, the grey dust, the honeyed mud and trailing behind the boat. Egrets fly past. They dash through the mangrove leaving behind a smudge of white on the deep luxury of green wetness, the gnarled tendrils of the trees, the soupy caramel warm water; I look at the children, their eyes lit already by the scintillating suns of regrets and worries, though so young, so innocent. I couldn't help them to a cheery clearing of the brow: I, too deeply ensnared myself in the lamentations of a lost past. The years merge. Like a fresco on the wall, I see the images morph as I move along the corridor of time and read the outcomes of long lost days and ways and decisions and wishes. It is good at least to know that sometimes I was right. It is nice to see that I did fight as much as I could for those things that in the end I didn't get. See the smudged darkness in those fish-trees of the teapot? They say to me that there were brighter times and they remind me that darkness has its purpose and its end. But accepting and resigned? I don't think so. I can only say that one way and another, in the end my heart has healed, not because I have given up, but because I insisted. In the end that small hurt and damaged heart has itself joined the rest of my inner being in a restful place because I managed to get enough of what I needed to receive - just enough - to make it all right not to have more. Halcyon seasons, solstice of my days by the Ionian Sea was not to be. Instead the raging of the Pacific tested me - and the glorious gift of my children, all four of them, instead. Who knows?... |
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