



Art, Writing and Research
Following on from my first walking meditation, I did another, again around Blenheim Park, the list from which is below.
Pheasants among the stubble
Red kit flies above them and calls above the trees
Lichen pocked trees
Mass covered stump
Vivid moss on the roots of a tree among the dead leaves of last year’s summer
Water trickling down the tarmac path
Steady patter of rain
A distant aeroplane
Birds calling high in the trees
Ducks rooting among the leaves and drinking the water as it runs down the hill
Vague tyre tracks picked out by water
Dogs barking in the distance
Sheep wool on the electric fence
Dozens of mole hills
The distant baa of a sheep
Patches of brighter sky among the otherwise grey
Two children cycle past me
The heavy breath of a jogger as she passes by
‘Private Property’
The sun getting brighter
The sky walks in the puddles beside me
The whole world drips around me
Cascades of branches
The call of a pheasant
Voices behind me
An aeroplane flies above, invisible in the clouds
An empty seat by the daffodils
‘This was her favourite walk’
Beautiful spots of lichen on the branches of a tree
Ripples from the rain upon the lake
The distant toot of the miniature train
A view of the palace between the trees
A family walk towards me
A hole in the moss
Dead branches writhe like Medusa’s head
So many shades of green on the ancient trees
The sun is quiet above the jagged tree
Fringes of stubborn leaves
The sweeping old wall
A breeze wraps itself around my face
I was reading ‘Landmarks’ by Robert McFarlane last night and was struck by a quote from American author and essayist Barry Lopez:
“One must wait for the moment when the thing — the hill, the tarn, the lunette, the kiss tank, the caliche flat, the bajada – ceases to be a thing and becomes something that knows we are there.”
This wonderful quote reminds me of many others I have used extensively in my work, some of which you can read in the blog below.
In particular that by Christopher Tilley who, in his book ‘The Materiality of Stone, Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology’, writes: “The trees ‘see’ the painter in a manner comparable to that in which the mirror ‘sees’ the painter: that is, the trees, like the mirror, let him become visible: they define a point of view on him which renders visible for him something that otherwise would remain invisible – his outside, his physiognomy, his carnal presence… The trees and mirror function as Other.”
That moment when a thing, like a tree, functions as ‘other’ is, I think, the same as the moment when, as Lopez puts it, the thing knows we are there. There is a connection, between us and the thing, which is much more than us simply seeing it. It is, in Goethean Observation, akin to the stage of ‘Seeing in Beholding’, characterised by the human gesture of ‘self-disspation’; the effort of holding back of our own activity – a form of receptive attentiveness that offers the phenomenon (the thing) a chance to express its own gesture.”
This is a sketch I made in my notebook when I read Lopez’s quote.
Looking at this image also reminds me of the Buddhist concept of interbeing, the deep interconnection we have with everything else around us, for example, the tree. The same can be true of things which existed centuries ago. Again I have used this example several times – a painting by Yu Jian entitled Mountain Village in Clearing Mist and a piece I wrote about it for a book.
“This seemingly rapid work transported me to a time long gone. It revealed – much as with the Japanese haiku of Basho – an ancient and vanished moment, not so much through what it showed but how it was depicted. It was almost as if I could see the landscape before the painter himself. I could see the work as a whole (the landscape as a whole), but then, whilst picking through the gestures of the artist, evident enough in the brushstrokes, I could see the landscape as it was revealed. Yu Jian’s painting was not a painting of what was experienced, but rather the experiencing of what was experienced. It was almost as if the painting had become a painting, not of Yu Jian looking at the mountains, but of the mountain ‘seeing’ Yu Jian. It wasn’t the mountain that was made visible on the paper, but the artist himself – his presence at that moment. 800 years after his death, and Yu Jian was as good as sitting next to me. Or to put it another way, 800 years before I was born, I was as good as sitting next to him.“
Again we have the idea of the ‘thing’, in this case the mountain, seeing the artist, but in this instance, this is a moment from 800 years ago. We are not simply seeing the painting by Yu Jian, we are experiencing the moment when the painting ‘knows’ we are there and by proxy, experiencing the moment it was made.
A similar thing happened last week when I went to London and saw the sketches of JMW Turner at Tate Britain. I had walked around the gallery for a while ‘seeing’ the paintings, but on coming across these sketches, it was as if in Lopez’s words, the paintings also saw me.
It was like with the diagram in my notebook, where seeing becomes beholding and the arch rendered quickly with a few quick strokes, becomes something I can walk through.
Yesterday I made my way to London to see the ‘Sargent and Fashion’ exhibition at Tate Britain which really is a fabulous show and well worth a visit.
I love Sargent’s work and have always had an interest in late 19th fashion, and love to see portrait with the actual dresses worn by the sitters displayed alongside. It’s utterly beguiling to look at the details and see them captured in brushstrokes over a hundred years ago; looking at the dress then at the canvas, just as that artist would have done.
I loved these photographs of Sargent painting a portrait. I love the blurred hands and face, signalling a sense of movement – of ‘nowness’ in the distant past.
But even though this was a fabulous show, the thing that captivated me most was in the Turner collection. Now, Turner was obviously a genius and although I love his more painterly works, I’m not such a fan of his earlier landscapes. What I love above all else are his watercolours and smaller works in chalk and gouache. And the works I loved the most were his 1840 scenes of Venice moonlight, two of which I’ve reproduced below.
It’s hard to put my finger on why these had such an impact. I think though, it’s the immediacy of the images. Standing in front of something painted almost 200 years ago, where the brushstrokes are so quick and fluid, one gets a sense of the moment it was made. In the image above, this is made the more so by the small patch of night sky seen through the arch.
The same is true of this image where the sky is so sketch and the figures are reduced almost to daubs.
I’ve always been interested in the idea of fragments of the past and how, mentally, we add to them in order to create a view of that past. I did some work on this with some patches of fabric following a visit to the Foundling Museum in London (see Patterns Seeping and Patterns Seeping II).
Sometimes I have reversed the process to make fragments of work I have alreadymade. Again, the examples below (‘Missded’) were made in response to a visit I made to the Foundling Museum (see ‘Missded 1‘, ‘Missded 1 Stitched‘, ‘Missded 1 – A Framed Token‘).
Taking this idea, I’ve applied it to the ‘Shadow Calligraphy characters’ I’ve recently painted. I’m not suggesting for one minute the results make for good art, but I like the idea that a remnant of the past (the ‘character’) can be added to, just as when we try and imagine the past, we create the colours and sounds that went with the original fragment.
My choice of inks was extremely limited and these aren’t quite right, but it’s an idea I’ll continue to explore, as I have done with some oil paintings already.
This post follows on from one I wrote previously on ‘Rinsho’. Below are two painting I made in woods in my notebook.
With the art of Rinsho, the idea is to practice your calligraphy by copying, from books, that of the old masters. I like to think of the paintings made in the field, so to speak, as like those versions made by old masters and that copying them is like trying to reimagine a past event, where the body is trying to echo, through the gesture of painting, that of the original painter sitting in the woods; trying to imagine the trees, the sky, the sounds etc.
These are some of the copies I made of the characters above.
Blenheim Palace Park
I discovered this walk with my children at the weekend and so I returned today to do another walk, incorporating within that a walking meditation.
The idea of a walking meditation is to try and remain fully in the present, taking in everything that you see while not letting your mind wander. When you’re dealing with a difficult issue in your life and it’s one which seems to stop you thinking of anything else, then it’s a good way to let your mind breathe. It’s not a quick fix of course, but bit by bit, it should help reset your thoughts; especially if they are prone to going round and round a question that’s quite impossible to answer.
The list below comprises the things I noticed and chose to write down. There’s no particular reason why I chose these particular observations.
Strong winds
Blue sky peppered with clouds
Ripples on the surface of the lake
The monument standing above the trees
Bright sun
Old dog
Dimpled mud at the edge of the grass
My shadow on the tarmac
The drone of a plane
Leaves blowing across the grass
Geese honking
A bird blows above like litter
Belly fulls of grey in the sky
Lichen on the old bridge
An old pollarded tree
Crows in the trees
A duck quacks
The trees talk
The sun reflected on the water
A bird runs from the bank
The raised roots on the path
Water gushing from a drain
Last year’s leaves still clinging on
Reeds like spears at the lake’s edge
The sun comes out and warms my face
Bright on the lake
The ground rises
Moss covered stump
Old leaves crunch beneath my feet
Beautiful birds then someone shouts up ahead
The sun returns
Shadows on the ground stretch to meet it
Suddenly warm as the wind drops
Gun shot, birds on the lake take flight
Mosquitoes in the sunlight like dust motes
Sun twinkling on the lake’s surface
Tentacled roots of a tree
Squelching underfoot
A helicopter flies past
A small waterfall gabbles as it flows
Graffiti covered tree
Brambles scribble themselves across the water’s edge
Reeds lie like logged trees in the water
Paw prints in the mud
The sky in a puddle
Beautiful colour water
Waves on the lake like a small sea
Two moorhens
Black fungus on a fallen log
A broken fence
A fallen tree on the opposite bank
The surface of the water, calm amongst the reeds, rippled without
A tree stands waiting to embrace
Two ducks with their heads in the water
Immense roots of a tree like the foot of a dinosaur
So quiet
Flies on the sheep dung
A feather in the grass
The winds picks up and blows away the siren
A small branch falls from a tree
A leaf skits across the tarmac
A pheasant runs away
I squint against the sun
Felled logs
Beautiful colours in a gap in a tree
A seat carved from an upended tree
Daffodils signalling Spring is on the way
Tyre tracks on the grass
Otherwordly trees
A fountain splashes water
Trees grow like an excess of time
Trees like creatures from the deep
The rings of an old stump
The sound of a power tool
Old leaves shiver on their branches
Slow rippled wood of the ancient oaks
A lost glove
An old wall follows the slopes
A crow flies with something in its beak
Patch of tarmac like a fossilised footprint
Ducks laugh ad planes drone
My shadow stretches before me
The call of a red kite
Jackdaws take flight
One of the ways in which I have helped myself during recent low points has been the practice of mindful walking, where instead of walking as the mind spins around thinking on a problem, you try and focus on what you’re experiencing now, in the present. This stops the mind racing and connects you with the moment, allowing any despair and anxiety to take a back seat for a while.
Several years ago, when I was looking at ways of connecting with the ‘nowness’ of the past, I used walking as a method, making lists of things I was experiencing in the moment such as that below.
‘The splash of car tyres on the wet road’ – I can hear the sound in my mind as I read the text; the moment from over 15 years ago suddenly very present.
Reading these lines is a great way of connecting to the past, just as the act of making the lists – of mindful walking – is a great way to reconnect to the present, and to yourself. And by connecting with yourself, to be more embodied, allows you to better empathise with those in the past.
The video below, which I made as part of a Residency in Australia, was filmed in an old lockup. At the time it was meant to represent the idea of recalled everyday moments being a means of reaching from the present in order to reconnect with the past (the present being me, walking around the confines of the cell). Watching it now, I see how it could be interpreted differently, where walking and being mindful of the present, can help one to escape the prison of one’s suffering.
We have all lost someone in our lives, whether that’s through death or the breakdown of a relationship. Both are painful and both require us to grieve for the missing loved one. In many ways, the loss of a partner when a relationship ends feels worse; perhaps because the grief has been chosen for us. It fits us like a second skin, but when someone dies, the grief, although painful and also made to measure, is like the remembrance of a close and comforting hug.
I have experienced both these things of late and want to express that grief through my work.
The video below was made a few years back. Filmed in Shotover Wood in Oxford, it shows the shadows cast by trees on a summer’s day and was a way of visualising the idea that all that’s left of the past is like the shadows in the film; that if we want to imagine what the past was really like, we have to imagine the trees, the sky, the sun, the colours and the sounds.
The idea of the everyday within the present moment has always been of interest to me, particularly in regards to how we can empathise with those in the past; particularly those who experienced times of trauma. When I visited Auschwitz-Birkenau in 2006, I was struck by the movement of the trees, aware that those who had suffered so much would have seen exactly what I was seeing. It was something so everyday, but something which had the power to link us together despite the difference in time and of course experience.
“‘…You have no idea how tremendous the world looks when you fall out of a closed, packed freight car! The sky is so high…’
Tadeusz Borowski
‘…and blue…’
‘Exactly, blue, and the trees smell wonderful. The forest – you want to take it in your hand!’”
“Another leap in time, to a different landscape and different colours. The colour is blue: clear blue skies of summer. Silver-coloured toy aeroplanes carrying greetings from distant worlds pass slowly across the azure skies while around them explode what look like white bubbles. The aeroplanes pass by and the skies remain blue and lovely, and far off, far off on that clear summer day, distant blue hills as though not of this world make their presence felt. That was the Auschwitz of that eleven-year-old boy.”
Otto Dov Kulka
“The air, the woods, breathing.”
Adam Czerniakow
The important thing here is how things we experience in the natural world, like trees and the sky, the wind and the rain, can connect us to those in the distant past, because they too would have experienced them. Our lives might be completely different, but those things stay the same.
Back to the trees at Shotover…
I loved the ‘calligraphy’ of the shadows as they wrote themselves on the blank piece of paper on the ground, and used that idea to paint those shadows using ink and calligraphic brushes. It was as if the trees were using me to write. They were like the words of a language created and forgotten in a moment. No-one can read these words; they speak only of a presence – my presence – in the woods at that particular moment.
As I wrote above, if we want to imagine what the past was really like, we have to imagine the trees, the sky, the sun, the colours and the sounds. So having transferred these ‘characters’ to canvas, I began to paint, adding colour, as if, with the video, trying to imagine the fullness of the moment from which they were taken.
So where does this with my own feelings of grief?
Grief is an expression of our relationship to someone’s absence. Its language is written in shadows like the patterns cast by the trees. But these shadows are cast by the memory of our loved one. Remembering the colours, the sounds and how it felt is painful. But remember them we must – and without regret.
Holding on to regret is like clutching feelings of anger. Soon they will start to eat away at us, damage us. We have to let them go by transforming them, just as we can try and transform our own suffering.
To transform our suffering we must ground ourselves in the present moment. When a relationship ends, it’s all too easy to become entangled in our thoughts, trying to make sense of the other person’s actions. I found myself doing just that for days and days, walking round in circles, going nowhere except down. And what would it achieve anyway? Trying to work out why something happened won’t change the fact that it did happen.
All I could learn to do was be as present in the moment as I could, to let go of my thinking about the past. That’s not to say I had to try and forget her; the memories of our time together would always be with me and precious with it. But when I think of those memories, I’m not trying to understand them or change them. I just had to stop striving for answers which I’d no chance of knowing, as if knowing them would somehow change the outcome and alleviate the pain.
I still walk and I still think, but walking meditation, where one is grounded step by step in the moment, helps still the mind and cultivate a sense of peace. Looking at the trees, the clouds, the sky. Feeling the wind or the rain (or both) helps me find the peace and contentment within. It helps my mind reconnect with my body just as I can try and connect with those who lived generations before us.
Completed this evening…
First painting I’ve finished in a long while. I called this one ‘Nana’s Mountain’, after the hill behind her garden, up which she used to watch her dad walk on his way to the mines.
I’ve started painting again and have begun my journey using water-based oils which I must say are rather good. The question has been, at the start of this journey – what to paint?
Having worked on my tree shadow paintings using inks, I decided to do the same with the oils, projecting the video onto a canvas and tracing the shadows in black paint.
Having completed a few of these, I knew I wanted to look at the spaces between the shadows, as if to imagine the world in which the shadows were filmed – a world of colour (just like the world of black and white photographs and films). It’s been a while since I painted, so I was also interested in feeling my way with the paints again and getting back into painting onto canvas.
As well as painting again I’ve been reading about painting too, in particular about an artist I’ve admired for a while; Ivon Hitchens. I’ve been looking also at Howard Hodgkin and his attempts to paint memories, something which I’ve been interested in trying myself (see below).
So over the last week or so I’ve continued exploring the paint as a medium and the surface of the canvas, pushing the image and seeing where it leads which has been a very liberating experience.
As well as these, I attempted tis evening to start painting memories. The first attempt was whilst listening to my late mum singing at St. Martin’s in the Fields in London in 1984. I’d expected to find myself painting a version of that night and the interior of the church, but found myself instead painting the garden of my childhood home as it was in my head – at dusk on a summer’s night.
Now I’m not saying in anyway these are (even though they are not finished) successful images, but I just found it interesting to see what came out on the canvas. I did the same with a specific memory, again set in a garden, but this time that of my Nan and Grandad’s house when my brother and I were staying there. One summer’s night we couldn’t sleep, so my Nan came to our room and took us out in the garden to watch the storm. It’s one of my most vivid memories and again it was interesting to see what turned up on the canvas.
Since buying the piece of Roman glass I described in my previous post, I’ve been interested in its iridescent surface and what causes it.
Having done a quick search I discovered the following on an ancient glass website:
Caused by weathering on the surface, the iridescence… is due to the refraction of light by thin layers of weathered glass. How much a glass object weathers depends mainly on burial conditions and to a lesser extent the chemistry of it… The word iridescence comes from Iris, the Greek Goddess of rainbows and refers to rainbow-like colours seen on the glass which change in different lighting. It is simply caused by alkali (soluble salt) being leached from the glass by slightly acidic water and then forming fine layers that eventually separate slightly or flake off causing a prism effect on light bouncing off and passing through the surface which reflects light differently, resulting in an iridescent appearance.
On another website:
Water leaches the alkali (soda) from the surface of the glass, especially in slightly acidic burial environments. This leaves behind fine layers of silica that can flake off the surface. The iridescence is purely a visual effect; in the same way that water droplets in the air cause rainbows, light is bent and split into its separate colours as it passes through the thin layers of deteriorated glass and air.
Having read the above, I decided to view the glass through a microscope, the rather beautiful results of which can be found below:
In these images you can see the fine, flaking layers and how they refract the light to create the iridescence visible on the glass.
I recently purchased a beautiful Roman Unguentarium (2nd or 3rd century AD) and have undertaken a Goethean observation of it. For information on this process, please see below.
There are many different interpretations of the Geothean (a method of observing as described by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 – 1832)) method, but the one I prefer to use is that described by Iris Brook in her paper, “Goethean Science as a Way to Read Landscape,” which is, basically, as follows:
1. exact sense perception [bare facts: perception]
2. exact sensorial fantasy [time-life of object: imagination]
3. seeing in beholding [heartfelt getting to know – inspiration]
4. being one with the object [intuition]
Now the observer attempt to approach the object from a clearer, more objective standpoint.. This stage was called by Goethe, exact sense perception and is characterised by a detailed observation of all the ‘bare facts’ of the phenomenon that are available to our ordinary senses. It is an attempt to see what is present with as little personal judgement and evaluation as possible.
An example of trying to let the facts speak for themselves from Goethe’s own work is his extraordinarily detailed observations of colour phenomena. Rather than draw hypotheses or work from a theory his investigations involve colour as experienced by himself, as used by artists, as created by dyers, as used symbolically, as seen in animals and plants and so on.
For the student attempting to carry out this stage with their own phenomenon, drawing can be a useful tool, because in drawing our attention is brought to previously unnoticed detail or patterns.
Another tool used is to ignore some knowledge, for example the names of things… Attempting to find another word to describe the part you are indicating to someone else often leads to a looking again.”
“The second stage of looking at the phenomenon is what Goethe called ‘exact sensorial fantasy’ (Exact sinnliche Phantasie). An aspect of this activity is to perceive the time-life of the phenomenon, that is to see the phenomenon in time. This means no longer seeing the thing in an objective frozen present as prompted by the first stage, but as a thing with history. That history can be drawn from the phenomenon with the use of an imaginative faculty that cultivates temporal and physical relationships…
The shift between the two modes of seeing is a small one, but the world does look very different when seen in a state of flux.
In this phase the imagination can be used as a tool to vary what is seen and attempt to imagine it otherwise. The obvious link to the phenomenology here is with the use of free imaginative variation. First suggested by Husserl, this is a means of deriving the essence of a phenomenon by pushing the eidos of the thing beyond what can be imagined. The second stage could be seen as a training of the imaginative faculty in two directions: firstly to free up the imagination and then to constrain it within the realms of what is possible for the phenomenon being studied.”
The first two stages of Goethean method could be characterised as an engagement with the phenomena, first by seeing its outer static appearance objectively and then by experiencing something of its inner processes. In the third stage one attempts to still active perception to allow the thing to express itself through the observer. We attempt to step outside of what has gone before and make space for the thing to articulate in its own way.
The detailed information is somehow transcended, but just as exact sensorial fantasy requires exact sense perception to anchor its dream-like activity, seeing in beholding needs the content and the preparation of the other two stages if the researcher is to articulate the thing. Goethe terms the changes necessary to our everyday consciousness as the development of ‘new organs of perception’.
To experience the being of a phenomenon requires a human gesture of ‘self-disspation’. This effort is a holding back of our own activity – a form of receptive attentiveness that offers the phenomenon a chance to express its own gesture.”
“The first three stages of the Goethean method involve different activities and ways of thinking and these could be characterised as first using perception to see the form, second using imagination to perceive its mutability, and, third, inviting inspiration to reveal the gesture. The fourth stage uses intuition both to combine and go beyond the previous stages.
Being one with the object in this fourth stage allows the human ability to conceptualise to serve the thing: we lend it this human capacity. When the phenomenon being explored does not have the ability to think, it is the most participatory part of Goethean observation.
Our ability to think creatively and to initiate future action is the faculty being used here and thus the dangers of abstract creation not tied to the phenomenon are great.
Being one with the object allows an appreciation of the content or meaning of the form as well as the form itself… At this stage of the process of Goethean observation it is acknowledged that the phenomenon is at its least independent of human reason.”
1
This is a bottle about a hand’s length in height. It has a bulblike shape tapering to a neck which is short of half the bottle’s height. Its base is flat allowing it to stand on the table. It is clearly an object designed to be held.
It is not perfectly shaped and is uneven in its symmetry. It has a lip at the top covered with a brown encrustation, which also runs a little down the neck from the rim.
It looks like glass, but the glass is not entirely transparent. It looks almost like marble with veins of colour running its length. It is a blue green colour with patches of silvery grey and gold-brown. Turning the bottle around, I can see the patches cover its surface but there are small patches where the glass is clear.
In the light of the lamps in my room, the bottle shimmers with iridescent hues of turquoise and purple-blues. Holding the object in my hand, I am struck by how light it is and how thin I suppose the glass is. As I turn in my hands, I can hear it against my skin. It almost rings when my hands turn it, and as I do so, I am more aware of the unevenness of its shape.
Picking it up. I look down inside the neck. All I see is the cloudy mottled glass, flecked here and there with brown. It is clearly a very fragile object, and picking up again. I can feel its cool surface. I see the lights reflected on its surface. It almost has the feel of a lightbulb, but its surface is much less smooth. Running my thumbs over its surface. I can feel that in small parts, it is rough, in others very smooth. This is where the glass is almost completely transparent.
2
This bottle is almost 2000 years old, and the fact it has remained intact all that time is remarkable. It is a blown piece of glass, meaning that in the second or third century A.D. someone blew to make it shape. The fact that its shape is slightly irregular lends it a very human quality. Someone’s breath – the act of breathing out 1800 years ago – gave it its shape and with its beautiful iridescent surface, I think of a bubble, albeit one which is not a perfect sphere. This bottle has the fragility of a bubble; one which, after so many centuries still hasn’t burst. It’s as if the breath which made it is somehow contained within and with that sense of exhalation comes the expectation of a breath about to be taken; a breathing in to compliment the breathing out.
I now become aware of the life of its maker. Their breathing in and out; something they did – like we all do – without thinking. I’m aware of their heart beating, aware that it has long since stopped. And yet, in this bottle, the memory of a pulse remains.
It’s almost the opposite of my mum‘s final breath, when she breathed in and passed away. This bottle, instead, contains a breath exhaled, but with both my mother’s last breath and the breath of the bottle’s maker, there is the expectation of another. With my mum it never came. Now this bottle too seems to be waiting. It’s as if the bottle has been breathed out slowly over the course of 18 or 19 centuries. Picking it up. It’s like holding a breath, but one breathed out nearly 2 millennia ago.
I think about that moment when it was first breathed into existence, when it would have glowed white hot. Who made it? What was it like where it was made? Obviously it would have been hot, a stark contrast to its cool surface. Now I think of whoever made it watching its shape form, before setting it down to cool with the others they had made that day.
Once cooled and finished it would’ve been sold, I presume, and I wonder who bought it. Who used it? I know it was used to hold unguent. But what exactly did it contain? I imagine it being lifted and whatever was inside poured out. I find myself doing the action of pouring. It would have felt different then heavier with the liquid inside.
Back then it was just a bottle sitting on a shelf or a table witnessing a world which seems to us impossibly remote. What reflections found their way to its surface? Did it have a stopper – a piece of fabric perhaps? What did it smell like inside? It doesn’t smell of much now of course
I look at its shadow cast by my modern lamp; its harsh outline, and I wonder about its shadows all those years ago – shadows made by the sun which might also have pricked its surface as my lightbulb does this evening. Or perhaps the soft glow of a flame. Then its shadow would not be still and on its surface the flames would shift.
It was an everyday object, and yet it speaks now of many centuries. The person who made it those who owned it and used it have long since gone, their memory lost to the past. Generations of their descendants have also followed, and yet this insignificant, everyday and very fragile object has outlived them all. Yet, despite its age, it is vulnerable. It is therefore a curious mixture of extreme vulnerability and strength.
In its fragility, it has held the breath of whosoever made it for hundreds and hundreds of years. With that held breath comes the ‘possibility’ of its breathing. It has the feel and look of a living thing. The breath exhaled by the maker becomes the inhalation of the bottle.
Patches of iridescence break to reveal patches of clear glass, through which, when the glass was untarnished, we might imagine one could see the unguent inside. The iridescence is caused by the deterioration of the glass, which draws a beautiful veil over its distant past. I wonder where the object has lain for so many years, where it has been, and how it could survive intact all those hundreds of years. Will the iridescence continue to cover its surface, cocooning it? Will the encrustation on the lip of the bottle and a part of the neck continue to grow, to cover this long-held breath.
Before the bottle was even a bottle, it was the sand, the soda and lime, from which it was made, and the intention of the maker. The sand, perhaps part of a beach – an ancient shoreline on which the waves lapped just as they do today. But then they would come loaded with mystery. Back then there were lands still undiscovered and fantastical creatures beyond the horizon; creatures as ‘real’ as the sand on the beach. That sand would, in time, be gathered and used to make the glass. Sand which itself had been millions of years in the making. Its origins extend to a time before there were people people to imagine such fantastical creatures; a time when people were just as absent from the real world, as we now know these creatures to be. Reason is a clarity like glass which we can see through. Glass is the way we see beyond our own world, both at the ‘impossibly’ big universe to the ‘impossibly’ small realm of the particle.
On that ancient shoreline, the sand would’ve been gathered, and with the other ingredients turned into glass by the skill of the glassmaker; a skill which would’ve been learned over many years. The bottle is there for a mix, not only of the raw materials needed to make the glass, but also the skill of the glassmaker, learned and perfected over many years. In his hands, with his actions and his breath, the glass bottle would have come into existence.
The bottle is almost like the memory of a moment; the moment when it was made; the memory of the maker, his actions, his breath, the hour of the bottle’s production. The memory was clear and then it became clouded, changing from what really was to a distorted version. Whoever owned the bottle (maybe it was several people) died and was buried. Perhaps the bottle was buried with them and for hundreds of years it lay in the dark, quiet of the ground, unseen by anyone until it’s rediscovery. Underground it underwent a change; chemical changes caused by water in the soil leached out the salt from the glass and over hundreds of years thin layers were built up on the surface of the glass. Only when the glass saw light again did that process reveal itself through the iridescence of its surface.
It’s almost as if the bottle, whilst underground, ceased to be a bottle (it’s only a bottle in the mind of someone looking at it instead it became a process.
3
A breath given.
A breath held.
Held by the bottle.
Held in my hand.
Fragility and strength.
Air inside a bubble, its surface slipping with iridescence.
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I find myself inside the bottle, looking out through the patches of clear glass, out at the room in which I stand. I see the room and everything in it. It’s rather vague, like my shadow cast by the candles and lamps. Now, all these centuries later, I am an object in my own right rather than a mere vessel for whatever I once contained. It’s as if my eyes have been turned in on myself. My shape is not that of the liquid I once contained. I have now become the shape.
The shape of the breath that made me.
The breath I hold which to exhale would see me break.
All the while I hold it, I can remember.
When I breathe out, then I will forget.
After my last post I watched a video by calligrapher Tomoko Kawao in which she mentions the practice of Rinsho, where the calligrapher copies the work of ancient masters in order to enhance their own skills.
From what I have gleaned, Rinsho is not about crating the exact copy of given masterpiece but rather, it’s about the energy, spirit, dynamics, writing style, proportions, line characteristics, and so on. Rinsho is about copying the emotions, the mental state, the attitude, and the mood, that a given masterpiece comprises (see: http://www.ryuurui.com/blog/the-proper-way-to-study-chinese-japanese-calligraphy).
This interests me as regards the works I have made recently, such as the image below:
Having made this original image (and many others like it) at a particular moment in time, I’d been wondering whether I could do more with it. The practice of Rinsho gave me the answer.
Much of my work is about reimagining a past moment by trying to see that moment as it was when it was ‘now’. We can never know of course what a past moment was really like, but by understanding what makes the present moment for us ‘present’ we can use that knowledge to find our way back in time, at least just a little.
Copying the images I made – in the style of a calligrapher copying the work of an ancient master – seems to me to reflect this idea. As it says above, it’s not abut making a faithful copy (we can never go back in time) but using our experience to see something of the ‘energy, spirit, dynamics, writing style, proportions, line characteristics, and so on’. It’s about ‘copying’ the emotions, the mental state, the attitude, and the mood.
I have therefore started to use these original sketches as texts and to copy them, not to produce an exact copy, but to get a sense of that moment when they were first made.
On Saturday, whilst at Shotover with the kids, I took some time – whilst they were climbing trees – to paint some of the shadows cast by the trees. I started working with shadows like these back in 2017 and have recently started exploring this idea again. Below are some examples from my sketchbook made on Saturday.
This is a short clip of a recording made at Easter in 1982. It’s part of a performance of a cantata, ‘Jerusalem Joy,’ which was performed at my mum’s church. My mum is the main voice you can hear and along with her I can hear my 10 year old self singing (with a high pitched voice) in the chorus.
Audio Player
As I listen, a whole raft of emotions and memories are stirred up inside me, not least memories of my dear mum who we lost last year. There’s also the feel of Sundays, the look of the church, it’s smell even. There are all the faces that I would have known at the time, so many of whom have left us since. The key thing is that when I listen to the audio, my memory and the audio combine; my mind opens up the space and allows the moment to be played out as if in real time; as though I’m standing there; not as a 10 year old boy, but as I am now.
It’s a similar experience to that I felt when I listened to an old song for the first time in 45 years; one I’d heard as a child in 1978 at school, broadcast, as it was, on the radio when I was 6 years old. I wrote about it here (Wicked Magician, Fly), and listening to it again, I find myself back in the classroom at my primary school. just as I do in the church above.
Audio Player
With the display I mentioned in my previous blog, I of course have no memory of the space in the photograph; I wasn’t around 180 year ago.
The photograph in the picture (taken in 1844 and showing some of the glassware above it) is like the audio recording of the cantata, in that it’s a recording of a moment in time long gone. When I look at the photograph on its own, I can try to imagine the world of that lost moment; Fox Talbot setting up his display, the unwieldy camera, the rest of the room. But with some of the actual glassware above it, the process becomes much easier and the experience far more vivid. Even looking at just one of the objects (for example the jug, top centre) I am there in that vanished space. As with the audio mentioned above, the glassware acts like my memory. It becomes in itself a memory of that moment 180 years ago, and by looking at it, I am again transported in time. (There is a link here with something I wrote on diffusers found in my mum’s house after she passed away.)
But what about when walking in an historic space like a ruined castle? I might know the history of the space and again, using my imagination, find my way back in time. But there is nothing else, save the bare stones, of what would have been a furnished and lived in space. I have no memory of the castle (as I did of the church in the audio) and there are no objects, like Fox Talbot’s glassware, to act as a surrogate memory. Instead, there is our own movement through the ruined rooms, tracing the paths others would have walked centuries before. In this regard, we become the memory and as such, are able to recall that long vanished past as if the ruin, with our help, is remembering.
I recently visited The Weston Library in Oxford to see the ‘Bright Sparks: Photography and the Talbot Archive’ exhibition which runs until the 18th June. I have a deep fascination for 19th Century photography and it wasn’t a surprise to find myself captivated by the items on display. One of the most engaging displays was that which comprised a photograph taken in 1844 of several items of glassware, above which were some of those very pieces, arranged on two glass shelves.
You can see, in the photo above, the decanter at the top of Fox Talbot’s photograph and the jug, both of which are displayed on the top shelf above. I’m not sure how long I stood there, my eyes flitting between the photograph and the glassware – but it was quite a while. To think that those objects in front of me, were the very same objects in the – almost – 180 year old photograph, was mind blowing.
But what was going on in my head while I stood there looking?
If the glass of the display case wasn’t there, I could easily reach out and touch one of the items. I could lift up the decanter for example, or the jug, and yet, there it was, pictured in 1844, 180 years away. It was like seeing the light of a star 180 lightyears from Earth and the star itself simultaneously. At that moment, now and a moment in 1844 were one and the same thing. The space in which I was standing could have been either.
There is an audio recording of my late mum singing in her church in 1982, one of many cantatas she and the church choir (which at times included me) sung at Easter and Christmas. Listening to it now, it’s almost as if I am inside the church looking down at the congregation and the choir. I can see my mum singing; as if now and that moment in 1982 were suddenly one and the same thing.
It’s as though, when looking at Fox Talbot’s photograph and the glassware above, one is replaying something; the visual equivalent of listening to the tape from forty years ago. The photograph ceases to be static, but instead it begins to move. But it’s not the material photograph that is moving, it’s the moment captured in the image. Listening to the recording of my mum, I find myself in 1982; with this display, I find myself some time in 1844.
Thinking about the recent observation I did on the diffuser, I was picking through the words and was struck by a few of them. This is often how these observations work; one writes a lot which will, in the main, be discarded to find just a few words that lead somewhere.
This is part of the text from the final section:
Time.
The glass holds the liquid for a period.
The shape of time.
Gives the liquid shape.
The liquid escapes the shape through its own transformation.
Resilient in its new formlessness.
The glass itself borrows its shape from the colours and reflections of its surroundings.
Clear.
Transparent.
Its form borrowing from the present and its location.
I began to think of the glass bottle as representing time; the time of our individual lives and the liquid inside as our lives, slowly evaporating via the sticks. On our passing, we leave behind a memory – like the scent we can still detect.
However, the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder whether it was the other way round?
Perhaps the glass represents our lives and time is the liquid within, slowly evaporating. After our passing, our form remains as a memory like the glass, borrowing the light and colours from the present day surroundings.
Time leaves behind a trace – a scent.
Memory, therefore, is both the glass and the scent; a shape of borrowed reflections and faint presence.