Turning the page on 2023

 

Dropping in to brush the dust off my blog and wish everyone (if you’re still there) a happy and improved 2024. I had to make some changes to my lifestyle to try to manage my ADHD, jiggling things  (such as my diet and eating times) around a bit, in order that I can use my energies to prioritise work.  That meant resting my blog for a while, and concentrating on my Patreon page and Instagram. Hopefully now that I’m in a better routine, I can blog more regularly.

 

My mental health has been very bad this year, with the constant stress and the financial struggle to survive and keep the cottage going. In short, it’s been a difficult year. There will be a bit of a life change next year and having faced a lot of dragons in 2023, I’m back to painting at last. I hope this is an end to the artistic block I’ve had since moving here. As I write, there are fireworks going off far away and although I don’t celebrate New Year (for me, the year turned on the recent Winter Solstice), I am looking forward to turning the page on the old year and starting tomorrow with a new pink diary and calendar. A fresh start all round.

Field painting adventure and overcoming blocks

I have started to reserve Saturdays as a day off, otherwise I'm working every day without a break, which isn't particularly good for my fragile mental health. The weather at the moment is perfectly 'May' - not too hot, with a pleasant breeze and everywhere around is bursting with greenery, blossom and bird song. I have been yearning to do some landscape sketching for ages and decided to stay close to home, because I have a certain amount of anxiety about going out. So I packed a rucksack with a stupid amount of art stuff, made up a little picnic of a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water and after a lot of deep breaths, I set off on my monumental adventure; a minute's walk down the road to the back field which my bedroom overlooks. This is my usual  pleasant view, when I am working in bed (which is most days). It has the best light after midday and is comfortable.

I haven't  set foot in this field in the ten years I've been here. There are two reasons for this; the first is practical. There is a designated footpath which goes across it, but it ends abruptly at the hedgerow boundary, so it's fairly useless. The second is that I've had a mental block about it, as this was the field that Andy walked across on his last, ghastly walk in the dark snowstorm, leaving only his footprints, which remained there for days. I remember kneeling at the bedroom window the next morning, watching a police dog tracking what it could find of his scent and that image will never leave me. So despite it's beauty (and since then, I do appreciate it, every day), I have had little desire to actually go into it, even for a change of scene. So this was the day and it felt momentous. The footpath is just on the edge of Jean-and-Brian-Next-Door's garden and is almost never used (for the practical reason I mentioned before). It was overgrown with lovely Queen Anne's Lace and less lovely nettles.  

I scrambled over and waded through the jungle. Suddenly there I was, and what seemed like a vast expanse in front of me. The footpath leads to that gap ahead in the hedgerow. Beyond that are more fields, but technically inaccessible without extra footpath. I don't think the farmer would mind me pottering about, as we are on good terms, but I don't like going outside 'the rules', so I stuck to the  route. 

Happily, the area that I intended to sketch was perfectly placed for me to settle my gear and myself on the path - there is a small blossoming area of hawthorn that I wanted to capture, just beyond the oak tree on the edge of the woodlands (which belongs to another less friendly farm). 

It's been years since I attempted anything like this. I did a very rough prelim sketch of the composition, which was a messy scrawl that only I could interpret. 

I have no pretensions to being the next Cezanne or Paul Nash - this was really about getting out in the nice weather and doing something different. It was hard work though, even with copious amounts of pastels. I didn't create a masterpiece, nor even anything like how I emotionally 'feel' about the landscape. But I did have a marvellous two hours, sat in the sun, scribbling away in the middle of a field that I had feared entering for a decade. Now I felt safe and comfortable. I ate half a cheese sandwich and dickered about with my pastel mess until it was time to stop before I completely ruined it. 

It's been  long held wish of mine to be able to spend most of my time focussing on landscape art, but I'm not good enough to make it pay and I can't afford the time it would take to get to a standard I am happy with, nor the big canvases and oils I'd like to paint with. But this will do for now and more importantly, it was a break from my other work and I had fun. 

The problem is an old one - back when I was doing my art training over thirty years ago, I decided to go down the path of illustration, which suited my naturally 'tight' and high definition style of working. So it's hard to break out of that habit and needs a lot of practise to get out of. However I made a small start and the colour capture wasn't too bad - I'm just not happy with the way I depicted it, because it in no way expresses the way I 'see' a landscape in my mind's eye. There's no lyrical rhythm or magic. It is what it is.

However, self criticism aside, I also enjoyed seeing our cottages for the first time from the back - Jean and Brian's larger sections on the left and my bit tacked on the right side, with the white window frames. I had the odd sensation that maybe  (in some freakish quantum alternate reality kind of thing) there was simultaneously another Me in the bedroom, needle felting and gazing out of the window, while present Me looked on from the other side of the field. 

That's another block overcome and for the first time in ages, I have two mini- paintings for sale, in my usual style, over in my Etsy shop. I'm hesitant about mentioning them, as my art barely sells, compared to my needle felting, but I'm going to be brave again. 

This is 'Marmalade', one of my imaginary toys, which comes in a 6 x 6 inch mount but is unattached, so that it can be reframed if wished, which is available here. 

And one from last year, which I've only just listed, 'Autumn Pincushion' (very unseasonal), which is also in a 6 x 6 inch mount and is available here. 

Now I'm going to take the rest of the day off again, as it's Saturday, and I might sit under the willow tree in the overgrown garden and finish some Christmas ornaments so that they are ready in time for the holiday season, which will swing around all too quickly. 

Beneath the apple tree

 

This weekend I have been working in the garden during the warm afternoons. It has become rather a jungle and I cannot remember the last time I sat out in it; Joe didn’t like sitting outside, or gardening (which should have told me something) and subsequently, I too became discouraged. I’m still adjusting to the complete freedom to do what I want, when I want, and that can be a difficult thing when you’ve spent most of your life living with one person or another.

As it was so nice, I fetched my three beloved old bears from the bedroom so that they could enjoy the sunshine too. We had a cup of tea and some chocolate buttons that a friend had given me. I needle felted little pears for my book, while the birds fluttered in and out of the willow tree, singing their Spring tunes. Bumble bees droned heavily over the dandelions and as we were sat under the apple tree, there was a faintly acidic smell of cider from last year’s old fruit which are still clinging to the branches. 

The pear tree is coming into full blossom and despite my many imaginary and unaffordable dreams for the garden, I was very content simply to gaze upon my scruffy kingdom, which has become so dear to me. 

 

Sounds all around

It has been too bitterly cold to venture out for some time, but there comes a point when you really have to remind yourself of what legs are for. I have been feeling a bit creaky and my dodgy ankle was aching, but today I was in much need of some fresh air. There is a brisk East wind sweeping the country, which cuts right through you - a ‘lazy wind’ as I believe it is called in the North. So it was a bleak morning and to make my exercise a little more exciting, I challenged myself to find three bits of bright colour or beauty while I was out. Which was quite hard as everywhere seemed drab and chilled. 

Then I heard a quiet swishing and glanced sideways just in time to see an Ash key whirl to the ground. Looking down, I saw how it resembled a tawny owl in full flight. Had I not caught the fragile sound of it’s falling, I may have passed on without noticing.

As I continued my small ramble, I heard the fragile tinkling of running water. No magic spring, but an ordinary drain creating its own music as the icy field water trickled through the muddy echo chamber. 

Returning homewards, I found myself listening intently for my third ‘moment’. I was no longer on a quest for visual colour, but for the sounds of the winter landscape. And there it was, above my head; the dessicated whispering of long dead leaves, punctuated by the call of a crow. 

My cheeks scoured by the East wind, I reached home and a welcome hot lunch. I did not find the bright colours I had been seeking, but I have found a new interest in the sounds around me, which paint their own aural picture. 

It’s been a while since I’ve had the time to post here, but by way of apology, I have  made my latest post on my Patreon page public, with updates on my recent bedroom makeover - if you follow my Instagram account or are a Patreon, you will know that I’m spending a lot of time working in bed, where I can keep warm. There’s teddy bears and little needle felted geese and everything. 

WINTER RETREAT (Link)

The soup of life

 

Another early start for me at 7am and while I am shovelling down my first coffee of the day, I thought I’d take advantage of the dark morning to write to my friends and readers here. The last few weeks have been what seems like an insurmountable challenge to get my depleted Etsy shop updated and restocked - lots of things that I have made over the last couple of years and not listed for sale, lots of new work. My anxiety has previously tied me up in knots over how to put work for sale out there without imposing upon people. This is something I’ve always struggled with, but it had become worse over the last few years. Funnily enough, now that I have my life to myself again, I find that much of my anxiety (despite my circumstances) has dissipated. So I’ve been sorting out  pieces that I made and never shown, all of which needed photographing, such as these little rocking horses that I made in Spring 2019. And to my surprise, things are selling.  

After shutting my shop during lockdown, I am at last getting my wools back on sale. They were due for a packaging make over and so each colour has to be re-photographed. This time I wanted to do it properly, instead of the rather prosaic shots I took back in 2013, so I set a theme of a piece of vintage china/ pottery with a crumpled linen backdrop, which has worked nicely. There are roughly 45 wool colours to photograph, when the light in the morning is good enough. 

With all the other things I’m trying to organise, it means that my studio floor has become a melange of wool and various props, and I am still in the middle of all this, putting kits together and working out how much more wool I need to buy in and how much I can just about afford. (You can see the path I’ve made here, from the door to my desk). 

When it gets too cold and dark for me to carry on in my studio, I take my work tray to to bed and make the most of the rest of the day. Sometimes there is cake. I have so many little things to finish off in time for the Christmas season, but I’m not sure if I can do it (the reason why being near the end of this post). 

I’ve been absent from this blog, as I try to cram what was supposed to be a more gradually paced process into a few weeks rather than a few months. After the initial shock of Joe’s unexpected ‘daylight flit’ has worn off, I have slowly realised the enormity of what he’s done and how coldly uncaring his selfish actions were, without the slightest concern for my feelings or the life we’d built together. Which I thought we both enjoyed. There are a few more details on his side that I won’t go into - it’s too private and not my concern anymore. I still cannot believe what a mess he’s made of both our lives.

I’m usually too busy to dwell on it though and I am finding that apart from the constant worry of trying to quadruple my income in the space of three months, I’m actually ok. I have always been comfortable with my own space, I love being on Instagram every day and chatting to people and I have my dear little old bear Rupert for company. What more could I possibly want? 

Which  brings me to the final herb to be thrown into the messy soup of my life. My next (second) needle felt book. This all started back in the halcyon pre-Covid days before the first U.K. lockdown and I’ve had to wait for months to see if it was even going ahead. All the details were sorted out just before Joe did his vanishing act and I’ve been so busy with all of the above that I have only just started the pattern shooting. I’m not able to reveal too much at this point, save that I am working with two amazing like-minded women (my editor and art director) with whom I’ve worked with before. It’s going to be something a bit different and rather beautiful. 

I have twenty patterns to shoot and make samples for, as well as all the writing and supporting photographs, with an April deadline. My problem is juggling all  the things I have to do and make to earn enough to survive every month, with the enormous amount of work involved in putting a book together. (There are only so many hours in the day, no matter how early I start).  

It won’t be published until later in 2021, and then it should be a huge boost to my career. I hope to be able to get enough new custom from the publicity to keep the cottage going. That’s the plan. My problem - and what is tying me in panicked knots - is whether I can manage to get to that point before I have to sell up.  So if you are reading this and have bought anything from me, whether it be craft materials, art, prints, cards, needle felt work, kits, Patreon support, Zoom workshops - everything large or small - thank you. You are literally helping me to keep the roof over my head, because I’ve just about managed to make the mortgage for the last three months, without Joe’s help. And I feel quietly proud about that. 

Sundown

I was lucky enough to catch this wonderful sunset this evening and as it’s been a while since I wrote, I thought I’d drop in to share it with you. I am fine and despite the constant worry of finances, am remarkably calm. My heart has mended fairly quickly, with just a few hairline cracks left and I am just about managing to juggle everything. I have realised however that I need to take a little more time out for myself, after working for ten days straight and becoming a bit rundown recently. 

So many learning curves...I have restructured my Zoom classes now, so that they can be easily bought from my Etsy shop in one purchase - the kit and the one-to-one session, with date and time of choice, meaning that I can work around time zones, and I am offering free kit postage in the U.K. Each kit contains plenty enough wool for the project, which means that once someone has made their first toadstool with me, they can make more in their own time. So far I have only toadstool workshops available, but next week should see one or two seasonal projects added. 

Workshop kits and bookings

I’ve also been getting a big backlog of my own work finished and listed online and keeping up with my Patreon page, which is now up to fifteen lovely members. Their support is reassuring and  invaluable, providing a real incentive to keep writing - so for the first time in months, I picked up a kind-of-ghost story I started last year and have almost finished it. I will be drip feeding it to them over there in three instalments. The setting is remarkably like a cottage I (and possibly you) know well, in Shropshire, with a person newly moved in and finding her feet, with the help of very kind elderly neighbours.

Although despite the possible resemblance, I hope I never go through what my main protagonist experiences in ‘A Bundle of Crows’...

Not very moveable type

It's been nine years since I blogged about rescuing a quantity of letterpress type and Adana printers from being skipped. Back then it was all crammed into the tiny cottage and I never had the space and time to go through it or use it. When Andy and I made the big move in 2012, it was stored in someone's shed and in 2015 I had it moved here. And it all went into another shed. 

There it has remained. Not the best place for it; as you can see, there are quite a few gaps in the shed walls, the roof leaks and next door's ivy continuously invades any crack it can find. So recently, to prevent it all deteriorating any further, I moved it into the cottage. 

I did it bit by bit. The cabinets, being full of metal type, are a little bit heavy. After a couple of hours, I had nearly all of it inside. For the moment it is in our main 'den' until I can sort it out properly. 

It's not exactly convenient, but I need to sell a fair bit of what I have, and it has to be in a dry place. The printers and other sundries are now jamming up the little front room we recently sorted out.

So I'm gradually sorting through the bits and bobs, deciding what can go to help with the mortgage. It feels like selling off the family silver, but I have far more than I need and at this point in my life, I still don't have the time to play with it. I have enjoyed cleaning things up though, such as this old lead cutter. Transformed from this...

 ...to this. 

It went off to a new home yesterday.

Old room, new room

Since the day Andy and I moved into the cottage over four years ago, the front room has been a dumping ground for removal boxes. The boxes have shifted about a bit, more added and some of them even unpacked, though not until much later. Boxes, especially when sealed for some time, can be memory sinks and I avoided them for the first couple of years.

When Joe moved in last year,  we tidied it up a bit, so that he had space for his computer and model collection. But last month we tackled it properly. First we went through the attic and sorted that out. We had a jolly good clear out.

 

Eight boxes of books and many boxes of odds and ends went to charity shops. My record collection, which I've had since I was sixteen, is sacrosanct and not going anywhere.

 

Although just to get it out of the way, it now lives under the stairs. All of the boxes were sorted through, and many things went in the attic to be dealt with another time.

Then the other week at the local auction, we picked up this battered old bureau for almost nothing. Nobody wanted it and I paid the ridiculous price of £11 for it. We had no idea where it would go, but we did save it from the skip.

Brian-next-door helped me get it home the next day, in his trailer.

And then it found its way into the newly tidy front room. You can actually see the nice little fireplace now and I have a work bench almost ready for action. (I have several old sewing machines and some old filing drawers to tidy up, but that's another story).

Like the rest of the cottage, the walls are still in the parlous state they were when Andy died, after we'd stripped them down ready for renovation. There's no money to do anything with them at the moment,and the electrics need doing anyway. So they have to stay 'interesting' and 'rustic'. But we don't mind. It's home.

If I'm not around much, it's not necessarily because there is anything wrong. I'm still in the process of rebuilding my life and healing from the carnage of the last few years; working out what happens next, especially with my career. Whether Joe and I are able to stay here is still very much moot point, but at least we finally have an almost respectable front room - even if it is a little scruffy and eccentric by ordinary standards.