Resurrection.

The last few years have been tumultuous. Monumental. Exhausting, exhilarating and, quite frankly, a tad ridiculous. I began this blog almost 10 years ago, bloody determined to become the next Tracey Emin. Oh real life, how you changed those burning plans…

Muddling through the last decade, I have metamorphosed from a rebellious, gloomy, eccentric art student to… a creative, optimistic, and still-eccentric primary school teacher, who is blissfully married to a wonderful soul (found during those chaotic art school days). I fled the monotonous rolling green hills of Wales, to discover my very own patch of land in beautiful Richmond upon Thames, London. And here I will stay. Roots firmly planted.

(It awes me that I am somehow old enough to reflect on the last decade of my life, every moment of which was lived through grown-up-eyes! I have noticed one infallible truth – I am immeasurably more content and confident at 29, than I was at 19. A worthy trade for a few grey hairs!)
This blog has a new meaning. It is a resurrection. I need a way to focus my creativity, a platform to consider my tangled thoughts and flickers of inspiration. The antics of a lapsed artist. It is an attempt to rekindle my love for the art world, to resurrect my own creative ambitions. Art was my first love. Although it has spent these last few years waiting patiently in the wings, I am now settled and grounded; the time is right to rejuvenate, rekindle, resurrect. Let’s see where it leads.

 

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I Am Fine

Embroidery, 2011

I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper

Dylan Thomas

I worry that I’m not making art in the right way, that I’m doing it all wrong, I’m going about it wrong. But then again, that is a stupid statement- there aren’t any rules. I wish I could be content painting pictures. Landscapes preferably. I wish I was just really, really bloody good at painting. People buy paintings, people understand what a painting is. I don’t think about what I’m doing, I make something because it feels right. Why is it art?! Just because I say so? But my work has integrity, and it has power, and emotion, and it is real. Maybe none of it’s┬ácoherent, maybe I should plan things out. I need a plan. I have so many unfinished pieces of work… I need to find focus. But it’s hard to go back to work on something when the feeling that inspired it in the first place has gone. I want to sew and I want to paint and I want to draw and I want to write and I want to crochet and I want to….. I want to do everything. Yesterday morning I thought I could take over the world, now it’s all a bit overwhelming again and my confidence is running away….. Maybe all my work is about making art. All my work is about me. My work is about everything. Take that, maybe it makes sense that it’s not coherent. Life isn’t that straightforward. Oh it’s all a mess. It’s best to not think about these things too much isn’t it. Life is too short to be unhappy.

There’s some new work up for sale on Newblood. They want me to sew more words on vintage fabric, so that my page is ‘coherent’, and because people want that sort of thing. I suppose I have to play the game and do that. I’m not a textile artist. I don’t think I’m a textile artist. (But I did sell five bits of work through them last week, so that is rather pleasant.)