How many weeks it been now? It’s all getting a little hazy. It all depends on the counting methodology used. In internationally (un)recognised MSF time I make it 4 make-something-fridays since we snuck in under our duvets. 4. FOUR! Four whole Fridays of fine folks sending me colour and candour from far and wide. It never ceases to make me smile to see what everyone is up to. I hope you enjoy and take inspiration from all the treasures which lurk below…
2 x FROM LAST FRIDAY (#003.5)
I was a bit busy last week (somehow) and didn’t get to thinking about my weekly text-out until late on Thursday. So I thought, I wonder – what will happen if I don’t text anyone? Well, these are the two wonderful souls who sent me things without a text from me (not that the rest of you aren’t wonderful of course…)
Not sure if you’re doing it this week (in many ways I hope you’re not) Here’s my entry to make something Friday.
I tried to teach myself to make a live edge bowl on the lathe, and as you can see it was a complete failure I had neither the right tools nor skills and after it flew off the lathe and into the wall I had to admit defeat I think I’ll have to put this project on hold until I have access to a teacher and tools.I originally wasn’t going to submit anything, but ultimately failure is part of the making process and should really be celebrated and I have to remind myself of Alfred’s wise words…”Why do we fall Master Wayne?”
See you next week with hopefully a more success make
I was asked to make a door sign for a friend. She’s a deputy headteacher and wanted a sign for her lovely new office. She gave me a theme and knew exactly what she wanted, so I got to work cutting out the shape and painting on the design. Here’s where the project has got so far. The paint is still drying, hence the patchiness.
Theres a morning ritual which for months now has run.
Which begins upon thin cotton curtains meeting thick golden sun.
I barely wake but am nudged by warmth on closed eyelids. Stretching up to the window to let it all in.
Following that same daily pattern I return to the previous state.
Flat backed, drowsy and melting in to mattress, no arrangements I am late..
But the resumed slumber won’t last long.
As with the opening of the window, wonders of all sorts are let in, to miss that, would be wrong.
My mind is now whirring with stunning clarity. Distant bells toll. The crispness of clear blue skies; I lay, thirsty to drink it in with dry morning lips.
Theres chorus’ of varying distances out my open window; squarks and tweets and noises I can’t pinpoint. So loud I imagine they are all on my sill.
My mother calls them Starling. I call them Rowdy.
But I live for their liveliness and the morning is their cue. They step centre stage with full tiny lungs.
One day I wonder if they’ll miss judge their flight path and end up stood at the edge of my bed.
Both of us looking, shocked and frozen, almost dead.
As these sounds pull me into the day.
From deep holding sleep I float away.
The breeze kisses warm cheeks. Shadows dance in untouched corners of the room that are spotlit in morning splendour.
My body wriggles willingly into consciousness. Led by too much to miss outside.
I leave chattering bird babes and their mothers at my window for another day. Bubbling mind, rolling out of bed with no delay.
Watercolour of Ismar and a cheese plant (inspired by one Annie sent)
First time with watercolours since school. So relaxing sitting with Amila and painting each other. Though the resemblance is virtually nil I like the intensity of the wrinkled old lady in the first one. Second one was quicker and more carefree without her there in front of me.
But the paintings were really just a nice procrastination from what I woke up wanting to do. To write a whole short story in a day. I didn’t. But I made a start. I started ‘writing’ it in a voice note on a long drive to Somerset earlier this year. Long way to go, lots to sharpen up in this first section alone but in the spirit of being less precious here’s some of what I scribbled yesterday
Dan & Dad
A hospital. Late.
A boy in bed – wired up to a million machines. Screens. Bleeps.
A father on a lilac chair in the corner of the room. He’s just staring into space.
Books beside him closed – he can’t concentrate enough to read any of them. Instead he’s scrolling. Endlessly. Wantonly. Listlessly. Scrolling. Until he’s scrolled it all. He’s bored and tired but he can’t sleep.
So now he’s on his home screen just moving menus left and right. Nothing left to do but sleep. But he can’t. He’s too tired to sleep. Not just tired now but always tired, forever tired now. And besides sleeping doesn’t work.
He locks his phone. Looks at the time. Then behind it the background. It’s been there for years but now he’s staring really looking at every line that surrounds their smiles. Unlocks, photos, starts. A parking ticket. Scrolls. The dog at next doors house. Dan in bed thumbs up and smiles. With hair. Far better than the boy who’s bleeping now. And he doesn’t want to look at those pictures anymore.
He scrolls further. Much further. Before all this. Outside Stamford Bridge. Sunday roast at grans. Canonball in Spain. Further. Way further. To the top; from older phones from years ago. That bib. That toy. That funny toddler run. Learning numbers with his mum. Watching videos and laughing now. Watching Dan get older – go to school. In the old house. With the old dog. In the park they called their Stamford Bridge. So many pictures of the park. The tree, their tree, their goalpost, their climbing frame, their almost every day on the way back home from school. Scrolling still he gets down to Stamford Bridge again and stops. He knows which pictures next.
And now he can’t scroll anymore, fingers wet and eyes a blur. He shuts his eyes, sucks hard and shudders as he tries to stop. But he can’t. His shoulders lurch forward, phone has dropped, hands grasp his mouth to stop the noise; he tastes the salt around his fingers and still and still he shudders and still until the shaking starts to slow and he can take his hand from his mouth. He needs them both to rub his cheeks.
This is a new sign for the camping ablution loos. Self explanatory really. Oi……Bugger off with that frying pan.
Week 7 of Lockdown: Images captured on my daily allocated 1 hour walk. Its VE day and the buntin and nationalist are out enjoying the sun. I walk the streets still abiding by social distancing rules and snapping things along the way. These images are a part of a series of photographs depicting the lockdown title tbc.
If you are struggling to work out what this creation is, it is of of course a flower, sculpted from a (small) mango! I then dubiously added some chilli powder.
Sophie Jo Edwards
Throwing pots on a wheel is one of those challenges that is made to look so easy and therapeutic – which it is, once engrained. Practice most certainly makes perfect. The struggles of learning something new also bring with them a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
Today I set out to make little pots thrown ‘off the hump’. During the firing process the clay I used will turn black. I will then glaze these little pots, along with others I have made here on the farm, whilst experimenting with natural firing techniques e.g wood & sawdust. I’m currently in the process of learning how to create a specific form using a sketch or a picture in my head as a guideline. Despite the varying success I am pleased with today’s little family of pots.
It’s not traditional to wear gloves while throwing, but this makes it possible to keep my hands protected so I can continue learning. As well as removing the ability to feel the clay between my fingers, wearing gloves has meant I’ve had to change the way I approach and handle the clay. I can’t be too specific or pedantic. I instead have to focus on the physical outcomes and enjoy the process of making, reflecting the notion at the heart of Make Something Friday.
Though sense of touch is remarkably important while throwing, it’s not the be all and end all. It’s important to recognise that even if things aren’t perfect, it doesn’t mean we should stop or complain, it simply means we must practice patience and compromise through adapting. When the pot has dried out slightly – my gloves can come off and I can properly connect with the object I am creating, through carving, faceting and manipulating it’s form, which I find really satisfying.
How lucky I feel to have been brought back to the farm, where I get to make pots in the beautiful sunshine in the most perfect surroundings.
To mix and pull up
This week I put a white ball of clay and a black ball of clay on the wheel together and as I threw them they combined and marbled together. The real beauty of this bowl will be realised once it goes through a transformation in the kiln and the muddy brown and grey transform into pure black and white in a marbled spiral.
I’ll be sure to keep you updated in a few weeks with the results
During lockdown I have found that doing the same thing together at exactly the same time creates an oddly powerful sense of togetherness. So, I challenge you to virtually grab someone from afar tonight and look up at the moon together. You won’t regret it.
I find the thought of singing for people terrifying and I am perfectly aware that I sound like a wailing cat, that’s what you’re meant to do when you stare up at the moon right? MSF is a motivator to push myself out of my comfort zone. So here it is – with as much rhythm as a Cornflake packet I might as well sign myself up to become the 7th member of the Sugar Babes. Considering submitting my GCSE watercolour painting into the local county show and try my hand at appealing to the teenage lost souls of Pinterest.
Good moonings to one, and to all.
NOT ON FRIDAY BUT RECENTLY
Squirrel feeder picnic table
Poet and Print
Poetry I used to write at length but life became somewhat more busy and a hurried affair. I have always found alongside art making that poetry was a cathartic release and a necessity in bearing our souls in positive ways.. creating a new energy within us or to those around us who read it. At this time I have the opportunity to quiet the mind more and slow down.. this lockdown isn’t healthy in many ways but as creatives I have found ways in it becoming positive. The poems reflect my thoughts from now and a previous time with a friend who passed away this time last year to cancer. She was a free spirited person but also one who relished in working hard but playing hard too. I miss her and those times. The Trust in what you know .. are thoughts on our time now in the world. The here and now.
The art work is the energy from all of the thoughts, scrawls, emotions leaping off the page. The artwork will makes cards or small prints. Lino cut relief prints and pastels. Cards and prints for sale found on my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/Imprints-459161137832298/