they’re small sketches both of visual and written language.

 

Tate Podcast: “Art of Memory.”

“I remember that walk very distinctively in terms of the distance, the feeling of that walk, the heat underneath my feet, the humidity of the place, and so frequently when I’m writing something in a analogous landscape I go back to that scene as a way of getting into whatever place I’m writing about.” 

The landscapes in my drawing are places that I repetitively revisit from the past, the works have different histories within them encompassing works with multitudes of stories.

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Alongside my drawings I have been using an automatic writing technique at first I hadn’t understood this way of writing and it value. During the Tate St Ives collective which I took part in we participated in a series of automatic writing exercises regarding Cornwall.

Woosh wush through the bush, running along the lane.

 Rattle tattle on the water, clinking on the spray. 

Splish splodge on my leg, trickling down the stains. 

 Smush splush splashing on my face, running along the lane.

 Brish brush scratching on my leg, spitting in pain. 

 Itch stitch feeling blitzed, scuttling along the lane.  

 Squeak eek slipping the street, pulling up the lane.

 Huff Puff under my mask, sticking to my face. 

 Scratch dash through the door, flinging it off my face.

The automatic writing above is more rhythmic than some of my pieces. I like to think of the writing as written sketches, sometimes they are quite staccato and functionary other times they are leading and descriptive of the memory and emotionally charged. I use writing like this to help me form my work and in response to the works.

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The old town bridge waiting holding the balls. Walls leaning in, stone floor cool relief, soft grey red, heat sik. Secret corridor, green river, cloudy old house new bricks.

 

Rags, rags, water block. Steep climb. Steps or slope. Slick. Safe… a little more.

 

Smooth stone, old stone, Cold stone.  

 

 The winding roads around town.

Arched allyways.

Orange segment

Umbrellas and branches. 

Connecting. 

 

Building collapsed. 

Neighbours leaning over. 

Watching the mess below them. 

Not too close, metal poles. Stop them!

Walls shield.

Barrier to them. 

 

Lying down field under a Walnut tree there is a haybale in the field over. 

 The cousin’s field…. Dad says that a lot.

wrapped in black bin-liners… squares coming loose and flapping.  Anxiety under warm suns tracing the shadows. Distract.  Keep my breath. 

 House up on the hill tainted.

Sad smile.

Meaning to.

Safe space deflated.

Celebrations go on.
Eating and dancing. 
Los gigantes y cabezudos, 
The pillars below pillars.
Stand on,
Twirl on, 
In the town that is crumbling.
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