WILDERSTUDIO - artwork by Jules Cadie

on the wander

2012-01-11T15:12:00.004Z

The new year has been shoved along by ferocious winds, which, for a few days at least, have relented enough to make it OK to walk around and absorb what's going on. It's very mild, too, although damp. I've taken the opportunity to look out for a new wild-site to use as a base.

Wandering around the fellsides within striking distance of home, I'm aware how much erosion and chaos the winter weather has been causing. Chaos triumphing over order. Everything in a state of entropy. I quite like that. It's reassuring to note that for all our technological powers, they are as nothing to the forces of natural physics, at any scale. Fungii, mosses and lichens colonise our buildings, gripping the contours of eroded ridges. Winds blast and howl around the corners and under the eaves. They flog to destruction anything loose. Rain and snow is forced into the smallest crack and crevass. We would do well not to ignore such things. We should be mindful of natural forces all of the time, even when, as now, they whisper to us rather than shout.

I guess this watchfullness is the main motivation for wanting to revive a wild-base. After quite a short while in a natural environment, I can start to feel an attachment. The area around me begins to communicate. I sense a full range of experiences and emotions, although the originhal stimulii may be inexplicable. Sometimes I sense there's a flow that I can be part of; sometimes not. Today I felt like dancing, but didn't.

feeling slightly sheepish

2011-10-12T11:06:00.001+01:00

The surface landscape of the North Pennines, just like anywhere else in Britain, is an occlusion of geology, climate and human exploitation. Farmers and shepherds have brought and bred sheep and cattle that suit the prevailing conditions. They've piled stones into walls, and burnt lime for sweetening the pastures and cementing the stones into shelters. They've planted and felled trees for timber and firewood. They've built tracks and drove roads across and through the hills and dales of this upland area.

The sheep that are such a strong feature of the North Pennines landscape produce wool, of course. Last week, we celebrated and promoted North Pennines wool at an event that attracted around 400 visitors to Lanehead, high in the North Pennines and close to the source of the River Wear. It brought together farmers, small-holders, fleece-processors, spinners, weavers, dyers, craftworkers and wearers of wool. There was a friendly and lively atmosphere to the event, and kindled new relationships and ideas amongst those who attended. Look at this blog: northpennineswool.blogspot.com.

The week before the wool event, I went with a group down Tyne Bottom Mine, a long-disused leadmine, and another example of North Pennines geology and human exploitation coming together. I was able to dig out some pigment for making into paint, including the yellow ochre in the sheep pictures.

The fusion of rocks, minerals and water underground has created a slowly-evolving visual feast.

On the surface, sheep, pasture, wind, rain and sunlight energise the fellsides.

Meanwhile, the remains of my shelter continue to provide visual stimulus; for creating more artwork and for setting-off a train of thought about the universal process of development and decay.

still learning

2011-07-15T09:39:00.000+01:00

Although two seasons have passed since my shelter was dismantled, the experience continues to inform my work. The tumbling of the sky over the land, the scouring by rainwater, and the exposure of rock and buried peat all contribute to the way the composition forms itself.

It's haymaking time just now, and the patterns of the hay meadows are accentuated as the hay is cut, dried, turned and bailed. The sun early in the morning and late in the evening floods over the fellsides, picking out the drama and tensions between the wild gills, the tamed meadows and the drystone walls that separate them.

macro to micro

2011-06-17T10:12:00.000+01:00

The Orion Nebula, taken by Hubble, NASA/ESA

Whether gazing millions of light-years into deep space, or staring at a plant just a few inches away, you can only be struck by the beauty of form as it flows around and fills space.

Thistle at my feet

An alluring aspect of space-gazing is the language. The words are more than utilitarian descriptors. They rely as much on references to classical cultures as they do on technical classifications. I've marvelled at Hubble's 'top twenty' photographs and their captions, extracting some of the phrases used and re-ordered them into a kind of poem. It is reminiscent of early Pink Floyd lyrics.

Majesti

Hubble has peered into the Sagittarius Star Cloud

Majesti appears as a whirlpool

Young stars reside in the curving spiral arms,

the formation of supermassive black holes.

'The Mice': a pair of galaxies

engaged in a celestial dance of cat and mouse.

A dense swarm of stars, patches of dust,

and a bright star cluster near the nucleus of the galaxy.

Saturn's four moons pass across its face.

The white icy moons Enceladus and Dione,

the large orange moon Titan, and icy Mimas.

Enceladus and Dione are preceded by their own shadows.

A Seyfert 2 – a galaxy

probably powered by a black hole at its core.

The thick ring around the yellow core

is an area of active starbirth.

In the Orion Nebula,

more than 3,000 stars reside

in a dramatic dust-and-gas landscape

- plateaux, mountains, and valleys.

A picture-book of star formation,

from the massive, young stars shaping the nebula

to the pillars of dense gas

that may be the homes of budding stars

A Sun-like star is ending its life,

casting off its outer layers of gas,

forming a cocoon around its remaining core.

A white dwarf is in the centre.

crysalis colour

2011-06-06T14:40:00.002+01:00

Bark Face

After having stayed very quiet in one place, you begin to notice that the natural world, which at first recoiled from your presence, gradually gets back to its business. Close-at-hand, all sorts of relationships form, fall apart and reform, and at all sorts of timeframes. The contrasts of dark and light seem to intensify, and colour emerges from where there seemed little before. Further afield, where your presence is almost insignificant, clouds and sunlight play on the gradients and planes, reflect off water or become absorbed into clefts.

I've been preparing some new artwork for an exhibition at High Cup Winery, which is open from 18th June - 29th August, and based on the North Pennines around High Cup Nick.

Meander

drawing threads

2011-05-22T13:12:00.002+01:00

A visit to the Tarset valley in Northumberland on Thursday placed me in a different landscape and stimulated some new drawing. However, within seconds of laying out my materials, my attention was drawn to the ground around my feet, where fresh wood sorrel (oxalis) was growing through the leaf litter and moss. I became engrossed in the same old topic of the adaptive cycle, and the same old obsession with triadic form and composition. Sorrel, moss, and leaf litter were representing the stages of development, consolidation and release. The leaves of the sorrel were divided into three.

After the sorrel, I turned my attention to a dead tree that had fallen across a drystone wall. Here again was the same adaptive cycle. The dead tree had created a new and vibrant environment for insects and therefore a food source for birds. The wall had lost its original purpose of creating a boundary; it was keeping nothing out or keeping nothing in. It had been colonised by plants, some seeking shade, some seeking dry rooting and others seeking shelter from wind.

Light gives way to dark, dark to light, death to life, life to death. Everty time I draw I explore and excite new relationships.

By drawing the rotting wood, the rusting iron and the crumbling stone of the farm buildings at Tarset, I understood a little more about the buildings' history, and how it was connected to the changing practice of agriculture from pre- to post-industrial times. The farm buildings are now used for more than stock and crops. There is a studio for artists who stay for a year's residency and an office for the publishers of poetry. A barn is used for exhibitions. So the cultural space, too, has adapted to change.

As I was drawing, I reflected on what I was doing. This was my way of experiencing 'deep ecology'. I continue to struggle with the question - is this the way I see things, or is this the way things really appear? I feel part of,and apart from, this place and its inhabitants at the same time.

spring moon waxing

2011-04-07T12:23:00.000+01:00

beech on the banks of the South Tyne

The first flush of spring greening is heralded by an overture of birdsong and rushing water this morning. As I was drawing, I was wondering which way round it was. Was it tree-roots to rocks to river, or river to rocks to roots?

fragile & fleeting

2011-03-03T17:02:00.002Z

iced river surface

I'm at last reconciled to not having a shelter anymore. I've detached myself from the attachment-and-loss-syndrome, and it feels good. From now on (until I build another shelter...) I shall regard the total environment within easy walking distance of home as my 'studio'. That's only right, since it's the place where I study, and where I test-out ideas and follow lines of investigation.

iced river rock

Today I set about a rather obvious thought, and not at all original. It was all about beauty, how it can never be captured, and how it is so fragile and temporary. The frost was sparkling on twigs for a few moments, erect and proud, when the sun's rays flooded in, and then that same sun overwhelmed those thrusts of frost and their sparkle melted away into dark damp patches. These events, tiny in the scale of the immense universe, but immense in the tiny world of the twig, reminded me to be mindful in the moment, to love, dance, sing, laugh and enjoy whilst I still can.

I've been looking at the Lichfield and Lindisfarne gospels, the Lutteral Psalter and the Book of Kells again recently. There's no doubt in my mind that those monks working away in their cold dark cells were like shamans. They saw real and imagined beauty in the connectedness of the universe and transported it through their inks and parchment into our own times. I want my own artwork to attempt the same but in a secular context. I'm reminded, however, of the rather portentous and pompous lines of William Blake:

He who binds himself a joy
doth the winged life destroy
but he who kisses the joy as it flies
lives in eternity's sunrise.

dismantled

2011-02-02T11:13:00.000Z

The mantle of my shelter has been removed. Presumably by a 'keeper in preparation for a passing shooting party - it would be unseemly for the landscape to be scarred by signs of shanty habitation. The season finished yesterday, so the shelter lasted well. Even the stones from around the firepit have been removed. The bigger posts of wood have been laid on top of the brash to weigh it down. The earth walls have been kicked away. I felt cut free. I've been wondering over the fellsides ever since, looking for somewhere else to set-up when the spring brings easier weather.

earthslice

I've been digging out bits of clay and peat (very tiny bits) that have been exposed by the flush of meltwater, drying them, mixing with PVA, and using them to make images like this one. As it happens, this also includes a photo of an exposed rock-face and some branches.

Other bits I've brought back down from the shelter, like this wool and lichen, and the piece of birch-bark below.

I've learnt so much from this experience, although I fear that I'll forget some. Writing this blog may help me to remember. Most importantly, I've learnt so much about where to site a shelter and how to construct it. Rough wooden shelters are no good for the winter. This is no place for beast or human habitation.

frozen out

2011-01-03T17:22:00.000Z

snow remnants

The ice-jaws of the season have had an almost relentless grip since the end of November, pinning the earth down in sub-zero temperatures. Occasionally, a playful release and the surface melts. Then the jaws shift position for a few hours before clamping shut again. The crests of snow and the troughs of brief melting have broken the banks of the shelter. It's reclaiming itself to itself. Nature to nature. It's left me to retreat to the warmth of our house, home and hearth, firelight, family and friends. Culture to culture. Human relationships become important again. We talk of our exploits and plot the future. We make-up stories as we share and reflect on the myths, legends and histories in our background.

Dragonade: Rolling Minstrels

In the next three months I shall use the images and material that I've harvested from the site over the year to create, assemble and curate an exposition for display and/or publication.

Supine Earth; Rolling Minstrels

accumulation

2010-12-01T16:29:00.000Z

The snow keeps piling in, so I set out for the shelter this morning to see just how much more it might have changed. I was prepared to spend some time sculpting the snow. Or, to be more accurate, I wasn't that prepared, because I could only find one glove.

The journey was exhausting because the snow is so light and uncompacted. It had drifted a little, filling the hollows and flattening the crests. Without a stick, I was unsure how deep I would plunge with every step. Sometimes it was around shin-deep, mostly knee-deep, but often waist-deep. On two occasions I went as far as my armpits. That was frightening, especially close to the gill where I had no way of judging where land stopped and water started. I couldn't afford to twist my ankle or fall awkwardly; no-one knew where I was. I became supremely cautious and watchful of every move. At one point I stamped some steps down a steep side, looked across the gill and jumped with both feet landing parallel, unsure whether to brace or relax into the snow. As it happened, the spot I had chosen to land on was relatively firm, the snow being no deeper than knee-height.

swallowtail

This trip seemed to be all about edges. Some blown, some blasted, some cut, some stamped and some eroded. Windward and leeward edges. Sharp horizons and snow-blown crests. Dark bellies and crystalised combs.

spider twigs

Upon arrival at the shelter, I hesitated. The driven snow had created beautiful arcs and bends around and over it. It seemed crass to change it, but I did. I compacted the snow with the intention of packing it around the wood and turning it into an igloo. However, the snow was so soft it just seemed to melt away. After a while I stopped, resolving to let time and weather do the work for me. It was warm and cosy inside as it was, and the insulating properties of the loose snow was obvious. Adaptation could be left to natural forces. I found my stick and came back across the open fellside, making good progress with the confidence that the stick-cum-probe provided. The snow was no thinner, but the going was easier.

champagne powder

2010-11-29T14:29:00.001Z

High sky, land mass and sea coast create the theatre for currents of air from different directions to interact. Along the eastern coast, thunder-snow with its static charge connects sky and land. With only a weak effect of the usual Gulf Stream travelling north east across the Atlantic, the polar winds from Scandinavia have driven plumes of snow clouds westwards. Their leading edges have covered the shelter and all around it with cold crystalline snow.

No-one has been here. I followed tracks up from the road and along my usual route, but then they arched away, crossing the wall and up the fell on the open side. For now the air is still, and with the easterly polar winds predicted to blow soon, I took the chance to make a drawing.

It was unusually quiet, and free of distraction. Even with the remains of a hangover I was able to concentrate sufficiently to wonder at the silent unseen accumulation of ice and snow that had alighted on every twig.

The gill mirrored the huge forces at work in the macro-atmosphere. Snow had bent the grass and vegetation, dipping into the water and freezing columns of ice back up stalks.

I looked at the features that make up this place, and at the transformation that had taken place. I'm almost looking forward to more cold and snow in the hope that the transformation continues by completely freezing the gill and making a solid crust of ice on which I could walk on top of the snow. In my excitement and my absorption I left my stick in the shelter. Once more, there's much for me to absorb further; to synthesise my feelings with the physical material-changes that the onset of winter brings.

no shelter

2010-11-12T09:33:00.001Z

snowblast

Weather fronts crashing into the British Isles seem to drag Heaven and Earth closer together, into a tormented Hell, or at least a maelstrom, of flying twigs and leaves, stinging hail and freezing, frozen clods of peat.

When the wind stops and the clouds part, Earth is like a tease. She's beautiful. She seduces you to tumble across her mounds and valleys.

The shelter is no more a shelter. However, it still feels good to be there amongst the remaining sticks. The remnants of my fire-pit remind me of the summer. I should use the charcoal there to make some artwork. The stones I used to partially dam the gill and form my pond have been scoured out by the force of recent spates. Now's the time to retreat back down the hill a bit to the warmth of the studio.

In the warmth of her workshop, Ellie (fleece with altitude) showed me how to 'draw' with wool and a felting needle. This seems such a direct use of materials, I immediately came back to my own studio, continued with the felt drawing and incorporated it into the following piece. This includes charred scraps of wood, raw fleece and my own made oil paint. I've now got my own felting needles and intend doing much more like this.

fruit of the fell

rain hammer

2010-11-05T16:17:00.000Z

October shelter

The rain continues to hammer down on the already sodden earth. It seems to embed vegetation in some spots and expose new seams and deepen tiny crevasses in others. The combination of wind and rain makes the 'shelter' an heroic misnomer. What remains is a stubborn skeleton of jutting fragments of wood.

Midlands Sea

raging October

2010-10-29T13:57:00.001+01:00

As dusk began, I followed the gill towards the shelter. Wind and driving rain was stripping out the weakest leaves and sending sheets of water surging down towards the South Tyne.

Although this was not an evening to dwell for long on the exposed fellside, it was an exhilarating raid on all the senses. The roaring wind, the musky autumn earth, the cold slap on the cheeks and the acid tang on the tongue filled a cornucopia of experience for further artwork back in the slightly warmer and slightly drier studio at home. The shelter has been stripped of any covering, so I shall look forward to finding new ways of marking this place as the autumn deepens into winter.

Soon I shall rescue what I can and bring items back to the studio. Then I shall make the site ready for the next season and the next year. It has given me so much already, some of it too personal to record in this public place. I shall place the personal in the future artwork; it will only be revealed to those who seek it.

Hunters' Moon

2010-10-18T10:34:00.001+01:00

The lunar cycle seems so fast; here we are approaching another full moon, the Hunters' Moon. The guns have been out several times around the shelter, and the path has been used by more than me. Grouse bubble in the heather above the gill, and closer to the road, pheasant shriek and start and dash about in perplexity.

The winds have continued to tease the shelter's covering, and I've spent more time in trying to ameliorate their effect than in making new work. That said, it's a ripe and abundant time for experiencing the visual world and trying to make some sense of it..

As autumn rolls on, new life feeds on the old and dying. Transformations continue and the adaptive cycle is in full evidence. This skeletal tree pierces the sky with a heroic defiance for now, but it might not be long before the sky brings a wind that will break it, returning the wood to the earth and her insect armies.

Atlantic cloud

2010-09-28T14:11:00.001+01:00

It's been more than a week since I visited the shelter. Today, I approached from the north across a felled plantation that is slowly becoming a grouse moor, through wreaths of cloud.

The wind was barely discernible, and apart from the clakking of startled grouse and the hoarse, rough barking of a deer, the fellside seemed silent. Because I wasn't able to see far through the cloud, I was focusing more on the immediate surroundings with its wide variety of texture and colour.

The ground is sodden but carpeted in a rich mix of mosses, lichen and heather. I came past the water source that feeds the seven houses of Ashgill. The surface I was walking on provides the filtration for that water. I could smell the Atlantic on the air. It was a reminder that these clouds in which I was walking had come from the ocean, lifted by the coast, then the Cumbrian Mountains, over the summit of Cross Fell, to wrap themselves around and brush the heather of this fellside, to seep into the peat, and then to spring back from the ground.

turning season

2010-09-16T15:53:00.001+01:00

Each day now there is a difference in the colours of the fellside and its flora. The uniform greenness of summer has gone, leaving the landscape features more sharply delineated and defined, especially when the clouds part and the sun, now much lower in the sky, floods out, leaving a shadow behind every undulation After 24 hours of gales, weaker leaves and twigs have been stripped or shredded and outer leaves are turning golden, yellow or russet as trees starts to rest their growth. Grass has gone from bright green to dull, and some to orange and red. After driving heavy showers the water in the swollen gills is peaty brown.

The shelter, too, has been stripped of its cover again. the twine and the fabric have been ripped. The wooden supports, though, have held firm.

At first I didn't feel inclined to do anything with it; perhaps it was time to abandon the exercise. But as I set about clearing the felled sycamore, I realised that this process was as important as creating the artwork. It was a simlar process, too, in that it is iterative; I construct a shelter, the weather changes it, I repair and change it some more, and so on, gradually adapting to changing conditions. The charcoal remains from my fire had been displaced. It was a while before I deduced that this was by water from the overflowing gill. I looked for my bottle of water, but that must have been swept away. So much seemed to have changed in the space of just a few days that it drew me into an unwitting stream of thought about the polarity of attachment and loss. It was at this point that I decided that I would stick with the shelter and keep on adapting and changing it in response to circumstances. At times I would drive change and at others, be driven by change. Now I found myself with the billhook, hacking off the protruding branches from the top part of the felled sycamore trunk, and finding a place and a function for it in the shelter. As I do this, moss-covered bark peels away. The fallen tree with its moss and colonies of insects will now adapt to new conditions.

Close to where the tree stood I discovered another stump. The top where the break had occurred - perhaps many years' ago - is host to a riot of lichen. Perhaps this was a model of for the future of the shelter.

sycamore down

2010-09-06T20:38:00.000+01:00

Approaching the shelter this morning, I was wondered if anything new could happen. This exercise was getting a bit too familiar and I wanted to be surprised. I was not disappointed. The severe gusts of overnight wind had overpowered the dying sycamore to which one end of the hammock was attached. It was felled, breaking one of the hammock's beech braces and severing the rope.

It's provided me with some useful wood to saw, to hew, scorch and burn. The immediacy of this natural catastrophic event is exactly why I've made this wild studio. However, it's a distraction at the moment. As the season changes to late summer and impending autumn, I want to record the way that the gill itself changes from its highest point to its confluence with the South Tyne. I'm doing this through photographs and drawings, and I'm expecting it to provide the most meaningful content.

from the top

2010-08-23T17:10:00.001+01:00

Above the gill is an area marked on the map as Windy Brow. It's an apt name. The brow forms the border of a rough and disorganised plateau which spills from the northern slopes of Burnhope Seat, where wind and water scourge the rock, peat and plantlife. Often, the horizon between earth and sky is as indistinct as the difference between the surface and the peaty shale and hard rock of its underground world.

As you approach the top of the gill, you get a sense that the elements are becoming more resolved; that light, water and earth begin to take on more distict forms.

There's a kind of triumph when water gushes out again from a dark channel in the earth, glistening and dancing over rocks and between tree limbs. The water washes out minerals and fertilises the surrounding sodden ground, stimulating fresh new growth and attracting insects, small reptiles and birds.

The act of reflection since my last trip to the shelter has been essential in the completion of these three paintings.

Mares' Tails

2010-08-19T19:05:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I went to the shelter with a small tent and stayed overnight, returning at midday today. It was an interesting experience but it didn't produce much in the way of immediate artwork - which had been my intention. Instead, most of my time seemed to be spent keeping warm, dry, safe and comfortable.

Laden with a sack containing tent, doss-bag and sleeping mat, kettle stove, camera, torch, art materials and some fruit and coffee, I walked up to the top of the gill arriving around 8pm. It was breezy so no midges. I had to set-up the tent immediately and gather enough firewood to see me through the first couple of hours of darkness. As soon as I started it became clear that I would be here for the experience, rather than the production of art. With the light fading, the lively sky was the main focus of attention.

The moon made a brief appearance before disappearing all night into the plumes of cloud formed as the moist air hit the Cross Fell massif. This photo was taken with a slow exposure - the sky looked a lot darker than this at the time. As the light faded in the north-west, the stars made an appearance about as brief as the moon's before the cloud thickened. I watched them for as long as I could from the supreme comfort of the hammock, occasionally swathed in woodsmoke from the fire, before they disappeared and the sky was only distinct from the ground by being slightly lighter. It was not until dawn that sufficient low-level cumulus from Cross Fell cleared to reveal once more the mares' tails. There were two distinct layers of them, and I imagined a third layer even higher, each going in a slightly different direction. It can sometimes be difficult to remember that the sky is in three dimensions, but here was proof in all its raw beauty. As the morning sun climbed it reflected off the clouds in the east.

The overnight rain had soaked all the wood, of course, but there were enough dry twigs on the inside of the shelter structure. I placed them in the base of the kettle and put some lighter fuel on. After a few sparks from the steel, there was a small flame and I slowly added wet wood until I had a healthy heart to the fire. I decided that since I was boiling the water that I'd use it straight from the gill. This I did and apart from the odd ground of coffee (I had no strainer or extra cup), the drink was a delightful way to start the day. Luckily, the showers stayed away as well. I did this drawing of the kettle.

It seemed a shame to stop at one cup, so I boiled some more water and had another, using the rest of the water for a wash in my little pond. (I wished I'd remembered to bring a towel). Spending time doing these domestic things took my mind off what I had come here to do, but it felt OK to just enjoy being here in the fresh morning breeze.

I must have messed around looking at plants and rocks and running water for more than an hour, although I had no way of knowing since I hadn't brought any means of telling the time. That was good, too, being led by the length and direction of shadows. Apart from seeing some car headlights last night heading up to Hartside and the sounds of distant airliners, I had no inkling of the rhythms of other people. That's not to say that I wanted to be alone. It suited this exercise, but I would have loved to have shared the warmth of the fire and the tent, and the hot drink, with some good company. To have been with someone else who felt the same way would have more than doubled the value of the experience. Humankind is gregarious by nature; we are herd animals, and a warm fire and shelter are good incentives for companionship.

I had decided that I would map this gill in its entirety, starting from the top, so I went to where it springs from the ground and did some drawings. Because of the breeze and the rain, I didn't really record what I was seeing as well as I ought, so I'm now hoping that my memory serves me well for work in the home studio. In the meantime, here's a rainbow to nurture that hope.

After taking the tent down in the rain and packing everything up, I walked back home, sensing that there's still a lot to absorb from the experience before it results in any meaningful artwork.

out of shot

2010-08-17T10:39:00.001+01:00

The guns were out a few days' ago, heralding the start of the shooting season. By the sound of it, there was a drive not far from the shelter, so when I went up yesterday late afternoon I was half expecting to find some damage. Thankfully there was none. It was quiet; Cross Fell was slightly misty set against a milky sky. No strong shadows or distant colours. The ground and the air smelt fresh, more savoury than sweet. This evening seemed more masculine than feminine.

I took some time observing the tree/earth/water interface and made some colour exercises. Having chosen not to bring my camera, I was forced away from the comfort of the lens and the instant image. I'm beginning to find that observation without drawing, although a lot less intensive, is still a valuable exercise and informs my practice back home, as illustrated in these paintings above and below. Visual memory is an important attribute for a visual artist, but it's one that needs regular exercise, particularly with age.

As I lay in the hammock looking up at the trees against the sky, two kestrels flew into sight embroiled in a mid-flight argument. One settled on the branch immediately above me. I wasn't keeping particularly still and the bird paid me no attention, and although I was slightly concerned that I was in line-of-fire if it chose to release its bowels, it did feel a privilege to be sharing the same environment so easily. It stayed for several minutes. I played the strings of the hammock and I could feel the vibrations run through both trees. I'm sure the bird would have felt them. The thought struck me that I could record these and other sounds and assemble them into a digital composition. It would be another way of expressing the harmony that I often experience here.

I attempted some more drawing, but the strength of the sun had waned as the evening came, and without a wind the midges were feeding on my face and upper torso. They were such a distraction that I gave-up, packed-up and walked home with my ears burning and my wrists and elbows itching.

tree bark

2010-08-10T12:02:00.001+01:00

Following my walk up to the shelter yesterday - the first since taking a week away canoeing and camping - and finding nothing to repair, I lay in the hammock for a while. Whilst away I'd been talking to our friend Pete who is manager of a Buddhist retreat near Totnes. He and his partner Anne were about to go on their own retreat for eight days at the Gaia Centre, where they observe a strict silence. I tried to initiate a conversation about the effect of communal silence which seemed to be resented. I think they thought I was trying to impose my ego on them, and that communal silence and meditation is about dissolving ego. The reason I mention it is because we had earlier talked about the experience of meditation, and there I did get some recognition that the act of drawing can be very similar, in that object and subject become merged. I mused about this in the hammock, and my awareness increased to a sharp recognition of the surface of the tree bark across which the hammock was strung. However, I didn't want to invest my time just now in drawing, and opted instead to take photographs. For me, taking photographs is the exact opposite to drawing. To 'take' a picture requires me to separate myself from the situation and to objectify it. To 'make' a drawing requires me to be part of the situation. For that reason, I need to work with the photograph later so that I can understand it better.

early fruiting

2010-07-30T11:39:00.001+01:00

Yesterday was my first trip up to the shelter for over a week. Things are changing even more. I saw what appear to be chanterelle mushrooms.

I hadn't long, and it'll be some time before I can go back up. It was an unpleasant walk up there as I was accompanied by a swarm of flies, but once there I was overjoyed to see that the shelter had withstood the ravishes of more wind and rain. The sun came out and I swung in the hammock, looking skyward for a while. The flies had dispersed. I decided to draw and became absorbed in a drawing of tree-trunk, roots and earth. This is becoming a recurring theme, and I sense the tension between earth and sky as plantlife of every scale aims for optimum growth.

even more, even stronger winds

2010-07-16T12:11:00.001+01:00

A southerly gale trashed my marquee on the green at Garrigill last night, causing damage to two vehicles. I took the covers away at 5am and went back for the rest later. After that I went to the shelter and found what I expected. That. too, was just about trashed as you can see here.

Interestingly though, the natural raw materials are proving to be the most resilient. The fabric cover and the twine are what fail. It's not my knots or the pegs/stakes that I've made, either.

I see this as an opportunity to learn more from natural forces and to start again. This begs the question 'is it worth committing the time to it?' Most of me says yes; some of me says forget it and spend more time actually making artwork. Perhaps when/if I do rebuild it I ought to consider it as a sculpture foremost and a useful shelter secondly.

This is how I left it, after replacing some of the guys.

St. Swithin's Day

2010-07-15T15:34:00.002+01:00

Rain yesterday and overnight has swollen the gills for the first time since I started this project. The sound was noticeable immediately. Rushing, splattering and gurgling, it was as if someone had placed new batteries in a wrap-round ghetto-blaster, bringing the earth itself to life. I wasn't sure what to expect at the shelter. Sure enough the cover had slipped again. Not much, but in wet conditions enough to give my art materials a good soaking for the first time. With yet more wood and yet another length of string, I made good best I could. This is teaching me about adaptation; how necessary it is to work with natural forces and not against them.

Knowing that the ground would be wetter than before, I donned boots and shorts, enjoying the sensation of the long grass licking my shins and calves as I swished through, feeling slightly smug that I wouldn't have to endure wet clammy trouser-legs. The rain has also enlivened the colours of the wildflowers around, especially a very delicate geranium. Nothing seems to upstage the garish yellow buttercup, but closer looking reveals a diverse chorus of more modest plants.

Biting insects are on the increase, including clegs which have sucked more than their fair share of my blood in the last couple of days. The act of drawing is distracted every few seconds by the need to brush an insect away. Even so, the intense observation and what it reveals is hugely rewarding, and the sense of merging into the immediate landscape is palpable; refreshing and invigorating. I was reminded of life-drawing sessions, and would like to do some at the shelter. Perhaps because I've been so stimulated by creative people recently, I feel I want to share this place more than this blog allows.

different day

2010-07-13T10:59:00.000+01:00

This morning the weather is bright and breezy, quite different to what was forecast. Experiencing the wild means experiencing wildly different emotions depending on conditions. Not necessarily affected by the obvious ones like sunshine and rain, but strongly affected by a combinations of lesser conditions such as humidity, time of day/direction of sun and wind. It was the perfect day to sling a hammock. Here's the view from it...

...and here's the view of it and the shelter.

To sling it I had to cut out a small branch from the willow. Having stripped the bark and the twigs, I've now placed this shiny new branch into the shelter and woven-in some of its bark. Taking this picture close-up has given me the idea to re-create some of this into artwork for the exhibition.

I decided to do a drawing with my charcoal pencil, only to discover it had broken. This was a perfect excuse to lie in the hammock for a while. It's an amazingly relaxing experience, swinging gently in the breeze with a deep blue sky overhead.

Meanwhile, back in the shelter, here's the view to the south-west...

more strong winds

2010-07-12T11:07:00.001+01:00

Today I returned to my shelter to find the cover blown-off again. After finding that some of the twine I'd found and used had failed, I decided more drastic action was required. With the billhook I cut a length of ash with a girth of about six inches, and used it to form an apex at the weather-end. I then drew the coverings over it. However, the wind had dropped to nothing, there was no strong sunshine, it was very damp, and so the midges soon found me and attacked with force. As I write this my top lip feels as if I've had a botox injection, and my wrists, neck, ears and ankles are hot and tingling. I gave-up and went home. Last week it was too windy to draw for long, and this week with no wind the midges are too fierce. To work directly outside is not an easy option. Instead, I scanned a part of a painting that I did of the shelter a couple of weeks ago, and digitally manipulated it into the image above. I hope it speaks for itself.

strong winds

2010-07-05T17:09:00.002+01:00

As I approached the shelter this morning in the cold, rain and wind, I expected to see some damage. So I wasn't too surprised to see that the fabric cover had torn away. The shelter looked like an unordered pile of sticks and stones. The walk has become more difficult. The long wet grass soaks through to knee-height. I was testing out the effectiveness of my 'off-road' sandals. They certainly grip when going up or down inclines, and give just enough support. They're not magic, however, and don't stop you from stubbing your toe on hidden stones, or getting stung by lone stalks of nettle lurking amongst the water-avens.

The walk may be getting more difficult, but there are new attractions to it. Some parts of the route seem to be positively exploding with wild flowers and herbs, and the deep purple orchids score well for lifting the spirits on a cold blustery morning. I was struck by the layering of colours and textures. Each species seems to fit in to a tightly-knit order, competing for light, space and pollinating insects, and struggling to stay in balance. I don't think I'm romantic about this since reading and getting a basic understanding of Lovelock's Gaia Theory and the DaisyWorld a couple of years'ago. Each time I use the word 'harmony', I could probably substitute the word 'homoeostasis'. I should apply it to my shelter as well. Each part relies on another part for it to remain a stable structure. The choices and decisions I made when building it determine how effective they are. My knowledge and experience is insufficient and didn't fully appreciate the strength of wind.

I repaired the shelter quite quickly. It was heartening to see how effective that weaving can be. It doesn't look very neat, which is something that dissatisfies me. I want it to display what it is that makes it strong and resilient, so I did a drawing of a detail that aimed to show that the opposing forces of contraction and expansion work together and create stability.

It was strangely reassuring to explore what what going on by drawing. However, my toes were becoming numb with cold, and after such a prolonged period of warm air, the wind felt cold through my shirt, so I left for home and a hot cup of coffee.

summer solstice

2010-06-22T14:21:00.002+01:00

The sun climbed high enough to breach the ridge of the hill and cast its rays on the shelter at about 7.30am, peeking through a gap in the apex.

Today I stopped on the way and considered building a platform in a beech tree much further down the hillside. The beech had fallen down, probably 20 years' ago, but had continued to grow, forming a covered space at its base. It was a tempting diversion, as ever, but I managed to stay focussed and collected more material to blend-in the shelter. I've made a threshold out of a chewed-up piece of spruce. I keep adding 'thresh' to the floor of the shelter, but it's as wet as ever. I'm beginning to think that only a massive amount of woodchips will do.

I've made a spindle out of scrap wood and tried spinning different sheep-fleeces. Bluefaced-Leicester wins hands-down, but the black-faced rough fell sheep from Clare Island come in second at the moment, with the Swaledale as the least favourable. I've used some of the lengths of yarn to tie-in some of the woven struts in the shelter.

Cross Fell's summit was a turmoil of cloud in an otherwise blue sky this morning, so I did a drawing of it from above the shelter. When I looked back at the shelter I realised I was looking at a margin of the nature/culture interface in sharp relief because of the long early morning shadows. I did a drawing of this.

Because I had built the shelter, I knew its structure well, so it was an easy and satisfying drawing to make. I'm going back as soon as I can with paint. I think that after three years of talking about this nature/culture interface, I've finally found it...
...so, I took up a canvas, paints and brushes (along with a storm kettle for a brew) in the late afternoon. For various reasons it took me an age to get settled and start. For one thing, I hadn't been up there at this time of day before in the strong sun, so I was surprised how obvious the shelter looked. The wet floor inside means not being able to put anything down on it, and I'm still short of raised resting places. I seemed to spend my time picking items up and setting them down again, swapping places like a slow motion game of musical chairs. It got more ridiculous. I took the canvas, paints & brushes up the slope to look down on the shelter. I was immediately attacked by a wide range of insects from ants to midges, even though the wind was strong enough to blow the canvas off its perch. The longer I sat on the soft heather, the more I became aware of a massing army of insects prepared to defend their homelands from attack. I reckoned that if I softened and thinned the paint with turpentine, I could work quickly with some semblance of control. However, the turps I'd put in a screwtop jar had all but evaporated. I gave up trying to paint in a conventional manner and just clagged paint over the canvas and beat the retreat. A piece of shale seemed to have more structure and interest than my painting.

Devant la deluge

2010-06-07T15:54:00.001+01:00

Clouds were thickening from the Atlantic west this morning, and by the time I'd climbed to my eyrie the air was filling with the finest of drizzle - so fine that you could only just discern it on skin, leaving the ink on paper un-blotched. There was no wind to drive it, and the still moist air carried only the sounds of skylarks. Combined with this stillness, the attenuated light from the leaden skies heightened a sense of expectancy. It prompted me to note a few lines down, as material from which to forge a poem. I was going to write a HAIKU but I couldn't leave the metaphor of radio comms out.

On-air chatter
larks break, curlews on the side;
zephyrs' breath moves along the channels.
Foraging queen wasp-noise advances and recedes.
A young frog skips clumsily
for refuge from my footfall.

I was delighted to find that the shelter had been undisturbed in the week I had been away from it. In fact I thought it looked as if it had always been there; plant-life continues to blur its edges. I added more reeds, dried grass and moss in an attempt to make it feel even more a part.

Now I've taken my light-weight folding stool up, I'm able to flit around and make quick sketches much more comfortably. I found a nearby tree stump that I'd not noticed before, and observed it from an angle that seemed to reveal its history. I need to return to this; it has so much more to reveal about structure, growth and decay. So here's a HAIKU from the observation:

The more that decays
the more is revealed of life
Sliced through each sap spring.

Now that the shelter seems to have assumed its own mantle and become a part of the location, I'm beginning to think how I can be as well. It seems inappropriate to be wearing ordinary clothing. I'm feeling a strong instinct to be a full part of the harmony around here.

learning from larch

2010-06-03T17:00:00.000+01:00

This is an image of the entrance from inside the shelter. It shows how I've tried weaving mud, sticks and shavings of wood together, with stones clagged into gaps. I followed the way that an old branch of larch had held back a bank, which over time has become re-vegetated and everything knitted and wove together

little progress

2010-05-28T15:04:00.001+01:00

Today was the first time I came back feeling a little deflated, not having achieved very much, and having forgotten to take some items up. The desultory visit scored a negative in my tally. I did a drawing, which was the only highlight. It was disappointing to find everything so wet and windblown, so I spent most of the time trying to resolve these problems for the future. I felt beaten by a distracting wind. It reminded me of many years' ago when the same thing happened on Fenham Flats along the mainland coast overlooking Holy Island. I was also aware that it'll be probably at least another week before I can make a return visit for any length of time. Just as I'm about to start some longer pieces of work.

I'm beginning to become quite proficient with a bill hook, putting it to use on a wind-blown rowan tree. It's surprisingly quick to chop through branches and then to deal with the smaller branches and twigs in one slicing cut.

This is what the world looks like from inside the shelter:

in deep

2010-05-27T13:15:00.000+01:00

Walking and working around the wild studio in the rain yesterday, I was intrigued with the terrain. The surface was slippy, of course, and when pressed, water and mud would ooze to the surface. When it was raining really hard, the distinction between surface, earth, air and water was blurred and indistinct. I sat in the shelter and made this image. The closer I observe, either through image-making or shelter-building, the more intimate I become with this place, and the more aware I'm becoming of the adaptive cycle of growth, development, consolidation and release. The intimacy is between everything, from the decomposing corpse of a hare and the mud where it expired, to the circling hillsides reflecting sunlight and cloud-shadow. I'm reminded of the animist belief of the relationship between the body, its breath and its shadow. In his preface to "Drawing Today", Tony Godfrey describes drawing as:

"an archeology of the act of touching...(its) resurgence as a pre-eminent experimental medium must be traced not to academic practice, but to its roots in myth and in the ordinary human psyche and its activities".

roots...

2010-05-19T19:26:00.000+01:00

The wild studio is taking shape. It's changing shape, too, as I bring, alter and mix the materials depending what's on-hand. So far I've done it with roots, branches, stones, moss, abandoned posts and - most usefully, it seems - clay, which I've dug out from the middle. The plans change as I work with the different materials, learning about their different properties, strengths and weaknesses. I've re-orientated it, with the entrance and approach from the side. I've got to decide where to place the fire soon, before bringing-in any more combustible material for the walls/sides.

The stones come mainly from the stream, where I'm creating a small pool and a ledge, in the hope that at some stage I'll want to cool down. Today was the first time I've been up there in a prevailing westerly breeze, and it was reassuring to find that the site I've chosen seems not to be affected. However, that may be a problem when the midges come out.

In the meantime, I'm making a gallon of nettle beer, and I've made a pot of wild garlic pesto in the hope that my breath will deter midges. I've been looking at other plants that I could use as well, although I might need to extend my range to include lower-lying land. Even up here, though, the wood sorrel is in flower. Yesterday I got involved in a forest school session at Calthwaite, where I learnt a lot more than I expected, including the construction of temporary shelters.

It truly amazes me how much this little patch of land is teaching me. The way things just are, the Dasein, and the evidence of bio-semiotics. I doubt if anyone could do the theory without the practice. I'm certainly no scientist, but I'm beginning to understand the meaning of deep ecology, and what my Buddhist friend Pete calls 'mindfulness'. It's visceral and it's meaningful, and it arouses strong passion. I have to remind myself to stop and reflect - and to wonder - from time to time.

This morning (20 May) I took up a sack, an old canopy cover and some string. I've got into the habit of taking up my sketchbook, but this morning was the first time I used it.

It's extremely humid today and difficult to believe I was walking on frost just last week. So I went bare-foot and the ground revealed itself to me instantly. Soggy bits, dry bits, spiky bits and soft mossy bits. I noticed wood sorrel, gentian, mollis, meadowsweet, geranium and water avens. Then I went bare-back and could feel the slightest of breezes on a still day. I heard and saw two plovers which performed a symphony of calls and wing-beats. The stereo effect was as marked as wearing a headset. Later I heard a cuckoo, quite close, and some skylarks. Then I went bare-arsed and made my first sketch, standing facing uphill. As I drew I sensed myself being totally absorbed and immersed in my surroundings, and sensed an almost overwhelming joy of oneness and harmony. People may mock when they talk about cranks like me connecting with nature, but the sense of interaction between all the elements was an exquisite experience, and my drawing became almost automatic.The drawing stopped imitating. Layers of convention about drawing slipped away. What something should look like didn't matter anymore, including the drawing itself.

Next time I come up I shall bring some containers with oils and some boards primed with gesso, and have a go at doing some clay and shale mark-making.

I continued with digging out clay and shale, molding them into the walls of the shelter, remembering to stop and think every now and then. After an hour or so, reluctantly, I gathered my belongings and went home.

I felt invigorated and super-alive, and now, several hours later, I'm still feeling the same way. Is this the chi flowing?

rock...

...ready to, (nearly)

May 21 - only a calendar month to the Summer Solstice - strong sun and a slight breeze - it would have been almost criminal not to have gone up to the wild studio today. I'm going to waymark the trail and call it the trequitra track. So anyone who wants to find it must find out what the trequitra is, and then where I've placed them. I'm doing this because there's no getting away from the power of three. I seem to navigate everything by it, and now I'm constructing the sides with it, or multiples of it; it's such a strong and stable number for weaving and for standing, since it shares its tensions with so much equilibrium, and three points are the least number to make a shape with straight lines. No point of a triangle has any more importance than another, which is probably why the Romans invented the Tribunal.

I abandoned my plan to make earth marks today. I thought it better to get some shelter from the sun. This is my first draft. There are all sorts of things wrong with it, so I will be changing it. It needs to be right before I start lining everything with moss.

I also made my little pool a little bigger, but I chickened-out of a dip in it - the water's still way too cold. I've taken a glass bottle of water up so I don't dehydrate or I'm not tempted to drink from the pool. It's in the side of the pool, keeping nice and cool.

All of this feels like being a child again, building a den. The difference is that I've gained a lot of life-experience, so the process feels like a balance between skill, intuition and knowledge - there we are - three again, in balance! I keep needing to remind myself that I'm aiming for minimal impact, and I have to curb the instinct to make grandiose and over-engineered gestures.

...RECCAE...

Back towards a colder spell (Tue 25 May), and the shelter hasn't suffered too much. Saw a deer taking an interest as I approached. Built some more - low impact means it's more like building a nest construction. Moss is an amazing substance.

All around seems to be coming apart, releasing and reconstituting into a different state. Roots, rock, seeds, shoots. Liaisons and relationships.

No time just now to wonder. It's nearly a full moon once more..

total immersion

2010-05-06T11:11:00.002+01:00

My plans are shaping-up for creating a wild studio. The point to this blog is to record all aspects of experiencing total immersion in the natural environment; emotional, physical and cerebral. I may choose to edit out some of what's here and publish it elsewhere. I didn't choose most of the social mores by which we live, and most of the time, just like anyone else, I'll rub along with them just fine. However, there may be times when this project will take me out of the usual social conventions, and I want to explore how I adjust to working-out a more relevant relationship between the natural and cultural worlds.