spring to summer

Now we've reached the vernal equinox, I've begun planning an expedition to take place over the summer solstice. This is to walk along the watersheds of the rivers South Tyne, Tees and Wear, collecting material and artwork as I go.

This morning I walked along the South Tyne valley, up onto Yad Moss to Crookburn Bridge, where the B6277 crosses the county boundary between Co. Durham and Cumbria, before returning by the road. A tarmac surface may be quick, but it was very hard on feet and legs.

the Cumbria/ Co Durham boundary; also the North West/North East regional boundary

As you can see, one challenge I shall have is a lack of firewood at night. This view looks straight across towards Great Dun Fell (covered in cloud) and is the route I shall take. I 'm guessing that there isn't a single tree across those eight miles. I plan to stay the first night on the Northumberland border close to Killhope Cross and move from there to this point for the second night. Both these happen to be close to roads. From here, not only will there not be a single tree until I get within sight of Garrigill, but neither will there be any roads. Here's a view of the last trees I saw, about 3km away...

For all its bleakness, the detail in the moorland is full of life. I nearly trod on this frog. It was probably the first time it had seen a human. I hope the experience didn't disappoint.

Inanimate forms, too, abound, revealing miraculous patterns and colour transformations. To make the most of the experience, I shall be prepared to deviate from my planned route often, over the course of five days and four nights. I expect to spend about one third of the time observing (eco-gazing!), painting, drawing and taking photographs, one-third walking and one-third resting (more eco-gazing!), eating and sleeping.

Below is a sketch-map of my planned route. Because I need to deviate and stop so often to make artwork, I need to do it alone. However, if anyone wanted to spend some time at my night-time rests, that could be good, especially if they brought something to drink or smoke, or to add to the fire!

The purpose for this trip is to raise money for the new roof on Garrigill Village Hall. I shall ask people to sponsor me by buying prints of the work I shall be making. I shall hold an exhibition of the work at the village hall over the autumn equinox. 30% commission from any work sold at that will also go towards the roof. More details on a separate page on this blog: http://wilderstudio.blogspot.co.uk/p/wandering-watersheds.html

shape-shifting

In this winter's quieter moments, there's the chance to draw. It's a great excuse to just gaze as well, and just to wonder at how the material world is as it is. The more I gaze, the more I wonder,and the more I wonder the more I wander - into the realm of fantasy and fable. Below is part of a longer panel around the idea of the Celtic tree-spirit, Leannan si. I'm playing with ideas such as these at Celtashgill, my new Wondercelt blog.

Running water, cold air and rocks collaborate and create fantastic forms of ice, turning unremarkable gills into remarkable wonderlands.

Ice grows its crystals across glass, along twigs and around the edges of foliage, leaving another lexicon of shapes from which to draw.

still learning

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.

crysalis colour

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

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.

dismantled

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

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

no shelter

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

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

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

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.

Mares' Tails

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

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

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

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.

Devant la deluge

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.