Artist Residency at The Hide

Day 1

Dan and I arrive at a wooden-clad bungalow down a country lane to a generous welcome from Alice and Piers. They show us around the space with wide panoramic windows looking out across the valley. Dan and I carry in my supplies for the week - namely numerous packets of microwaveable rice, snap peas and an Om bar Dan was already eyeing up. We have a cup of rooibos in the sitting room, sitting on matching olive velvet chairs, eagerly peering out at the allotments (still bedded down for winter) and the orchard with its harsh winter trim and vibrant green buds just sprouting. Dan takes a photo of me standing at the desk with the view unfolding behind me. With excited trepidation, I kiss him goodbye.

I set about unpacking all my belongings, marveling at the mid-century furniture, original artworks and spaciousness. I lay some of my art materials out on the long window ledge. On the desk I unroll my carefully selected brushes, water jars, sumi ink, charcoal and Chinese bamboo brush I’ve yet to use.

I gather the flowers I’ve brought from the florist in Hanham. I cut the stems of lilac anemones, violet iris, pussy willow and birch twigs. I’d also got some cerise and tangerine tulips, which fit delicately in a white milk jug that was holding cutlery in the kitchen. I place the tulips on a coffee table and the anemones and iris in a jug I grabbed out of the studio before I left. I sketch the arrangement loosely in charcoal, creating some shadow smudges on the petals and pussy willow pom-poms with a press of my fingertips.

I head out onto the common in the late afternoon, just as the sun glimmers through the clouds. The winds whip against my raincoat. I follow my feet up and over the expanse of protected land, stopping at knowles here and there. The wide grassy expanse is dotted with ancient trees, curled over in the wind like backward-blown umbrellas. They appear like portals, magically rooted in the earth. I climb through the arched branches and settle my hand against the gnarled and twisted trunks. 

Realising I’ve walked onto a 9-hole, I head for cover towards the trees at the outer edge of the common, fearing the impending whistling of a golf ball. I poke at shrunken mushrooms I find in the grass, which release a withering gust of spores, hoping to myself they’re not poisonous. There are cloud-like bushes of blackthorn sprayed in white blossom and bushes of holly, which I greet by stroking a leaf in its silky centre between my forefinger and thumb. The woodland is alive with vibrant tongues of wild garlic, so I pick a few leaves to take home for dinner too.

Home with pockets of foraged delights; a brown curled holly leaf, windswept twigs from a fallen tree, and a branch of guilty blossom that I twisted from the bush. Rice and beans with tomato salsa for dinner and I finished the Garden Museum Journal no.35 (Spring 2018) documenting Charlotte Verity’s moving paintings of Ronald Blythe’s garden. Only one of the windows has a blind, which I draw. I look out at the inky darkness, seeing my reflection on the couch, knowing the garden is there waiting for me tomorrow.

Day 2

The day is bright and windy so I head up to the common after some yoga and a quick breakfast. I intended to paint the tree-dwellings that had caught my interest the day before, but am stopped by a view overlooking the roof of a house and a party of trees. One tree in particular reminds me of a calligraphy stroke. 

I set up my new easel and paint. I’m enjoying a new technique which involves holding my brush at a distance, inviting less control - something I seem to be seeking. A dog-walker approaches me, sharing he too had been sketching on the common. While I wait for my painting to dry, we chat companionably. Richard compliments my setup, showing me his compact satchel with homemade velcro appendages to hold his water pots and paints in place. I share how my easel and tripod works, happy to spotlight last-week’s DIY creation. He gives me a tour of his colourful sketchbook featuring local sites and some portraits of live musicians, recommending places to visit and that I must treat myself to lunch at The Olive Tree in town.

I sketch a line of elder trees standing watch at the side of the common before the clouds turn grey. I scoop up a feather to add to my curated windowsill back in the studio. When I return, I realise the roots of the tree I’d painted that morning belong to Alice’s garden of all places.

Sheets of rain fall in the afternoon so I carry on painting still lifes. I start a puzzle (‘The Raven Addresses the Animals’) until the light gets dim. Chinese vegetable rice for dinner and an episode of the new series of Gardeners’ World.

Day 3

I start the day with yoga again, enjoying being able to expand into warrior pose without my hand grazing my clothes rail. Matcha tea and marmite toast. 

I join Alice for a mentoring session in her studio, a clearly treasured space which immediately feels safe. I journey with her through my artistic experiences; the fields of Dartington, Falmouth and the sea, South-west China for my last solo residency, London alive with exhibitions and galleries, museums and archives in Bath, painting and growing in Bristol, and now, here. I exhaust myself in nostalgic time-travel. Alice shares questions with such a sensitivity that unfolding truths come tumbling out. My fears are all-too familiar to most artists and I place them safely in Alice’s hands, with the knowledge that she speaks their language. We chase whispers of curiosity and enquiry, piecing together fragments until they start to fit. I leave cracked open, tender, and awake to the richness of my creative practice.

The skies look promisingly bright for a forecast with 82% precipitation, so I grab my easel and set out to the common. I batten down my sketchbook with the extra bulldog clip I finally found and paint an arching landscape dotted with tree caverns. I flick my rigger to create brambles and branches, building up shadows - ‘create tonal value’ echoing in my head. All the dark shadows I layer up gather at the base of the trees. I’m not used to painting upright on easels, only flat, and I watch the pigment as it pools. 

The wind picks up, I pick up the easel and get closer to the nook I first came across. The branches are woven into knots and tendrils, some of them pale and withered as if the effort has expired them. I create a quick impression on the page, attempting monochrome but it ends up a reliable brown rather than the sepia I envisaged. A fuchsia lycra-clad jogger exclaims “Are you painting? How brave!” I quip that running is more brave to me. They say how nice the reds and greens are and nod “Good on you” before running along. A few spots of rain later and I sweep everything up and carry my sketchbook home, open and upturned.

I head to Nailsworth market town in the afternoon, keen to see if the camping chair I saw propped outside a charity shop is still there. I find it tucked in a corner of the shop, sheltering from the rain. I happily pay £3 for it and sling it over my shoulder in its carry case. I avoid downpours by nipping into eclectic homeware shops and indulging in a beetroot cacao whilst I catch up with Dan on the phone. I take myself for an early dinner at an Italian restaurant (pizza and a glass of red) before the breathlessly steep trek home up ‘the ladder’ to catch the sun setting over the valley.

Day 4

I wake up sensing the need to go gently. I make a cup of rooibos and journal in bed, a stream of consciousness processing the depths of the day before. Forgiveness arises on the page. I head to the mat and move through it until stillness finds me in meditation. I curl up on the sofa for most of the morning. The sun flashes in the garden before waves of rain begin.

The afternoon is spent writing and reading. The brush feels too loaded to pick up today. A moment of calm outside inspires me to pull on my walking boots and raincoat and head to the ridge. It’s about 20 minutes before the rain hurtles down, freezing into hailstones that pelt my sodden legs and I wish I’d brought proper gloves instead of fingerless ones. I nestle my phone in between my scarf and hood to call my brother, Tom. 

I stalk the rest of the ridge until I’m back outside The Hide again but our conversation is still in the thicket of artistic practice and I know there’s much more to be learnt from Tom’s creative insights. I head down a side road that I’ve been curious to follow - on maps it looks like a dead end. The rain starts to clear and a muntjac ambles across my path, a few meters ahead. I say to Tom, “It reminds me of home”. 

At the end of the road, appears a woodland alive with lolling wild garlic and three footpaths in different directions. As Tom and I trade creative reflections I take each route: left until I have to turn back on myself, right which doesn’t take me far, and straight ahead into a warren of pathways. As we reflect on the fears of artmaking I’m aware I haven’t been keeping track of my direction, winding further in and down and around these weaving pathways. I breathe into trust and follow my feet. I wind higher and higher until trees start to look familiar and I arrive at the crossroads. I trace the sideroad back to The Hide and the low sun shines magnificently over the adjoining field, alighting the auburn grasses so much so my fingers itch to touch them. Tom reminds me that I’m exactly where I need to be, wandering/wondering with the muntjac in the woods. I take a sprig of overwintered seed heads to add to my studio shelf, a portal to this place of trust and belonging.

In the evening I tune in to a live watercolour demo of plein air artist Sebestian Thommen. I make a note to try his technique of sweeping sunbeams through trees with tissue and spritzing trees with water to create more volume. I listen to soul music and celebrate as I locate the final edge puzzle piece I swore must’ve been lost.

Day 5

The anemones and iris are fading; pigment in the outer petals pale and fold tightly in on themselves. It’s a reminder that this week is coming to a close. I read in bed (‘Art & Fear: The perils and rewards of artmaking’, an ideal companion this week) and deepen into a lengthy meditation, the sun streaming through the window, and write.

I join Alice in her studio and she announces that she has a plan. We unroll reams of paper, taping them together in various forms that symbolise the cornerstones of our conversation earlier this week. We intuit how to fold a large square until it resembles an oversized origami ‘fortune teller’ which opens and closes, making me giddy with joy. Alice guides me to scribe markers, values and meaning throughout the paper landscape, carving out the depths of my practice. I’m enthralled jumping from place to place, giving names to this familiar yet unknown terrain. It organically pools into a place of togetherness and I leave with direct instruction to leave the page, the realm of thought, and lean into embodied practice, the felt domain.

I walk to the common and meet the trees, walking between 4 nodes; n/e/s/w, the directional buddhas, the four elements, land-scape-human-ity. I walk and walk and let my focus drift from head to heart. I meet mushrooms, oak leaves, dandelions, holly leaves, thistles, and cowslip on the way. A magnificent thistle (bigger than a dinner plate) thrives at the center. I adorn it with leaves and sticks from my travels. I find lichen-encrusted sticks and arch them overhead. On my next return, they’ve fallen. A pair of gnarled logs join the structure and, after many iterations, slot together with strength. The entombed thistle is a meeting of worlds, a place of resistance and possibility. Both and.

It’s still warm out and I head to the garden, still dozy from winter. I collect foraged finds in my washing up bowl; moss, bark, ivy, straw, seed heads, birch twigs, stones and rose thorns. I lay them all out back in the studio. It reminds me of the archives and how Dan and I begin our sculptural interventions in Buddhafields, getting to know all our materials. I leave them to be.

Today feels like I’ve flung open the windows of my house. I imagine them as French shutters on the first day of spring. It’s as if I’ve discovered new floors, new places for the light and air to get in. I sense the limitations of the page with its four walls and have found a window, a way through.

Day 6

The studio is bright with sunshine and I open the windows to welcome some breeze into the warm space on my last full day. This morning is spent practicing yoga and adding to my concertina sketchbook - it’s starting to look like a catalogue of my collection from the week. I like the drawings folding over the edges, a stream of consciousness.

I head out to the common, not taking my winter raincoat for the first time. There’s a view of the far hills (Selsley, perhaps?) that I’ve been wanting to capture all week. I settle on a panoramic landscape and set up my easel and new/old folding chair. I try to employ techniques that Sebestian used in the demonstration earlier this week: wet in wet washes, splatters, darker focus in the foreground. I lay ultramarine shadows at the feet of miniature trees and bushes. I study the foliage in the foreground before selecting which brush will best animate their branches. 

A dog bounds towards me and a voice announces themselves as “just being nosy”. He tells me most people in his family paint and asks how long I’ve been out here. “Long enough for my fingers to get cold!” I say, but I can’t tell if it’s been an hour or two. I ask if he paints too. “I just don’t have the time,” he exhales. I nod, knowingly, grateful for my own opportunity to carve out space for practice. I lie on a bench in the sun, soaking it all up. On my walk back to the studio I pass the tree I painted on my first day and paint it again - larger, freer. 

In the evening I carry on adding to my sketchbooks as the sun dips below. I start to pack away the unfinished puzzle I laid in a corner of the studio, laughing that I only completed the outside straight edges. It feels fitting that I didn’t complete it, somehow. It looks like a windowframe, a portal to a way through. It seems to me a reminder that practice is an ongoing process of enquiry, one that will never be neatly complete.