So sorry I’ve been away for ages and sorrier still this break will continue.
I still love craft but I am finding it harder and harder to write about. Contrast this with writing about cinema, which flows off the keyboard since I have been accepted to write for the very fabulous Lost in The Multiplex.
I leave you with a picture of a bracelet, a handmade present from my friend Dany.
I’ve appreciated every visit, every comment, every subscriber. I may be back but until I do thank you so much for making time for me.
Sue and I were welcomed into the conservatory which serves as Lydia Haines‘ studio. It was a hot day so the temperature inside was bikini appropriate. Around us hung her giant silk paintings and her prints on fabric and paper. She gave us both screens to paint on, encouraging us to experiment, not worrying about trying to make them look perfect, advice Sue ignored as she thoughtfully dabbed away for twenty minutes. When the screens had dried we flipped them over onto paper. Lydia brought out some special seaweed gunk she herself had knocked up that morning, it looked like wallpaper paste. We plopped some into the frames and immediately the paint colours were drawn up into it. We spread the gunk all over the screen, squeegeeing it back and forth, lastly sweeping it off. Then the reveal. We lifted up the screen, peeling back the paper and ta dah! Mine is the brown stripy one, Sue’s is the green and blue one that looks like a tree.
I love the separation between artist and composition that printing provides. The final result is hidden even from the creator until the last moment. It feels magical, surprising.
Thanks to ruthless packing, the only toys that made it across the Channel were Sandy, the sand filled doll and a handful of cars. After a whinefilled day or two, the tots have proved contentedly resourceful, especially when making dolls and jigsaws from G’s castoffs. Inspired by Eve Arnold I show you the tiny hands responsible.
I have not died tragically in a charity attempt on Mt. Everest.
(It’s been pointed out that everyone and his great aunts have been clawing up those majestic slopes. Once Blessed Brian’s stomped about on your face you can kiss goodbye to any mountain mystique you had)
No, I simply lost interweb connection for a month. Now I’m virtually back.
Whilst away I’ve been rewatching “Sherlock”. I’ve only re-viewed “Study in Pink” so far, but I’ll write about it now as I remember feeling vaguely disappointed in the following ‘sodes. Casting is perfection, Benedict’s (no formality between us, I did make him a scarf) gaunt, attractive horse bones and luxurious mop marking him apart, Martin Freeman exuding honest likability, Mark Gatiss a mask of aloof menace and so on. Also, this adaptation capably answers the ancient, thistley question of what MensaMan Sherlock sees in certifiable non-genius Watson and it’s here the modern setting really shows it’s worth. Sherlock’s fascination with the violently dead is met with suspicion and his arrogance met with hostility, in such an atmosphere Watson’s straightforward admiration is a refreshment. This praise would be meaningless if it came from the lips of a buffoon (sorry Nigel) but Martin’s Watson is intelligent, brave, quiet, useful, disciplined and companionable. Of course Sherlock wants to split the rent with him.