I’ve reached the top selvedge and getting the bobbin through the ever tightening warps has been like dragging a reluctant elephant through a fence. The split rings were also jamming so I had to constantly re-thread them. It didn’t help that I was standing and reaching to the fell; it has been pretty unpleasant weaving experience for a while now.
The gardens here are spectacular and I took a walk one day and started lusting after some tower scaffolding in a van outside the hall; I assumed it belonged to the man fixing the boiler, but it was being used by the groundsman to cut hedges. The hall’s conservator made some calls and it turned out it would be ok for me to borrow it as long as the wood was wrapped in plastic to protect the house from any nasties in the wood. I am now at a comfortable height for weaving and although the plastic makes it look like I am incontinent, I am a very happy weaver. I don’t think it is going to be too long before it is finished.
I’ve mentioned in other posts about my next project; I’ve started talking about it in more detail to those who have asked, response has been positive and it is slowly becoming more real. But I am conscious that though the next project has come relatively easily and I am finding my voice as a weaver, I still have a lot to learn about exploring my ideas visually and translating them into tapestry.
I have dabbled at sketching but painting is something I have not done since I was a kid playing around in art class in middle school. I think this is why I jumped on photographic images like that of my great-grandmother; as I can’t paint or draw, I’d have to focus on pre-existing images. But I’ve begun to realise that for me tapestries should be based on original images designed specifically for them – the days of weavers simply reproducing someone else’s design are long past. But of course I can’t paint, I am not an artist, I’ve had no training. I knew this would be something I would just have to get over so when my friend Karen was getting rid of an easel I jumped on the chance of giving it a new home. I thought if I had an uncluttered space to work on then I would be more likely to go upstairs into the workroom and just play. I got the easel set up and headed to Homebase for a bit of MDF to make a drawing board.
So there I stood, in front of the easel, a piece of the wallpaper lining I usually use to sketch on, clipped to the board. But what to paint? I remember as a child my mum telling me that there was someone in my grandmother’s family she was never allowed to ask about. It didn’t take much digging into the census to come across my great-great grandmother Delia, a schizophrenic who was put into a lunatic asylum in the 1920s and died there a few years later. She had six previous admissions and according to her records her mother and sister were also insane. I also discovered that her daughter, Delia Jo (above, in white), was transferred to the same asylum from a workhouse after becoming “un-co-operative”. She was admitted in 1925 and died there in the 1960s. Their story inspired me to become involved in helping to make sure such needless loss of freedom within the mental health system no longer continues, but I have always felt there is something more about them I wanted to explore. Included in their records is a photograph taken at admission and I had Delia snr’s on my worktop and I pinned it to my drawing board. I knew I didn’t want to reproduce the photograph, it was just part of the process, I wanted to get at something of the turmoil of her mental illness.
When tapestry-artist Janet Clarke visited last week and we chatted and discussed my fear of my inexperience, shee suggested I ditched the paintbrush and tried mark mak using something else to free myself up. I poured out some paint and reached for a sponge to hand and just went for it and this is the result. I don’t doubt that I am painting like a school girl and I am going to make clichéd mistakes, but as a first attempt at painting I am pretty chuffed. It will always be a means to an end for me, but I fully intend to keep going with it and am no longer as afraid. I am also encouraged to keep exploring more the life and experiences of Delia and Delia Jo and find out as much about them as I can. They were not to be spoken of, were meant to be forgotten and Delia Jo would have been were it not for a comment in a letter. I like the idea of going agaist their imposed invisibility, of making them permenant and visible and unmissible.
Anyway, more ducks. The twelve teeny weeney babies are now four – there is an evil heron hanging around that has been picking them off. These are my ducks and I will I will have my revenge.