Studio Notes no.110

Seasonal stories and photos

Hello Everyone, I hope you are keeping well. This week I am sharing with you a mix of seasonal stories and photos. I hope you enjoy these.

Thanks always for reading here and for subscribing. My next shop update will be a special sale on Wednesday 27th December at 8pm UK time - I will be offering a few pieces from my personal archives and a few newer artworks that are just a bit different from what I have been offering recently.

**

Photo: hand stitched cloth birds made recently and a painting from a few years ago

Keith

Keith’s seen a squirrel and that means he has no choice but to stand frozen in semi-attack mode. Keith, leave it be, Keith! I have never before met a dog named Keith. I honestly thought mostly everyone chose a two syllable name for their dog (there are exceptions of course, one of my sister’s is called Fig, but then gets called Figgy - and is a tiny dog so a tiny name sort of suits). Keith is a large, black, muscular dog. He is staring hard at the broad, ancient tree. Somehow Keith and the tree are a wonderful match - both robust-looking, full of contained energy. Keith! Come on Keith! His owners call but he’s not going anywhere. Keith, leave it be, Keith! Keith, a name I associate with television personalities, plumbers and musicians of a certain age - but this Keith is the most determined. 

photo: a small book I have been working in recently. I hope to make a video look-through and will post to my YouTube channel.

Wreaths

It is not the best time of year for photographing front doors. But it is festive wreath season and so I will make the best of the light offered today. This is my latest, brief  hobby: collecting images of Christmas wreaths, for the love of the season and playfulness. I am working my way round small neighbourhoods within the town.There are grand houses, terrace mews and tucked away little doors into smaller cottages. Wreaths do not match the size of door, they come in all shapes of twiggery, with or without glitz. There are simple twigs and berries, luxury fruit and wispy garden seedheads. I am intrigued by the several black velvet bows on wreaths this year, not something I have seen before and wonder if this is a small acknowledgment of the State of Things in the World. Or just a nod to noir elegance.

If anyone should ask me why I am photographing doors I shall smile and say: well isn’t it obvious! And walk swiftly on. A dog barks, a cat scowls, Another dog on a windowsill watches me with one eye closed then barks only when I turn away, as if disappointed that I am not about to knock and come inside. Suddenly a door opens and a man steps out but I turn my back before we can make eye contact. There is a certain etiquette to photographing other people’s front doors. Firstly you must never meet the resident, for that might completely alter your perception of the door itself. Best always to judge a door by its knocker, colour or the wreath it wears but the person that steps out from behind the door is a different story. Leave them out of it for another day. Secondly, be quick about it because the last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself, to appear to be making any kind of surveillance or recce. Let others think you work for a glossy magazine or are judging a neighbourhood competition;  that’s fair enough. Choose a door, snap, walk on. 

photo: in my kitchen on a sunny December day

Last Minute

There appears to be a lack of shopping in town. It is mid December but people are strolling about without the burden of heavy purchases. There are reasons - the cost of living, but also waiting for the Last Minute. Waiting for the discount sale to start but more than anything the Last Minute when you can really get that rush of dopamine. The Last Minute is not to be confused with Sheer Panic, of course, which causes less dopamine flow but might provoke clammy sensations and regret.

As if acknowledging the fickle nature of shoppers and their window shopping habits a local gallery changes its window display on a daily basis. The paintings vary but rarely appeal to me. One day it’s a wide empty beach landscape, next a portrait of a woman drowning in high heels. This gallery is not appealing to me nor does it want to. It does not appear to appeal to many people who bustle past. But I am sure it gets its customers because as we are all aware there is money out there - just not in our own pockets. There is nothing festive or cheery about this gallery, it is all big slogan canvasses and arch irony. I can’t help but wonder what will sell as a Last Minute purchase by someone wishing to make a big Christmas investment. Or will they opt for a Sheer Panic oil on canvas?

photo: more pages in my wintry book

**

Shelved

There have been changes in the library. Aware some people might be discombobulated, the library has printed a map of the new layout. Basically, a librarian tells an elderly gentleman, the fiction and the non fiction have swapped places. 

Oh really, the gentleman says, looking rather dizzy as he surveys the small forest of shelves. I see. I think. 

Just ask If you need help, the librarian says. 

I don’t really know what it all means, a woman says, when the librarian explains things. Why baffle people with fiction and not fiction? What does it all mean anyway? I just want a book I can get along with. The librarian shakes and nods her head.

**

Blackbirds

A moody December day and by two in the afternoon there is no hope of sunlight. Thank goodness for fairy lights everywhere, for they are much appreciated. I sit and read and as the day darkens so the town simmers down. It is almost-quiet and the voices of blackbirds come through the dusk. They must be on a neighbouring roof or in a nearby tree for me to hear them so clearly, sitting here in my attic living room with The Pickwick Papers on my lap. I am listening to such a complex conversation. To my human ears it is full of filigree and dextrous language. If there was such a thing as a blackbird translator app it might tell otherwise. Hearing bird chatter at this time of year is special indeed. I pause my reading to tune in. The darkness creeps into the attic but there are no ghosts up here. The only almost-ghost to hand is Peter. He was thirteen when his father gave him, for his birthday, the copy of The Pickwick Papers I now own, by chance, having found it in a secondhand shop.There is an inscription in the front of the small yellow hardback: To Peter on his 13th birthday 1944 Father. Good Books are Keys to an Open Mind.

Listen to those blackbirds Peter, I whisper, my hand resting on the pages of the book we share. Just listen to them.

photo: a drawing/collage on my wall with a few added decorations

Thank you always for reading here and for your kind comments. You might like to buy me a coffee to support my writing - much appreciated always!

Wishing you a Merry Christmas

I will be back in a few weeks! Take care, best wishes Cathy