So here i begin ... but where to begin, where & when does a history start ? Is this a family history, an autobiography, a vengeful hit back, a cry from my heart, a whine ? i don't know, maybe all of those things & more. As i write i guess i will find out. And who will care ? Only me i think, I'm writing for me, as therapy as much as anything i think.  

At the moment I am making work for an exhibition in June for the Lonely Arts Club, an artists community group that i became a member of last year. The exhibition is called Resonance and will be in a local semi derelict space often used for art exhibitions because it is free & also rather beautiful in the way that semi derelict buildings are. The group has had a couple of week long residencies to explore the space organised by Jacqui Jones, one last autumn & one a few weeks ago. I had been to exhibitions there before but not connected to the place as an empty building so these residency weeks have been helpful. 

The Shoe Factory was built about 100 years ago & the front is Art Deco by design & lovely. Inside it is dark & cold downstairs tho there is good light from the windows in the morning & upstairs is cold & light (it may be hot in the summer). There are patches of damp, in the middle of the room upstairs there was a large puddle where the rain had got in in the Spring & one corner is green with algae and there is also water. Some parts are blocked off because they represent a health & safety risk & through some windows you can see inaccessible parts of the building. There are holes stopped with boards held in place with bricks. And nature in the form of budleia & other weed type plants is gaining a foothold on flat roofs and window sills. In a slight breeze the boards stopping the holes bang rhythmically against the wall as part of the sound scape. Some windows are graffitied on, some are broken. Electric wiring is exposed showing the coloured cables routes & there are metal bars criss crossing the ceiling. All this is i guess is part now of the buildings & my history. The anecdotal evidence of a living witness. Once upon a time i imagine it was full of people making shoes & their bosses. Each person a contained unit of experience, their ghosts inhabiting the places they lived their lives including the factory, their bloodline still flowing, or not, depending on whether they had children or not.          

The work i am making for this exhibition began with the thought of the Green Man because of the way nature is creeping into this man made structure, pulling it back to earth. I meet the Green Man in churches, bosses & carvings & paintings, sometimes but also in woods & fields & wild places, inside & outside of me. He is part of my process. My work is always built on process, i'm not the best at any creative art, not a gifted painter, printer, ceramicist or even textile artist which is what my BA was in but i am good at following intuition led process & sometimes i make work that is good enough. 

What i have been exploring this past few weeks is work on paper & on that paper i'm drawing up thoughts, feelings, & memories but then i've cut them out to leave blanks, keeping back to treasure what i love & moving on & covering over the holes, the absences & the mistakes. Perhaps this is the nature of life lived. Here is a part that i loved, cut it out & keep it, here is a bit i wish i could erase, can it be erased or painted over, maybe, but is the mark left, or only partially covered, partially lost but still living within the body of paper or my self ? 

One of the awful things that happens when a person dies is that their death is the end of vessel that contained their life. With my mother ill i feel that sharply, i have stories about her that feel quite solid - the duel that was fought over her when she was at art school in Oxford in her late teens, a shopping list in her young girl's hand that included Cyclax lipstick, the picture of her that my granny (her mother) painted wearing green, a beauty. And more recently my god mother telling me how she looked like a model when she'd arrived at Brandiston Common in her late twenties, where we lived till my parents divorced in the 1980s, long legs & fur. I remember how there were extraordinary clothes in her wardrobe, a ball gown with red roses on white with black leaves. And when my middle sister crashed & wrote off my mother's car in her late teens, whilst, so i've been told she was high on drugs & playing slalom with the cats eyes in the road, there was a black Dior dress that got destroyed. I know it is more important that everyone escaped that crash alive but i've always been saddened by the loss of that dress. My mum was glamorous before i was born. I think by the time i was born her glamour was fading although she is still someone who dresses with a certain flair and always has been really. She & I talk now about how a person is so many ages when they are old. As someone thirty years younger than she is i can only guess at what is to come & i don't think any other ever really knows what is going on for another person, the secret palace inside their mind, the doors that open on to times & places particular & personal to them, but in my mum i see her youth, her childhood, times that were good & times that were sad. She is an embodied family history, she is, we all are. Some get their histories written, some write their own, & others get lost over time, sometimes even while they are still alive.