Walking Towards The Light

Walking and drawing on Wortham Ling

There has been a change in the landscape of the Ling since the turn of the year. Days and days of rain brought floods and then a deep, penetrating frost, shattered the water into shards of glass.

January is normally a month I find difficult. I think that partly this is because I love December so much, and so it is always rather an anti climax, but it also has the weight of a fresh start and expectation.

This year I was determined to lift this and take a fresh approach. The last few months have been testing, not least because drawing and printmaking has been especially difficult. Explicably, during August last year, the inflammatory arthritis I suffer from suddenly became much worse, affecting my hands the most.

This came at a very frustrating time – I had just invested in a new printing press, as my old converted mangle press had finally become too temperamental and erratic to use. I was filled with excitement at the prospect of starting new linoprints, that didn’t take reams of paper on a slippy press to produce, when the inflammation struck. I made several attempts to begin, but my fingers were as agile as sausages and my dexterity and decreased strength made it hugely frustrating. Normally it would pass in a few weeks, but this time it maintained its grip. Avoiding mention of it, I now realise, doesn’t help and avoidance was just making me feel even less able. I hope by being honest about it here about these difficulties, and the frustration that arthritis brings, may also help others who have similar limitations.

As the months moved forward I decided to rethink my art process. I would put aside thoughts of what I was not able to do and focus instead on developing and enjoying what I could. I had been making drawings out on Wortham Ling for some while, and loved both the experience of drawing a landscape I loved and feeling part of that landscape as I sat and absorbed it.

These drawings were mostly completed in sketchbooks, though I longed to develop them further into paintings, I felt unable to translate them into completed works. So instead of following my usual methods, I chose a battery of techniques, all of which I was initially resistant too, but that was part of the much needed shake-up.

I think a common mindset whilst drawing is to focus on the completed work or outcome, and not on the journey to get to that point. All drawing is valuable , whether it is a brief charcoal sketch of a few lines or a more fully developed drawing. It is the looking and reiteration of using your eyes to explore what you see that matters.

Whilst the cold weather grips, drawing outside for sustained periods with two pairs of gloves proved too difficult and I knew would inevitably lead to disappointment. Usually I would resort to drawing from my car, but here you are physically constrained and slightly cut off from your subject. And there is the juggling of materials over the gearstick and steering wheel, which has led to unfortunate incidents, leaving the tell tale sign of a green passenger seat…

So instead I have spent every afternoon walking on the Ling with a tiny A5 sketchbook and a couple of pencils, one soft for mass and another for sharper lines, and as I walked would make rapid drawings, of no longer than five minutes, of those sights that sparked me about this wild heathland.

So that I wasn’t encumbered by paints and other other kit, I made written notes about colour, being as particular in my description as I could, writing too about the weather, how it felt, the sounds, birds glimpsed, encounters with dog walkers…

I sometimes took my camera and phone, not to take images to replace drawings, but as part of an aide memoire – all part of my collection of ingredients to build up a picture. It is so easy with a phone in your pocket to take pictures instead of making a drawing, but photos are invariably disappointing when you get home – the plane is flattered, as is the colour, and it stops you really looking. Every mark made in a drawing counts far more than a quick snap. Drawing makes you think about what features to emphasise, how to weigh up differences in tone or follow the line of what is in front of you and all of this embeds it in your memory.

A memory sketch of the fading light as I finished a walk

On returning home, I tried something else I hadn’t done before, I made very quick memory drawings of what I had seen, using some colour and trying to evoke what it was that caught my attention. These have to be tackled quickly, as the memory fades surprisingly fast, but it does make you focus and simplify what you saw and distil it into what matters. And whilst doing this, I am trying to keep in mind that it is not the quality of these that matters, but rather the process of transfering these images from my short term to long term memory.

I have also been making colour swatches, thinking about the colour palette of the Ling in winter, in varying weather conditions, at different times of day. I add descriptions to these and noting the colours used to make them – something I have realised it is easy to forget.

Bringing home those things I have collected and put in my pocket helps too. They reconnect you to the landscape, and together with the swatches, help to recall colour. On my desk are oak galls, tree bark, chards of flint, lichen encrusted twigs and a tiny piece of oak moss.

In winter you need to look for colour. The Ling has the honey scented, radiant gorse and, if you look closer, among it you may find the strange Witch’s Butter ( tremella mesenterica) which clings to its branches. It begins the colour of soft eggy yellow and changes to bitter orange and then to fiery vermillion.

Ancient paths on the Ling

The act of walking is important too. The Ling covers 131 acres and I walk almost the same route each day. Even in a few weeks I have noticed the tiny changes in nature, even in the grasp of winter. Returning daily, in addition to the physical benefits, has drawn me further into the landscape, has made me more alert and able to mark things that I would have missed on a single walk.

My intention is to build a body of these sketches and notes and develop them into completed works back at home, in the warmth and comfort of the studio. It feels exciting, though a little nerve wracking. I have always struggled to retain and regain the experience and excitement of working en plein air, but I am hopeful that this new approach will yield something that captures a sense of the place that I love. And with each walk, the days get longer, as we slowly move towards the light.

Something to read

Thaw by Edward Thomas

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed
And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass,
What we below could not see, Winter pass.

I was reminded of this poem by a dear friend this week. As we are in the grip of an iron frost as I write this, it is good to remember that nature is more attuned to the turn of year than perhaps we are. The rooks are building in their rookery, and are growing more vocal as days pass, reminding us that the light draws nearer.

The Farmer’s Wife by Helen Rebanks

I read this towards the end of last year and can’t recommend this book highly enough. It is certainly my non-fiction book of the year. I first read about it from a Tweet made by her husband James Rebanks, prior to its publication, saying how immensely proud he was of his wife’s achievement in writing this book and how this was now “her time”.

It is not a cosy tale, but instead an honest, unvarnished account of an ordinary woman, growing up and rebelling, struggling to make a living and create a home - a story so rarely told. The book is structured over the course of a day and is interwoven with recipes, some traditional ones, others are nutritious, do-able meals family that are a part of her family life. It is also a passionate plea for sustainable food and how all food “begins in the soil”.

She say, “There are many ways to live, many ways to be a woman. I know lots of women don’t want what I want. Some would say mine is a small life. But this is how I want to live my life”. While my life is very different, so much of what she has written resonated deeply, and am certain that it will with many of you too. It is a remarkable book and an important story to be told.

You can also hear her on The Shift with Sam Baker in the episode, “Helen Rebanks is flying the flag for invisible women” and Farmers Guardian podcast here.

Thank you for your company again, and for supporting what I do, it means a great deal. If you liked what you have read, please consider subscribing. I look forward to seeing you again in a couple of weeks.