On feathers - words and images in response to a pre-covid photograph

 

Dawn Flight, Camber Sands 2019

I belong to the 'photo and text' group of London Independent Photography.
A group for photographers who also enjoy words, and who value the added meaning that text can bring.

At our last meeting we agreed to respond with words and/or images to a photograph that I made on a balmy summer's morning in the pre-covid days.

Gulls at dawn, on a gentle high tide. A double exposure with a feather filling the sky.

I decided to respond with words and new photos in the form of a poem. The following words and images are my thoughts and reflections.

​

Dawn flight

A photograph;
gulls drifting and rising
calling and falling over
waves stilled in the windless air.
A peachy morning glow
​

Feather | Caroline Fraser 2021

A feather....

its quill still,
(no writing today)
emerges skywards 
from its silica bed.
Battered and torn,
no longer worn.
A feather re-fresh.
Self maintenance, gull style.
The pre-breeding molt.
​
A delicate descent
of plumage
from sky to sand.


​

Does it hurt when they fall?
​Why do we never see the descent?


How many feathers are needed for a bird to fly?

‘The work of feather counting is tedious and exacting, and yields small result relative to the labour involved’

In 1932 Phoebe Knappen counted 11,903 feathers on an adult female mallard.

feather detail | Caroline Fraser 2021

Rachis and vane.
Calamus and barbule.
(I am learning the words all over again).
Ripped and contorted by the roll and clatter
of pebbles on a spring tide,
lying in repose amongst fragments 
tossed landwards from the deep.
The exquisite curls of downy barbs
lie abutted as if trees on a windswept hill.

beach debris | Caroline Fraser | 2021

I counted five feathers as I strolled
with the photograph in mind
The average gull has 5000.
Where are the rest?

​

gull feather | Caroline Fraser | 2021

---

Thank you for reading...... it has been a while.... I think covid recovery took longer than I realised. 

I could add some comments about home life and how my other half has turned very unexpectedly into a model railway enthusiast, but you probably don't want to know the finer details of track laying and the correct angles for smooth running of railway curves.....

I insisted that he purchase a name sign for his station. I wait with bated breath; the choices are endless. It's a big decision. Suggestions welcome.

​Watch this space.....

​

Lockdown 2 - Make, write, walk, repeat......

 

 

Forgive me if I sound a little flat. For flat is how it feels.

It is lockdown number 2, and I have run out of jobs that need doing that I clearly don't intend to do.

I realise now that the main goal for these few weeks is to get through them in a reasonable state of mental health.

 And to that aim I have three priorities

1. Make stuff
2. write stuff
3. walk

 

 Make stuff

 

I joined an on line art class; 'Where Drawing Meets Words' with The Royal Drawing School

 I wasn't sure what to expect, but the title felt manageable. 

 

Words and pictures, stories and illustration. 

 

I have long hoped to illustrate a childrens' story that I have written about a mountain, and this class seemed like a good step in the right direction.

The book 'Uncommon Genius' was recommended by our tutor as a guide to creativity; I ordered a second hand copy in 'GOOD' condition.

This is it. You can be the judge with regards the condition.

 

 

It tells me that creative people, amongst other things

• know where their talent lies and play to it
  
• make it shine
• stay loose
  
• are not afraid to fail
• need to know how to facilitate getting into their 'flow' state, where ideas are formed
  
• often travel
  
• have lots of projects on the go

All of these things less easy to achieve when locked down. 

 

 

We worked on the story of Little Red Riding Hood, making a storyboard as if for a book.

I had forgotten what a gruesome tale it is.

 

dead wolf in cardboard

 

 'Make a cardboard mock-up of one of the scenes, and then draw or paint from that' was the point at 

which I realised that I was not working within my 'talent zone'. 

I made a dead wolf, with stones in his belly. 

He is consigned to the bin.

I never did draw him. 

I did, however see how others in the class were able to make very realistic drawings and to visualise the lighting and shadows for their drawings. 

I am just not there yet....

I decided to make scenes from my mountain story instead. I was being kind to myself, and avoiding total failure..... putting sanity above risk....

I was happier playing with ink.  I made some very nice stones.....

Ink 'stone'

 

 

 My ink rain was a disaster. I blew ink across the paper with a hairdryer. It was a mess.

So I chopped it up, at which point it became something completely new.

 

My blown ink became snow scenes. 

I agree with the 'Uncommon Genius' book that every mistake has potential.

I am also reminded that working in an abstract way is my 'thing'.

 

So for now my story remains without pictures, but I have a direction of travel.

 

Write stuff

 

The writing element of the class was liberating.

Writing about a picture. 

Cutting out phrases from the writing. 

Turning these phrases into poems.

 

I chose to write about this painting by Victor Pasmore. We were asked to describe the scene and also repsond to questions posed by the tutor. Taking those written words and cutting them into phrases I formed a poem.

A Winter morning ( after Victor Pasmore “A winter morning” 1944)

Dawn. 

A paved garden.

Sun low on the horizon

warming the early morning sky

Tangled trees overhang a purple shadowed, dull green lawn.

Fallen leaves spill sideways onto the cold stone path.

Wind whistles in the whip-like branches

A hum of engines from the river beyond.

Indistinct grey-white objects hanging at the distant lawn’s edge appear misplaced. 

Sheets masquerading as headstones in the morning mist.

An upturned terracotta pot lying untidily in the corner wonders  

“why am I abandoned; 

almost invisible in this dark shadowed place?”

Birds on the clothes line and leafless woody stems perch patiently.

Waiting for worm time.

A balustrade enters, stage left

wondering who will pass this way today.

Later, when the warm sky has faded to steely grey

a man in a long tweed coat descends softly into the garden in brown laced boots,

causing the birds to fly away.

He passes silently through

the quiet

the ordinariness

the muted simplicity

of just another winters’ day.

   

****************

A lesson in observation, and ways to find words.

 

 

Walk

 

Which brings me to walking; one of the best ways that I know to find my state of flow, where ideas formulate and I can begin to create.

 

 

I walked in the winter morning light. 

 

seedheads

Stems on a winter morning

 

 I walked the streets picking up litter.

 

 

I walked on the beach picking up litter.

 

 

beach litter

stranded beach plant

 

I have walked more miles in the last month than in any other month this year.

 

The highlight of my walks was a murmuration of starlings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And where is my other half I hear you ask?

 

Well he is in trouble..... for leaving me alone in our bubble.....

 

 

Alone in a bubble

I am alone in a bubble

Other half’s in trouble

he’s left me on the shelf

all by myself

locked down

in Bromley town

while he’s on a plane

for ‘work’ (again)

it’s been so long

he’ll no doubt explain

Dubai, no less.

I must confess

I lack the will

to lie very still

on a posh sun lounger

in stifling heat

looking over my shoulder

for covid 

or corona

virus;

is it worse

here or there?

Do I even care?

Either way

I’m much better off

at home

alone

in this half empty bubble

Waiting for a needle

to release us

from this overrated story;

this year of purgatory.

Roll on 2021.

 

 

 

 

But I have got so much done while he has been away for just a few days.... 

 

I have nothing to do but make stuff, write stuff and walk......

 

 The art classes are over, but I am filled with new ideas. Christmas is coming and the gold paint is out.

 

 

 

 

 

I leave you with a poem/drawings based on a work 'Tremolo' by Agnes Martin, 

 

Agnes also liked a bit of gold paint, along with her pencils.

 

 

Agnes Martin| Tremolo| 1962

 

 

Tremolo booklet  (after Tremolo by Agnes Martin)

 

 

Tremolo   

(after ‘Tremolo’ by Agnes Martin 1962)

idea

ruler

pencil

mathematical calculation

 and a blank white sheet.

evenly spaced graphite journeys

with irregular endings

minor imperfections

unintended gradations

pencil lifting

border shifting

stop thinking.

a vision

of living

above the line

in happiness and love

___________________

________________________

I wonder how often she sharpened her pencil?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder how often she sharpened her pencil?

 

Not long until we are unlocked.

Until then I'll keep walking.....

 

 

 

you do not have to be good

you do not have to be good

Strange times......

Mixed emotions and a life on hold for a few weeks as my mother dies and we wait for her funeral.

Creativity stifled except for brief moments when words flow.

The ability to express my emotions through written words is something I am grateful for.

So much easier than speaking out loud.

'You do not have to be good' wrote the poet Mary Oliver wrote in her poem "Wild Geese".

I find these words resonate right now.

When you mother is gone, there is no one to be good for any more.

The world is calling, and I have to decide how to be in it.



I wrote a few words last week, which I call a recipe for survival.

Recipe for Survival

Gather fallen leaves and petals.
moisten with gently lapping water.
Add some mid-summer dreams,
strands of curling fescues
and a melody of birdsong.


Mix all in the evening’s half-light,
then rest for forty days
in the distillatory of your mind.
Decant gently into a slender-stemmed goblet
and consume one small sip after another
until the day is done.




I was going to say so much more, but for now that feels like enough.
 

gather fallen leaves and petals.....

learning the hard way - so here I am ( back from down under)

I made a mistake.

I went to New Zealand to work for one last time, but it all felt wrong.

Things change. 

I have changed.

Where previously I relished the solitude and freedom, this time I was overcome by the darkness of my accomodation and the isolated place that I found myself in.

I upped sticks in the middle of a sleepless night and got on a plane back home.

I let people down, and for that I am sorry.

But sometimes we know what we need to do, and this was one of those times.

My actions bring to mind the poem of the recently deceased poet Mary Oliver, entitled 'The Journey'

It feels fitting to my recent circumstances, even though possibly intended to describe more radical changes of direction in life.



The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognised as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

 *****

And as James Joyce said in Ulysses

'think you're escaping and run into yourself.  Longest way round is the shortest way home'

 *****

 

It is good to be home.

restoring my sanity with some free writing and a bit of window cleaning

dusk, camber sands © Caroline Fraser

This week I signed up to a writing workshop in the hope to restore my ability to put pen to paper ( or fingers to keyboard).

Writing a blog has been difficult; chiefly because I am struggling with who I am meant to be right now.

As a doctor I find myself disatisfied with the pace of work; unable to do my best for people who deserve more than 10 minutes of my time. I would rather not do a job if I can't do it properly, so am doing less and less work.

And then feeling guilty.

For if I have skills as a doctor then surely I should use them. There is such a shortage at present.

In my recent spell in New Zealand as a locum the pressure of time as a GP less, and I felt able to practice in the way that I used to; time to sort problems properly and go home at night knowing that I had done my best.

Now I am disillusioned and feeling uncertain what to do.

Should I be a doctor or an artist? Can one exist without the other?

I don't earn any money as an artist. But the need to create is very strong.

Being an artist can be a purely selfish occupation.

I couldn't resolve these issues in my mind. I felt tense.

So frustrated that I had resorted to window cleaning as a means to expend some energy. I have a new gadget for cleaning windows.

Here is the water from the washing of my indoor panes.

As you can see; the windows really needed cleaning.

But I didn't really feel much better after that.

I tried zumba and pilates; still my head was pounding.

I hacked bushes in the garden. Still no improvement.

So for reasons of sanity preservation I signed up to a creative writing workshop with Hilary Wilce at Smallhythe studio.

I hoped it might free me up a bit.

I was feeling irritable for reasons that were difficult to understand.

Eight of us sat around a table on a cold and wet, early May day.

Pens poised. Notebooks at the ready. A clean, fresh page.

I felt tense. Angry, amongst other things about all the litter I see on the beach and in the streets.

beach litter

What was the subject we were presented with?

We were asked to do some free writing about SPRING. Nothing could have been further from my ideal subject matter given my mood.

We were given a few words and then asked to write whatever came into our heads without stopping for several minutes.

The rant began...... I put pen to notebook. No bluebells and green buds from me....

I wrote;

'I didn't want to write some happy little ditty about lambs frolicking in the fields

The sheep are wet and muddy. 

Wool matted and grey.

One dead. Stiff legs outstretched in the turnip field. ......"


As I wrote I started exploring my thoughts about work, vocation and the fear of being perceived as selfish for giving up on a job that I have loved for so many years.

I began to understand where all my anger was coming from.

We did some more exercises about clearing out the rubbish in our lives and planning a to-do list.

Top of my list was to do some free writing once a week.

I talked, we shared our thoughts and feelings and wrote a poem together.

I felt calmer.

I drove home. The rain stopped.

And the sun came out.

At dusk I took my phone to the beach and captured the last light of the day.

dusk, camber sands

dusk in the other direction, camber sands

I am working through my to-do list;

 And for now I am undecided about what next, but I now realise that the problem is probably one that everyone nearing retirement from a profession probably feels.

And that it is normal not to be certain about my future.

And rather than feeling angry, I took a dustbin bag with me for my next walk on the beach, and picked up all the plastic that I could find.

litter, camber sands