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

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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.....

 

 

 

learning to write, the Arvon way

'passing poplars' a book made at Arvon

I am a few days back from a writing week in Devon.

Arvon, Totleigh Barton.

Bookmaking and poetry; Rachel Hazell, and Nancy Campbell as tutors with a guest visit by Richard Long, one of my favourite land artists.

A course made for me. All my favourite things, and a chance to get some ideas on how to write more creatively.

I had to beg them to take me. They squeezed me in at the last minute, and so began one of the most creative weeks of my life.

The house is an old manor house, with heavy beams and a garden full of apples and quiet spots for reading or writing.

No wifi, no TV and almost no telephone reception, unless you ran up the hill into the cow field.

Scroll free September became remarkably easy.

views from the cow field

Cows everywhere.

Some sheep too.

A 40 minute walk to Sheepwash, the nearest village.

Luscious dew laden grass all around.

And juicy blackberries in all the hedgerows.

The only thing I could complain about was the mattress on my bed.

We were told to write three words down as soon as we woke up in the morning. Before doing anything else.

This is a shortened version of 'morning pages' that is a regular habit for some writers.

My three words increasingly became about my bed.

uncomfortable
cold              (because I was too lazy to get up in the night and close the open window)
coiled spring
stiff

 but also

authentic
unsettling
fulfilled


We had so many new ideas to deal with. Brain buzzing day and night.  
Book structures , hand-writing with real ink and nibs, creating poems by erasing text on a page of an existing book, learning about local 'lost'words, and choosing a word of our own to 'abandon'.

We tied lost words to the rowan tree outside the kitchen, and watched the words fluttering in the autumn sunshine.

We cooked together, ate wonderfully, and listened to each others' words.

I wrote a concrete poem about toast, using the words of instruction from our first evening on how to deal with safety issues.

We were advised to minotor our toast activity........a phrase that stuck in my head for several days.

toast © caroline fraser 2018

There was plenty of angst about writing and making things in short time frames.

I would normally go for months between the arrival of one poem and the next. I wrote several poems over the five days, most of which were about the process of trying to write under pressure.


Later in the week I found myself writing in pen and ink on Somerset velevet paper.

A new way of expressing myself.
One that  felt absolutely right.

And for a piece on "Lines in the Landscape' I created a concertina book of poplar leaves, sewn in with thread.

It won't last, but again, I felt happy.

Something to share that I felt represented my aesthetic and love of nature.

A far cry from my Camberwell book art days. I think I have finally got them out of my system.

Finally we created an edition of 18 cards ; one for each participant on the course.


In homage to Richard Long  and his 'Line made by Walking'   I made this............

No camera. No computer.

Just a piece of paper and an ink stamp.

Lines made by Livestock © Caroline Fraser 2018

 It doens't do to take life too seriously.

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For more on the tutors follow these links

 Rachel Hazell

Nancy Campbell

Arvon writing courses

Silver - a winter experience - at Smallhythe Studio

It has been a real privilege to take part in this exhibition, and there are still five days left to see it.

Images by Jane Beecham inspired by snow and ice.

Art works enhanced by words on a winter theme

The curation by Rowena McWilliams skillfully uses subtle colour change around the room.

Monochrome moves gradually to colour.

Kate Schuricht's wall vases complement wood framed images.

I recommend a visit. The nice thing about this gallery is that so much else goes on in the space.

The highlight of last week was a poetry tea.

Clare Winchester read her poem from her limited edition book 'Dusk to Dark' . The book contains wonderful intaglio prints on the theme of a moonlit walk, all created from memory as soon as she returned to her studio after a late evening walk.

I recommend a look.

You can see what else they get up to at Smallhythe  here

And you can see my nature inspired poems 'Hawkwood' and 'The secret Garden'  here.

on photography as poetry ; inspired by Zarina Bhimji

exhibition catalogue

My other half  and I finally made it to the Whitechapel Gallery this weekend to see Zarina Bhimji's work, including the new video installation "Yellow Patch" (2011) inspired by trade and migration across the Indian Ocean.

This 30 minute installation is exquisitely made; slow, contemplative and with a haunting soundtrack of the sounds of people and their activities that are long gone from the deserted buildings and offices that the film portrays. A shipyard with unfinished boats, a defaced statue of Queen Victoria , deserted colonial  offices in Mumbai, crumbling Haveli palace interiors. The subject matter is a photographer's paradise, but seeing the images as a film transports the viewer into the landscape; watching the wind blow cobwebs and papers slowly back and forth adds a poignancy that the photographs displayed on the gallery walls that accompany the installation cannot convey. The passage of time is slow and allows for a sumptuous feast for the eye.

Her use of very slow panning in, or out, of a subject forces the viewer to really see, to think and to enjoy the colours and sounds that the conveys. It feels as though one is watching a series of individual images, with time to savour them due to the slow pace.

My only criticism is the lack of information about the installation; it is not clear how the places that she includes connect with each other, or why she has chosen particular venues such as  a stark landscape of dried soil and apparently dead shrubs. One would have to buy the catalogue to get a real understanding of her thinking.

Upstairs other works by Zarina are both beautiful and disturbing; malarial mosquitos sit alongside architectural fragments and lightbox presentations that give new depth to simple studies of faded plaster walls or a pomegranate tree in a garden. They are beautiful to look at, but lack explanations that give real meaning to the viewer. The juxtaposition of still photographs and the video installation give cause for contemplation on the merits of the single, static image over video; in this case, video wins hands down.

There is a Flickr group currently offering a competition for photographs inspired by her work.

offering © caroline fraser 2012

It seems to me that her work is about fragments or representations of a life that has now moved on. It is about seeing something in what remains; a contemplation of what has been rather than what is.

It fits well with my series on litter, but in a more poetic and beautiful way of seeing.

fragments © caroline fraser 2012

 Other half, dog and I went for a walk this weekend. Zarina's work was on my mind, and consequently I took the picture seen above.

 Where previously I have photographed lambs in this barn; today I photographed the evidence of their passing. 

 I had hoped that I wouldn't see too many cigarette packets out in the weald of Kent, but there were plenty beside the road and deep in the woods. 

..........there appears to be a better class of smoker in the countryside; here's a detail from a cigar tin found in the verge. Beware of  smoking.......... who knows what effect it might have on your offspring...............  female cigar smokers have no need for concern.

"smoking can damage your sperm" says the warning on the tin..........

enough said.