BRISONS VEOR – TWO WEEKS ON THE EDGE OF THE LAND
My two weeks on my own in a simple cottage on a remote clifftop in Cornwall is hard to summarise in words, so this post will be heavy on imagery. That sounds like a cliche but the experience of solitude for such an extended period really did leave me in a wordless state. It’s a feeling I often get when I’m painting for hours at a stretch- the words disappear and the first conversation when I emerge is always stuttering and ineloquent. Even only a few days later my recall of each day as a separate entity is vague; without the normal routines of normal life and the structure of a typical working week the memories fold in on themselves into a delicious misty haze. But I did make erratic notes in a journal whilst I was there and I thought that that may be the best way to record my thoughts for the blog.
Monday. What IS it about this land?
For years I was in denial about the pull of Cornwall- mum and dad returned to the homeland after years of globetrotting, literally the day after (it felt) my brother and I left for university in the early 80s and were there until only a few years ago. Their cottage in a damp green valley in southeast Cornwall was never exactly home to us although we did get to know and love it over the 30 years that we visited. And of course, a wonderful place to spend time with our children when they came along. In early adulthood it seemed small and distant and not a place to explore who one was; a place apart, not what you want when you’re young and ambitious and want to be in the middle of things.
Eventually, of course, the apartness of the place becomes its appeal. A year of monthly visits to St Ives as part of the Porthmeor Programme with the School of Painting ensured that the splinter that lodged into my skin during my early visits entered my bloodstream and now the spirit of Cornwall courses irrevocably through my veins.
It’s more than just a place to make art. These two weeks have given me the chance to think about everything, and think about nothing, as eventually the thoughts settle and a meditative peace descends.
I found a wonderful book in the second-hand bookshop; The Timeless Land- the Creative Spirit in Cornwall by Denys Val Baker. (It was written in 1973 which is about the same time as I was sitting in the back of Dad’s Maxi with my bare thighs sticking to the too-hot plastic seats, on our way down to Cornwall for another holiday with the cousins…) He writes “Why does Cornwall affect people so profoundly, often indeed dramatically? What alchemy is present that so stirs the creative spirit… in a timeless land which still belongs remarkably to the past, of other worlds, the only possible answers must be intangible. If Cornwall could be explained, it would cease to be Cornwall.” Exactly.
Tuesday. Valley vs Coast.
Our home lies at the very bottom of the Wye Valley in Monmouthshire just a stone’s throw from the English/Welsh border, and I’ve often thought about how we have felt like being in-between things. We’re not English or Welsh. We are close to water, being bounded on two sides by the Severn and the Wye but both rivers at this late, wide and meandering stage are inaccessible and forbidding. The nearest coast is at least an hour’s drive away. I feel a bit hemmed in by the Valleys; the rivers funnel my energy down towards a confluence in Chepstow; it’s hard to swim upstream here.
Here in Cornwall, of course, the tides turn twice a day offering a chance to start again, clear the decks, refresh. The relentless energy of this has taken me by surprise.
The feeling of being right at the tip of the land is almost like vertigo- the space offering almost limitless possibilities. Standing on the cliff facing into the wind I feel brave and strong, and infinite. I feel a courage that I don’t often feel at home; affected by the space not only in the landscape but the chance to draw breath for two weeks away from the responsibilities of life at home.
Wednesday. Quote from Margo Maeckleberghe.
“This crystal clear light. It gives everything a new meaning, form and structure of the landscape is defined and enlarged by it. The atmosphere is so very stimulating, savage, strong primitive, beautiful… it’s all these and much more besides. Words are really inadequate. The most important part to me is this mysterious x, an artist MUST feel about a place to paint it and be true to his art. Light, atmosphere, shimmering of pale, bleached grasses, surging half seen rocks, mist, rain, storm, sun on moors and headlands and, of course, skies, skies and skies… this is what I try to paint.”
Thursday. Fitting In vs Belonging.
This feels like a respite from the feelings of in-betweenness that I’ve been thinking about recently- it was a subject I was hoping to explore until all forethought and planning went out of the window. In-between ages, (too old to be young, too young to be old) Witnessing mums decline into dementia- she’s here, but not here.
Feeling connected but alone. In a community but not. Set apart. Not misunderstood exactly, but definitely different. At home, feeling a sense of comfortable fitting in because we’ve lived there for 20 years, but not a feeling of belonging. The roots are shallow- or pot- bound maybe? In Cornwall, I feel the opposite. I feel an intuitive, inexplicable sense of belonging but of course, I don’t- you don’t ‘belong’ in Cornwall unless you’ve been born and raised here! So again, that in-betweenness.
Friday. Intent vs reality.
A week in, almost. Did I have expectations for my residency here? Of course- I’d set some intentions, collated some ideas and, I thought, had a sound set of objectives before I came. In my application to the trustees, I wrote about the work I have already done about memory loss and how I wanted to pursue these ideas in the country that my mum was born and raised in. This isn’t happening- I need a break from thinking about memory loss and the ramifications for our family and I need to let things happen organically. The idea of in-betweenness keeps nagging away and this has definitely come into some of the work, whether or not it is apparent. Containing, encompassing echoing the contours of the land, hinting at the regional geography and industrial archaeology as a reference point; rocks, coves, the energy of the sea. There is evidence of incomplete boundaries, a life contained but with a tendency to break free. It will be interesting to see where this goes.
Saturday. Silence vs connection.
“I believe it’s possible for everyone to discover this silence within themselves. It is there all the time, even when we are surrounded by constant noise. Deep down in the ocean, below the waves and ripples, you can find your internal silence. Standing in the shower, letting the water wash over your head, sitting in front of a crackling fire, swimming across a forest lake or taking a walk over a field: all these can be experiences of perfect stillness too. I love that.”
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I never had much doubt that I’d be able to cope on my own, psychologically for two weeks. The worry that I was too insular and self-sufficient is now a comfortable recognition that this is actually a basic requirement for me to function. I went to the Tate in St Ives today to pay homage to Lanyon and Nicholson and Heron and Frost et al but lunch in the bustling cafe there sent me into a head spin and I beat a hasty retreat back to my cliff top cottage despite an invitation to join friends in the pub. I would love to have seen them but I felt too that it would have broken a spell somehow. I’ve managed to connect into BT WiFi through their FON network which is erratic at best and completely non-functioning at worst, involving a circuitous and counter-intuitive sign-in system which means that connection is there if I need it, but any attempt at connection has to be done consciously and not as a habitual mindless action. I’m managing my nightly game of online scrabble with Richard and to message Sophie and Oli, and friends, when I need/ want to. Best of all worlds.
Sunday. Reading properly.
How long is it since I allowed myself time to read properly! I’m noticing my tendency to skim read that has developed after years of scrolling through news and social media online. Long paragraphs of nuanced writing that have been carefully constructed by the author deserve greater attention, and I’ve looked forward to this moment every evening when I put the brushes down and pick up a book, the weight of the paper and words a comfort on another windy night. I imagine the words that have been written here in this house; over the last 20 years, many authors have enjoyed the privilege of sitting at this desk and writing- what a wonderful thought to be here.
Sunday. Wind.
I wasn’t prepared for the wind. It drives everything and it. Just. Doesn’t. Stop. The fact that there is a Coastwatch station just yards from me is a clue. The Coast watch volunteers arrive twice a day for their shift plotting the routes of the tankers that ply the shipping lanes only a few miles offshore. (The Tory Canyon infamously hit the rocks very close to here.) I stood with them one day and watched the little bullet shapes moving across the screen from North to South, south to North, with the plucky Scillonian dodging the bullets as she carries passengers across the swell to the Scillies. The Watch station, fully voluntarily funded is well equipped with high tech equipment and charts and stuff I don’t understand, and with a seriousness of intent that only a maritime nation like ours could muster.
Back to the wind. Yesterday I didn’t leave the house at all, as 70mph gusts made it hard to stand and I couldn’t tell if the water driving against the windows was blown from the breakers or rain, or probably both. I feel a bit freaked out- I don’t think I am in any real danger as long as I stay away from the edge but given my vantage point from above the waves I didn’t feel any pressing need to go out there…
I’ve been trying to work out why the wind makes me feel so primal uneasy. It feels as if something in my pre-historic DNA is calling me to be alarmed. I’ve heard that animals (horses?) feel this way. I must investigate.
Tuesday. Sleep.
I thought I would sleep better, but I still wake early but my body has absolutely no intention of catching up with my mind until at least mid-morning. I used to be an early bird, what happened? My body feels old and tired. As soon as I’m outside though, I can feel the energy flow in. I’ve done some walking though not as much as I’d wanted because of the weather. Not enough to make my legs strong and fit but enough to feed my imagination for months to come. I thought I’d head for bed really early as it’s dark by 5 and I’m on my own but actually I’ve really enjoyed the dark evenings lit by a standard lamp, collaging in my sketchbook and listening to an audiobook and then reading quietly, with a glass or two of red wine… and then I’m too tired and comfortable to go to bed…
Wednesday. A little less conversation.
This week I have talked face to face to; 3 dog walkers; the coast watch guy; the bloke at the cafe (a discussion on which cake to try first), the lady at the Post Office and the owner of a second-hand bookshop in Penzance. None of these conversations lasted more than a few minutes. This feels thrilling, and I feel a little guilty that I haven’t made more effort. But I know in my heart that this is what I came for. I worry that I may have lost the art of conversation when I return home.
Thursday. The thrill of putting the bins out.
How quickly I slipped into a state of no responsibility- I feed myself simply and wash my bowl straight away. No housework to speak of. I haven’t worn makeup since I’ve been here and have been very lazy about washing my hair. The only chore asked of me here is to move the bin on Monday night- it felt almost a delight. It certainly felt like a mini adventure heading into the wind above the rocks in a howling gale with a large wheely bin.
Friday. The sea.
The sea terrifies and fascinates me. The vastness and power of it. Its powerful and dizzying turbulence exhausts me. I’ve worked out that the sound I can hear loudest is not the waves crashing on the rocks but the tumbling of the stones from small boulders to tiny pebbles with every wave that breaks in the cove. Back and forth, relentlessly. The thought makes me giddy.
I’ve seen this sea in as many guises as I’ve spent days here. It changes constantly in colour and shape. Sometimes you can’t tell where it begins and ends; occasionally, in the far distance, it looks still, as if it’s decided to stop this game of attrition with the shore. But I look down to see that it is still churning, swelling, breaking on the rocks. The next time I look it will be different again.
Friday. Colours; A collection of words to take home.
Azure Metal Cerulean Midnight Stone Fern Sage Crow Celadon Dusk Moss Arctic Pine Coal Foam Dove Calcite Lichen Ash Graphite Pewter Bracken Rust Glass Shadow Bark Peacock Emerald Cobalt Jade Teal Ocean Slate Denim Iron Charcoal Sand
Brisons Veor is a Residential artist’s space run by a trust providing residencies for artists working in all media. Since 1978 the 1800s built stone cottage has been home to visiting artists; until 2011, only women were offered a place. The fabric of the building is saturated with the spirit of these artists and I’ve been honoured and privileged to join them. My heartfelt thanks go to the trustees for offering me this once in a lifetime opportunity.
