I went back to the fallen tree a few days ago, and developed my work a little bit further. Gathering and arranging the tiny fragments of pottery and china strewn all over the beach – I dropped, this time, into a slow repetitive rhythm of placing the pieces one by one, moment by moment.
Losing track of time…
I like working this way. I have a strong interest in Neolithic rock art, though since coming to live in North Devon, where there is almost none around, my focus has generally shifted from stones and rocks to the trees which prevail in this landscape.
I enjoy feeling that I am carrying out a similar sort of activity to our ancient ancestors, and probably for similar reasons. It feels warm, familiar and safe. I feel at home. In a weird sort of way it is a bit like how I feel when using my long gone grandmother’s rolling pin, or polishing her brass candlesticks at Christmas time.
What interested me, apart from the striking design that emerged, were the thought s and questions that drifted through my head… How and why did the first impulse to make art begin? How is it that these sorts of patterns are found in indigenous cultures around the world? What levels of memory am I operating within? I have a number of profound-sounding answers of course, that, as far as artistic expression is concerned, don’t matter one little bit. You might as well ask a bird what it thinks about ornithology!