I sometimes use writing as a method to help me deepen my understanding of my process, and as materials are a key part of my practice I wrote this piece of prose to develop that relationship.
Talk of Material - 2020
Material voices rarely listened too, as deafness prevails,
too busy, as the background chatter of nonsense washes over in a never-ending wave of an indiscernible drone.
But once you talk to me in silent oscillation,
signalling to be used, reborn, until the visceral voice is of Harpocrates deafens and you cannot be resisted.
Fetched from near and far.
We are both ready.
Dormant until moved, then the journey for a new meaning begins,
Visualized by ideas, shaped, pulled, poked, sawn, mixed, heated, fired, cooled and finally shaped by hands.
Re-formed and partnered with previously unimagined suitors for a new use, tailored best for the World and released for show.
Yet, you do sometimes call-out at the end,
the tree that’s felled with a deep Earth snap, a final cry of power,
a fearful primaeval cry resonates to the core.
The new journey to lift and support the gossamer porcelain that gently rests on a gracious reimagined grain,
a cherished polished Plateau.
Sand, Silica, Ocean washed,
gathered to fire embers with air compressed, blasted to base,
granules become a transparent fluid,
hot flow, cool blown by the breath of an artisan to solidify, to gaze upon and wonder,
water is repelled in a spectrum of cooled translucent colour.
High pitched hiss of high-temperature steel,
a white-hot glow from jet black coal from deep inside the earth, tempered and bent to will,
From iron core to metal, many times returned,
316L grade, watchmaker’s cases,904L the surgeon's steel of choice,
to serve, valued, respected,
there is no wonder of the affair.
Softness warmth of wool,
with clicking hand needle touch rhythms of production knit,
social interaction with beans and leaves on the go,
yarn forward and back, chatter talk of a purl stitch fused with the vision of a warm, comfort garment, end result.
The cool breath of linen whispers crafted from small mills in North Hibernia, shaken, flicked over the world's tables,
then folded away with pride
Waiting for the special days.
Yet all the time the hand guides and points the way to their destination. One-way, infinite outcomes.
Digitize is the cry, yet they yearn to handle materials cannot be quashed.
So, the push back begins as the veil is lifted,
Not just an inanimate useless object to be discarded without thought.
Found material treasures are now a rare find. For the lucky hunter with gifted hands, the process begins.
The materials used by the artist, define the artist, and each shapes the other in a never-ending circular motion.
This was my written response to the COVID lockdown.
Rainbows on a crumpled A4 paper stuck to an interior window looking out .
Must stay in.
Weeks now colour's fading as the sound of Thursday handclaps diminishes.
What next? Do we now start to ask, more of the same?
Time distorted never-ending Sundays.
Let's get back to normal is the call.
Normal I say? Was it normal before all this?
Kerosene dropped on top of us; planes used like buses.
Now even the buses we cannot use without fear that it carries more than passengers?
Have they got it? can I, will I get it?
You are now a screen away trapped in a little box. This is what you see of me in May, and I of you until June?
Push-ups on the stairs lifting weights stretches. Biceps looking better than prospects.
No rush to the gates now what's the hurry? Where's the deadline?
What's the point, nice and slow now as we go to a numb future all change everything is changed. Talk of Brexit is no more we wish it was our only concern.
This is different, dodging bullets depressing stats as numbers rise, loss of jobs from the skies,
no one wins in this as all affected.
New time management is a battle that we all fight
Some will win,
but most will lose something chipped damaged difficult to repair.
Cracks are beginning to show with tears over the phone, what am I going to do? Seeking answers from us, knowing it's an opinion as relevant as anyone's, but given and taken with love,
to lighten the load.
Mothers play with children in uncluttered silent streets, filling the bank with memories.
Teenagers have lost this time, no friend meetups, no boys, no girls, no parties, no gigs no festivals.
Run they are told, exercise! it will pass, as 17 does,
never to return.
just the memories of Mum and Dad for the lucky ones.