September sleep in the bed, and October - the bed in wood sorrel.

A sunny day, and the wood is green-carpeted with wood sorrel and speckled with bird song.  The wind is soft, and the tree trunks are also remarkably green.

Lying on the bed, it is difficult to remember the frost and snow of last spring.  The crows and ravens must be the same - their voices are above and beyond.  The flocks of long-tailed tits - if that's what they are - are playing amongst the trees. Sunshine plays with shapes that shake and flicker in the corner of my eyes.

I slept two nights on my own.  I was nervous - of what? - but had To Do It.  It was surprisingly peaceful - so very peaceful, to have the wood to myself and a few owls.  Hardly any wind, its breathe just reaching my face within my huddle of sleeping bag.  I slept lightly the first night, waking often, each time at peace with the hush and calm of a night where each creature is asleep, or hushed and calm so as not to disturb another if it is awake and busy.
The second night I slept more deeply.  I awoke once to a bright sky and a huge bright star shining on my face, until I realised that it was the waning moon creeping from around the trunk of a tree.  The sky was so clear compared to the darkness beneath the trees.  Their silhouettes were like giant bottle brushes, waving slightly, in the upturned sink of the sky.  I awoke again with the birds.

The bed in a reconstruction round house at the Avalon Marsh Centre, Westhay, Somerset.  July 2013.

The organisers asked if they could have the bed for a couple of weeks during a festival they were holding.  It would have looked great and looked the part, if it had had sheep skins piled on it!  Unfortunately I wasn't there - I was in the Italian part of Switzerland, not so very far from the mountains where a jade axe (made and used in the Iron Age) came from that was then found by the Sweet Track which runs past this Centre.

April, and the wind travels cold and free through the woods.  There is a space where the bed was placed, now empty.  A space where we lay, looking up at the trees as they swayed and gently crashed into each other.  Now any place could be this place - there is no longer a place of reference for looking up and dreaming, for closing the eyes and hearing just this sound, in just this way.

The wind plays freely between the trunks of the Sitka, their rough bark rasping the air.  It is so cold for this time of year.  The sleepers have gone, the bed has been dismantled, there is no more dreaming in this wood for a little while.

January in the woods

I couldn't resist walking up to woods in the snow.  The trees were frozen, and barely moved in the breeze, clicking silently, holding their white heads like crowns.

The snow on the bed lay like a quilt.

first humans

I love the darkness in the woods.  You get to understand how to tread, and how the ground is formed of  soft spongy needles or piles of brushwood that's trying to trip you up.  The palest shade of grey is the path you were looking for, the sky above, even without a moon, is brilliant and full of colour compared to the shades within shadows of the wood at night.  I feel no fear.  Only the sense of myself wrapped in darkness, hidden from myself, and hidden from others.  Of course all the creatures around hear and smell and see me - no hiding from them as I crash around!  Oh well.

Places to Dream In

The bed installed in the wood just before Somerset Art Week 2012... a place in which to dream, when the wind rocks the trees above, and the odd bird twitters or croaks above.  Nervous of the rain, or a stronger brush of the breeze,  I will be snug beneath a duvet.  I will hear singing, the strings plucked from a harp or sounded from a fiddle, feel the heat of a fire, and maybe I will pick up my flute and sound a tune in tune with the birds that come my way.......

I went to the wood this evening.
It was very still, with pigeons sounding in the distance, and long-tailed tits pipping somewhere up in the tree tops.  The suns was slanting in at a sharp angle, but did not penetrate where I stood.  Although the air felt still, as I looked up the trees were swaying as in a high swell at sea, and I wondered at the swaying of the slim trunks, anchored among the pine needles, and dancing like wild things far above my head.
I felt nervous.
Soon my bed will be nestled at their feet, and I will be an alien sleeping amongst the trees, in the darkness.  I have not yet asked permission from them - from the trees, the spirits that dwell here.

Should I do this?  Is this being a little....silly?  Or should I take this precaution, and show respect to the environment that I will be sharing the night with?
But how to do this?
And who is it that I am expecting to be in communication with?

Sleeping woman, carved in elm.

A woman sleeping: the shadows cast by the trees brush across her body in rippling waves.  They create pools of darkness that hide her features, then the sunshine flashes out again, bleaching her form.  She sleeps so peacefully, unware of the drama of light that plays across her.  She will always sleep.

water rain stream

 

          Some images of water-related carving on side planks
          and posts...............it's raining again, down from a                                grey sky, onto a greening world, and into the streams
               that gush and gurgle, the water straining in its bed
               and pushing, splashing, rising and falling, jumping                  and sliding
 over stones and muddy edges in its haste
           to arrive at last....where?  At the next hurdle, the next
              blockage,  under another bridge, hitting another
                  bank and each wave jostles the next, creating
                       a momentum of racing energy
                 that is dizzying to watch,
            a restless rush of weaving water waves
        edging and elbowing in streaming
                currents
                   noisy in their enthusiasm
                       to get to where they will
                           get to, but I want to know
                              is
                                   how                                                                                      
                                          do                                                            
                                                                                                          the fish
                                                                                                                 survive?

In a forest 2/4/12

I am in a pine forest.  It is at the top of a hill, and here the trees gather the sighing of every breeze and the sighs of every soul from miles around, and stir them together in their swaying.  I look up, and in the stirring gap between the tops of the trees I see the bright sky.  It is trying to speak, but its sound is drowned by the sound of the branches.  It is a dumb light, that also cannot penetrate the darkness around me, a place of shadows, and beyond the shadows, of night.

A deer appears not far away, pauses and watches me.  As I do not move, it walks on, followed by a second deer, and then a third.  They merge into the shades of tree trunks and tree gaps, making no sound.
There are no baying hounds, there is no terror.  I am not Artemis, watched by another, whom I will have to condemn to death.  There is no pool where I might have bathed.  I am a shadow myself, a watcher, and I am waiting to see what will happen next.
Then I see the swimmers.  There is water after all, cascading silently, and two figures half submerged.   Their hair streams behind them, rippling with the current and the ripples run across their bodies, distorting them below the surface. There is no sound, although I see that they are calling to each other, invigorated by the stream that gushes and runs, flowing out of the darkness and on back into the darkness, barely catching a glimmer from the sky that is dumb, and barely stirred by the wind that waves and sighs so strongly around me.
I wrap my blanket closer around me.  I cannot sleep, and listen to the orchestra of sound from pine branches that stroke the air.

Four Dreams

Dream One
My father died recently.  In the dream, I meet my father coming up the road from the Nursing Home where he died.  He is vexed as he looks in his pocket for his wallet, in order to pay for coffees, (as we are about to go into a cafe) but finds he has no money.  I'm not surprised, as he hasn't handled money for quite a while, and slip him a ten pound note.  Then it's my turn to be vexed.  He has no shoes, and is hoping to collect them from home.  My mother and I had just been discussing how to dispose of his shoes, as of course he has no need of them any more.  How can I now explain this to my father?


Dream Two
My father appears, and we joyfully greet each other, hug and kiss.  He smells good - fresh laundered shirt.  I'm so very, very happy to see him, although I know that he is dead.  He is cheerful, and it's so extremely comforting that he is here.


Dream Three
I'm at a shop, at a desk, trying out new computer equipment.  Behind me is my daughter and my father.  I turn to appologise, as I feel I will be a while getting to grips with the technology.  My daughter is still and silent, seated with her laptop on her knees, its white glow enveloping her in the surrounding darkness.  My father smiles and lowers himself onto a settee, and says that's fine, as he'll be busy too - his way of saying that he'll just take a nap while he waits.


Dream Four
Its late at night, and I'm locking all the doors in my childhood home.  The cellar door won't lock - it leaves the house vulnerable to something that might enter while we sleep, and I'm slightly concerned.  I turn to see my father in the lobby.  How did he get in?   Did he slip up from the cellar?  There's the potential for a scary moment, as I also think that he might have slid in through the walls, but actually I'm not frightened.  We greet each other cheerfully - again the smell of his freshly laundered shirt.  I go before him down the corridor and up the staircase, calling to my sister and mother that my father is here.  They both need time with him too.

Dream Five (February 2013 : many months later)
Papa is in white - a white suit with white bow tie.  It's some event - a wedding?  Other people are dressed up too, but none in white - none so glamorous as my father!  He climbs up onto a chair to see better.  He looks well, not so elderly.
I don't smell his fresh-laundered smell - I think I'm slightly further away from him, more a witness to what he is doing.  I don't remember him acknowledging me - maybe he didn't see me.

The Head Boards

March 14 2012  

The Head Boards, the men boards

Where did this man come from, heavy with sleep as he sprawls across the head board?   He is young, hunky, my female friends will say.  His sex lies softly, asleep too, and his hand falls down the bed post, reaching out in his sleep towards the ground. 

But he didn’t come alone.  At the same time as I drew him, another young man came, asleep also, on the board below him.  Are they together?  Do they know each other?

Do they imagine that they lie on bunks, and will sleep away their time for all time, as they flaunt their male bodies so beautifully and carelessly?       I‘m not sure that they are aware of their situation, arriving so freely into the narrative of my bed.  They are un aware, vulnerable possibly to what might happen to the bed, and will be carried along in its journey whether they like it or not.  Should they fear this?

Will they ever wake?   I will carve them as they are, asleep.  But they might dream, or maybe they will feign sleep, and listen to what is going on around them, amused perhaps, puzzled perhaps.  They will never leave.

14th March 2012

     Today I lie in bed in a fever, sunshine filtering in through a small window.  The shadow of a cat blocks most of the light, a dark cat-shaped shadow, my cat, my black husband's cat, blackness where yesterday there was just blankness.  

     Yesterday , for the whole day, we were held in a white fog that surrounded the house.  We were like a tall ship at sea, with no knowing where we were, no landmarks, until the whooosh of a car and yellow headlights broke the spell for a moment.  The drivers were not doubt caught in the same reverie,  driving in a sea of mist that hid all familiar forms, and they saw our lighted windows as ships might see a lighthouse, guiding them past the danger of a foggy twilight.

     My fever holds time as a physical thing that floats on and on, around my bed, as I grow too hot, incapable of grasping it, and I cling to the bed in its heat and grittiness.  The sun sinks.  The cat has taken its black form to my elbow as I write, and looks into my eyes.

Work in Progress

Work in progress in the studio - posts, with images and forms that link the horizontal pieces.  Above is a swimming figure.  I hadn't planned for water to figure on the bed as it seems so un-bed-like ....but figures swam in all the same.

Two lovers dancing.  These are behind the elm head board, and as yet not fully carved.  

Above, a flying figure.  Again, I hadn't planned to do this, but I supposed as flying figures have been part of my work for a while, this one flew in.  He will be above the foot board, so the first thing to be seen when you wake up from the bed.

The Princess and the Pea

This is a bed story, so fits in perfectly with this blog.

There once was a prince, kind and dutiful, who also liked the good things in life such as his two shiny sports cars and holidaying where rich young things like to holiday.
But it was time for him to marry, and being dutiful he allowed his mother to set out the arrangements of inviting all the young princesses of neighboring kingdoms to seek his hand in marriage (enlightened times these, as it worked both ways).
The Queen, his mother, arranged weekend parties and house parties, where the young people could enjoy themselves, wandering around the scented gardens and swimming in the beautiful lakes of the estate of the castle.  In the evenings they ate and drank in the open air, the sky filled with twinkling stars and the trees all around hung with twinkling lanterns, fire light and candle light creating a warm and romantic setting for love to flow.
Each night a different princess was chosen to sleep in the Royal Wing of the Castle, in a lovely bedroom with the most comfortable of beds.  It had silken sheets and light duvets of swans' down, but more strangely it had seventeen mattresses.  Each was piled onto the next so that they almost reached the ceiling (which was very high), and the princess reached her bed by climbing up a ladder.
On the first night, the Princess chosen by the Queen (and the Prince liked her too - she was lovely, and fun to be with) climbed up the ladder and fell into a deep sleep, induced by the dancing and the good food of the night before.
"How did you sleep?", asked the Queen the next morning.
"Oh, I slept so well!"  replied the Princess.  With a sigh, the Queen smiled and went on her way, to check the arrangements for the day's festivities, and the Princess went home.  The Prince was a little sorry she had not been chosen, but kept in touch with her anyway on face book.

The next night, another Princess was chosen to sleep in the Royal Wing of the Castle.  She had long dark hair and danced bewitchingly;  the Prince rather hoped that the Queen would find her suitable for him.

"How did you sleep?", asked the Queen the next morning.

"Oh, I slept so well!"  replied the Princess.  Again the Queen smiled and said nothing, but went on her way through the Castle and Gardens.  Her plan to have her son marry the best princess was proving hard work, and she had to get on.

And so the weeks went on, with feasting and dancing, and each evening a different Princess slept on the bed with seventeen mattresses.  The King and Queen were running out of money to pay for all the food, and the musicians and gardeners who entertained the young people and kept the place looking lovely and scented were costing a lot of money.

And the Prince, good and patient as he was, was mystified as to his Mother's plans.  Why had she not chosen any of the beautiful Princesses so far, and of those that were not so beautiful, those that were rich or clever, or just good fun to be with?

Well at last one evening near the end of the summer, when the stars had shifted in the sky allowing Pegasus and Andromeda to look down onto the Castle Estate, a young princess arrived.  She had no grand escort of servants and drove her own car (the drive was very long).  She was very lovely to look at  but rather pale, exhausted by her journey.  The Queen was at her wit's end, having exhausted her own royal coffers and still not having found a suitable wife for her son.  

She was still, however, determined that her son should marry only the best princess, which he deserved, being a good and kind young man, even after a summer of dancing and feasting.  And so in the evening, after being refreshed by a good supper and a walk amongst the scented and exotic plants of the garden, and seeing the rising moon reflected in the waters of the lake, the princess was invited to sleep in the Royal Wing of the Castle.  Here, she climbed up to her bed on top of seventeen mattresses, and lay down to sleep.

All night she tossed and turned.   

In the morning the Queen greeted her.  "How did you sleep?" she asked.  The princess looked a little peaky.

"Oh, all night I tossed and turned.  No matter how I lay, there seemed to be something hard underneath me and I could find no comfort."  She didn't mean to be rude, but was an honest and straight forward girl.

But the Queen was not offended.  In fact she was overjoyed, and said to her son: "Here is the Princess that I would like you to marry!" 

The prince was mystified.  "Why have you chosen her?" he asked.

Going to the bedchamber with the bed of seventeen mattresses, the Queen plunged her hand under the bottom mattress and pulled out a little hard pea.  

"This is what caused your restless night", she said.  Indeed, so small a pea had not caused any of the other dozens of Princesses to lose any sleep.  But in our princess, delicate and sensitive as she was, it had been enough to keep her awake.

Well, the Prince was most happy to at last have a wife who was not only approved of by his mother, the Queen, but who turned out to be every bit as lovely, clever and good company as all the other princesses put together.  She was also very kind and very wise, and never had a bad night after this even when they had financial difficulties and had to downsize and sleep on harder mattresses than they were used to.

Needless to say, the Princess was very happy too, and they all lived happily ever after.

4/1/12

3rd October

I'm just creating this blog, with no idea as to how it happens!
Sending this out to the hearts and minds of those who showed interest in my work - my carving of the Bed, to be specific......and at the same time, I'm sitting outside with my laptop in the sunshine, amongst cooing pigeons and the chatter of wag tails, the crows still sitting tight before they launch into the woods at twilight, and Jupiter shines again to mystify and entrance....
Be patient while I master the difficult and also mysterious things I have to do to add more photos of the carving when it was still just a charcoal drawing on uncut wood.....

4/1/12
This I wrote in October, and didn't publish.  I'm about to start in earnest, so I will post this and begin.