By week five I am more than halfway through the art residency in Bath, and the clock is starting to tick quite loudly. I know I’m going to be taking a week out for some family commitments, so that leaves me a mere three weeks to work in the studio. And I have two big rooms to fill for my exhibition. Ergo, prioritising the completion of work over exploring new ideas has become critical, and I’m feeling the need to really motor. As they say, those razor blades won’t paint themselves.

To make things more complicated for myself, I’m now using pins as well as all the knives and stuff. I keep trying to think of bigger pieces that will help fill the gallery, but my inner-artist keeps piddling about with small, intricate stuff. My inner-artist is a bit of a shit and probably out to sabotage me, but what can you do? Especially when the pins are coming out all twinkly.

In the studio, I finally locate a glue that will stick the stainless-steel knives to hardboard and crack on with doing the heaviest of my pieces. It works as long as I change the design slightly and I honestly wish I’d thought of that weeks ago – would’ve saved so much faffing around.

In contrast, I also make a very light piece. I’ve found a bag of 60 wooden knives at a kitchen supplies trade shop, and my head says, ‘ooh, make a hanging sculpture’. When I show my precious piece of Art-with-a-capital-A to my sister-in-law she comments on what a nice mobile for a kids’ room it is.

The Artspace that awarded me this residency was set up by friends of mine from College/Uni. While I am here, the ten-year anniversary comes around and a special exhibition and party is arranged. Unbeknownst to Katie (the incredibly diligent and supportive founder member, who initially contacted me about the residency), a whip-round is organised to get her a special present, acknowledging her hard work and vision. Flowers? Yes. A nice cake? Absolutely. But also……a Katie puppet! That’s a whole new set of life goals to aspire to – being puppet-worthy!

The next day I pop off to the Guildhall Market to see Infinity, and to look for more pins. I’m pleased to see the signpost at the centre of the market has now added Westeros to its list of places. While I’m chatting to Infinity about his campervan, I spy a girl in a corset and steampunk cats’ ears. And she’s with a woman with feathers in her hair and wearing a Jane Austen frock.

The steampunk girl is a prolific author, and I’m gutted to admit I can’t remember her name (I’m old – my memory has a really crap operating system, but upgrades are no longer possible for this model, apparently). Despite looking about eighteen, she has written more books than I’ve probably read (update* Her name is Talia Beckett. I’d just forgotten where I wrote it down). The feather-lady hands me her card, which allows me to ‘request an audience with the Duchess Alfreda and her Entourage.’ And ok, she’s actually Alison, and a bi-lingual tour guide and an absolute sweetie, but that’s to me – to you she’s the Duchess Alfreda, and quite right too.

My studio is finally starting to fill with work. Katie arranges a critique session for me with some of the other artists who have studios here. This is very helpful, and leads me to start using knives painted the same colour as the canvas, and I am mega-pleased with the results. I also discover a really amazing pair of flamingo-shaped scissors, which only need a bell-jar to become an ‘art piece’. And now it’s time to think about posters, and invites, and publicity, and how to display the work and curate the gallery.

I ponder these things as I walk home each evening past the local supermarket. It has a covered spot near the trolley park where some of the local homeless guys like to hang out. I watch them hurling chunks of bread at the already too-fat-to-fly pigeons, chortling happily over the birds’ attempts to munch away.

‘Aw, look at him, he likes that,’ says one.

‘I wanna get me a rat farm,’ says his mate. My ears prick up.

‘A rat farm?’ queries his mate.

‘Yeah. Them buggers’ll eat anything.’

I nearly stop. I nearly turn around and ask him what he plans to do with the rats once they’ve been….farmed. But then I think about the kind of answers I might get and realise I don’t want to know.

Another night, I hear jingling bells getting closer behind me. It’s too early for Santa, so my brain fills in the only other explanation: I’m being stalked by Morris Dancers. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular bit of British tradition, I shall elucidate.

Morris Dancers pretend they are keeping alive a traditional form of folk dance, that dates back to the 1400s. But this is not even close to the truth. What these groups of middle-aged mates are actually doing is this; giving themselves an excuse to work up a bit of a sweat as a prelude to going down the pub and quaffing several pints of ale. If that means wearing flowery hats, bells and ribbons on elbows and knees, and skipping about waving a handkerchief at a guy playing a squeaky flute, or a cranky accordion – well, who cares. Consequently, Morris Dancers are, without exception, jovial chaps.

Anyway, it isn’t Morris Dancers, it’s these guys – St Elmo and St Joseph.

Their wooden staffs are encrusted down one side with cow-bells and bottle-tops, and they pound the sticks into the ground as they walk along; thump, jangle, thump, jangle.

‘We are waking our dead ancestors buried beneath these streets,’ they tell me. ‘And we call up to the spirits above.’

St Joseph has a huge wooden goddess of the Earth Mother hanging from a bead necklace. St Elmo has twisted copper wire around his stick to secure it with crystals. They are charming and noisy and very cool.

At home, I receive an email from Katie with the poster she’s put together for me. I am delighted at how graphic it looks, and how much the colours pop. But it also means my time in the studio, and in beautiful Bath itself, is coming to an end. And that is bittersweet.

3 Likes