Children draw without thinking it seems. Looking at the ornaments in a glass
cabinet in the front room and drawing each one with ease and being satisfied that they looked exactly like them was a regular early joy for me. The activity had no particular purpose, except pleasure. It engaged me with objects outside of myself and absorbed my attention completely until its completion. I was not perturbed about not having the exact colour crayons. Equivalents sufficed. I was always pleased with the results, imagining they looked exactly as I saw them. The objects themselves were delightful to look at; a china cat with a high gloss green glaze, a heavy pottery donkey and cart, thickly glazed white with random splashes of pastel colours, wheels fixed, also the delicate tea cups from the lustreware tea set, and all reflected in the angled mirrored backdrop of the display cabinet.
Later, drawing from imagination to illustrate stories in school, obstacles present themselves. Peers comment, criticise even. Confusion caused by the assertion that a jail must be black. Mine is brown. I imagine it made of wood, my commentator declares it should be metal. We could draw on little experience or knowledge to argue much further. The critic wins by force of confidence. Censorship creeps in.
Drawing in adolescence returns to bliss. Passions and their imagery emerge which reflect inner conflicts. My painted dreams and illustrations of poems such as Keat's poem Lamia pinned to my bedroom wall worry my mum and she tells me they gave her nightmares. I also enjoy a brief spell of drawing from life in a style which feels all my own. Inspired by paintings in a book about Der Blaue Reiter, I quickly absorb the style and produce a portrait of my boyfriend which I am convinced looks so completely like him, I astound myself. He seems less impressed, as are my parents. It takes a couple of years for the spell to wear off and for me to see how stylised, crude and unreal it actually appears, although I still think it gives a kind of start impression of my friend's features quite well, despite its roughness.
I take A' level art, forgoing history and geography to do so ; always a regret. It's a shame when young people have to choose between core subjects and I know this still goes on today. The curriculum for A' level art is quite good at that time. I am able to take the option of studying flower and plant drawing, which is an exacting discipline for learning technique, encouraging close attention to the structure and appearance and function of things and also fostering an interest in, even, perhaps, love of , botany. This chimes with my "growing" love of gardening (ho ho! ) fostered by my Dad. I enjoy working hard at the skill of portraying details such as how leaves attach to stems, the positioning of petals and the subtlety of conveying colours accurately. The activity itself is mentally taxing and frustrating. The finished result always full of flaws, yet not without beauty and out of the struggle emerges a sense of satisfaction derived from the intensity of observation and the evidence of it.
We are also encouraged to copy paintings and I spend a long time attempting a copy of Uccello's Saint George and the Dragon; the early version, not the later one which I eventually get the opportunity to see in the National Gallery. This wonderful painting on wood, painted at the end of the 15th Century, is remarkable for many things, not least for Uccello's efforts to portray the characters and features as existing in an landscape convincingly. Copying it helps to instil an understanding about the problems and possibilities involved in representation. Uccello's experimentation with perspective to depict a sense of space within the flat plane of the picture is highly effective, if somewhat wooden and I am very taken with the conflict between the magical effect of draughtsmanship and the static, stylised appearance of the figures and elements sitting within this created space. It inspires me to visit The Walker Gallery in Liverpool and look at the paintings from the thirteenth to sixteenth century all grouped together in a quiet room with subdued lighting. I am particularly moved by the exquisite devotional painting on a wooden panel by Simone Martini, entitled " Christ Discovered in the Temple". I remember it for its stunning golden background, which flattens the illusory picture space and creates a very strange environment for the three highly convincing figures depicted. I read that it has been painted with tempera and this invites me to think about the use of materials, the reasons behind choosing them and the different effects they have. I return to look at all the early paintings of this sort many times and grow to love the hushed contemplative atmosphere of the gallery. I go there with joyful expectation of peace, solitude and contemplation for an hour or so.
We are now able to view the paintings kept by the Walker Art Gallery online and I have had the privilege of being able to look at this painting again and again, taking pleasure in the astonishing creation of character in the three figures depicted. There sits the virgin Mary as mother, looking at Christ, the young boy who Simone Martini portrays as the type of sullen, stubborn adolescent boy we're all familiar with; all folded arms and quietly defiant expression. Mary's face is so calm, tenderness even a touch of humour can be detected in her eyes. The fine detail of the painting invites you to use your imagination! The intervening - Joseph? who is presenting the young Jesus to his mother, has a distinctly dismayed expression upon his face. They are alarmingly human within their abstract, golden world, just as I remember.
The John Moores painting competition exhibitions held at the Walker were also of great interest. There was always a variety of styles and approaches on display, as no doubt there is today, and I would be fascinated by this, though not usually inspired to emulate any. One particular entry, however, which I describe in another blog post, inspired me in a different way. It comprised a large sheet, hanging by a large nail from a great height on the gallery wall. Faint pencil scribbles could just be made out in one corner of it, next to a couple of what seemed to be lolly ice sticks forming a rough cross stuck on at a jaunty angle. I was shocked to see such an untidy, unkempt thing, apparently thrown together without any care for skill or attempt to portray much at all hanging next to so much carefully and skilfully executed work. I felt exhilarated by it. I returned to it again and again, wondering about its meaning, the reason for its artful carelessness and wilful corruption of rules. It inculcated the idea in me that convention could be broken in a way that would still be accepted by those who seemingly support and perpetuate the conventions and I wondered about the reasons behind this. A seed of curiosity had been sown.
I went on after school to train as an occupational therapist. The vague idea that I might apply to study English was put paid to by my bad exam' result. My uncle, who worked as a driver for the Royal Liverpool hospital, encouraged me to apply to train as an occupational therapist; a job deemed suitable for a young lady. The training combined exacting, detailed instruction and testing in anatomy and physiology and psychology, with lessons in craft and work activities such as printing, woodwork, gardening, basket weaving etc and work placements in various hospitals, physical and psychiatric.
I had the good fortune to work for a few weeks in the art therapy department at Winwick psychiatric hospital during which time the art therapist's approach to the patients made me feel that art, whatever it is, was a process unlike any other.. The art therapy department itself felt like a sanctuary. People were usually calm and quiet in there. Mostly, patients would copy postcards and at first I thought this was limiting, but I gradually understood that the postcards were a good way of stimulating both memory and imagination. They were chosen with great care by the art therapist and chosen equally carefully by the patient. The work produced in that department would range from unformed, faint beginnings of images hard to see and make out, to vibrant, extravagant paintings, sometimes difficult to look at for their explicit or fragmentary images. Each one had its value, reflecting and documenting an evolution in the mind of each person. Not to denigrate craft activities, but it seemed to me a much more productive and significant activity than weaving the top of a stool in raffia - one of the more soul destroying activities we were instructed as OT's to engage patients in.
Partly due to this work placement, I left occupational therapy college. I hadn't felt useful as an OT , It didn't suit me as a person. I didn't think the job itself lacked value, rather that I couldn't give it value. I felt compelled to pursue my attraction to the artistic process. To leave was no small thing. It entailed a lot of fuss and trauma from many sides. I felt profoundly guilty about wasting NHS time and money and I resolved to indulge myself for four years and perhaps repay my debt if I could by returning as an art therapist. I began my struggle to get accepted on a fine art degree course. This set me off on many adventures after which the eventual experience of the course turned out to be another.
I reach no conclusion here. My reflections have only just begun. They're a personal odyssey, but I hope it will lead to some productive activity along the way.
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