Studio #4

A sort of weekly ramble about island life.

Full sun by 10am. I’ve become obsessed with checking the forecast and comparing it with our weather station data. The day has started with a howling wind whipping round the house and rain driving into the window. I pull the duvet under my chin. It seems that southerly winds are the noisiest as they batter the front of the house. I feel snug, that feeling you have when its wet and wild and you’re tucked up inside a tent or caravan. Safe as the wind wraps itself around you.

I’ve pretty much always been an early riser, fitful sleeper and not too keen to stay in bed longer than I should. What I realise now is that my body needs some extra time to heal itself so getting up at 7:30am feels like the day is already rushing forward full speed and I’ve missed so much.

In reality all that I missed was an hour or two of quiet moments staring out the window whilst I eat breakfast and sip tea.

I’ve finally had to turn the lights on in the studio, not so keen on that harsh humming light but if I take a step outside I’m bathed in a gentle, mysterious and atmospheric cloak. I consider myself lucky to have both.

There was a fleeting hyperfocus earlier in the week, and a brief obsession with kelp collecting. Every walk led to an exercise in harvesting as many different seaweeds as I could find, hauling them back home, serving them for lunch, drying them in the dehydrator and wrapping them into interesting shapes, watching endless YouTube videos on harvesting, identifying and what I might use it for. It has led to some interesting time wasting and possibly a little constructive research that my mind will hoard away and ruminate on for future use.

This magnificent plant should have a place in my work. Overnight kelp hills have formed on the beach. Interwoven together in various stages of decay they flow up the shoreline. Long strands of oarweed start to dry to become this delightful leathery almost textile like material. Rolling them between fingers is a sticky but somewhat pleasing tactile experience. Thoughts of sculptural plinths for small bowls feel appealing.

However I have no idea how they will dry or if they will crumble into dust. There is also the slight rotting tang of the sea which some may find repulsive. It may fade. I like the connection it makes for me between shore and studio. The connection intertwines my life, a conduit back to childhood, learning to swim by diving off the slipway into billowing pools of the stuff, dry bladderwrack as sharp as knives as we barefoot across the hot sand. The fascination of a holdfast attached to a limpet shell that will enevitably lose its grip and be washed away. The liminal space between then and now.

Seaweed, kelp, tangle, tang, dulse, wair, ware are just various names for this fascinating plant. Its history here has made its mark on the land, remains of the circular pits and the places to dry, burn and process.

Kelp in Orkney has a firm place in the islands history, storms would wash up huge swaths onto the shore and islanders would drag it up and use it to increase the fertility of the land or dry it on stone walls and then burn it in the huge pits. The remains of the industry are part of the back drop of my daily wander.

When burnt the ash is rich in potash and soda, two components that can be used in a ceramic glaze. The burning tang would have been left to smoulder often tended by the womenfolk until there was just a white powdery ash left that could be easily transported south. Back breaking, stinking work. My burning will be controlled and tiny in comparison.

The small kiln is filling up nicely and there are plans to fire later in the week. Glazes have been mixed and prepared for testing and there is an urgent need to sort and arrange my latest hoard, otherwise known as rusty old crap. Salt water creates some beautiful rust. An elemental beauty that can’t be replicated.

One final but most important note about island life, After mentioning last week the demise of my coffee grinder Laura & Jules kindly offered me one to tide me over. I can’t explain how grateful I am that my morning routine has been restored and my day is better for it. Neurodiveristy is a weird creature and something as minor as a cup of coffee made in a particular way, in a certain cup can have a huge impact on how a day plays out. Some routines and rituals come and go but for me this particular one is set in stone. I feel lost without it. May seem trivial to those whose neurons fire in a more straightforward way but vital to my wellbeing. I hope we will be able to repay the favour.