THE JERWOOD CONTEMPORARY MAKERS SHOW

'The most satisfying thing a human being can do – and the sexiest – is to make something.
Life is about relationship – to each other – and to the material world. Making something is a relationship.
The verb is the clue. We make love, we make babies, we make dinner, we make sense, we make a difference, we make it up, we make it new….

True, we sometimes make a mess, but creativity never was a factory finish.
The wrestle with material isn’t about subduing; it is about making a third thing that didn’t exist before. The raw material was there, and you were there, but the relationship that happens between maker and material allows the finished piece to be what it is. And that allows a further relationship to develop between the piece and the viewer or the buyer.

Both relationships are in every way different from mass production or store bought objects that, however useful, are dead on arrival. Anyone who makes something finds its life, whether it’s Michelangelo releasing David from twenty tons of Carrera marble, or potter Jane Cox spinning me a plate using the power of her shoulders, the sureness of her hands, the concentration of her mind.
I have a set of silverware made by an eighteenth century silverworker called Hester Bateman, one of the very few women working in flatware at that time. When I eat with her spoons, I feel the work and the satisfaction that went into making them – the handle and bowl are in equal balance – and I feel a part of time as it really is – not chopped into little bits, but continuous. She made this beautiful thing, it’s still here, and I am here too, writing my books, eating my soup, two women making things across time. I feel connection, respect, delight. And it is just a spoon…

But the thing about craft, about the making of everyday objects that we can have around us, about the making of objects that are beautiful and/or useful, is that our everyday life is enriched.
How it is enriched? To make something is to be both conscious and concentrated – it is a fully alert state, but not one of anxious hyper-arousal. We all know the flow we feel when we are absorbed in what we do. I find that by having a few things around me that have been made by someone’s hand and eye and imagination working together, I am prevented from passing through my daily life in a kind of blur. I have to notice what is in front of me – the table, the vase, the hand-blocked curtains, the thumb prints in the sculpture, the lettering block. I have some lamps made by Marianna Kennedy, and what I switch on is not a bulb on a stem; it is her sense of light.

So I am in relationship to the object and in relationship to the maker. This allows me to escape from the anonymity and clutter of the way we live now. Instead of surrounding myself with lots of things I hardly notice, I have a few things that also seem to notice me. No doubt this is a fantasy – but…

The life of objects is a strange one.
A maker creates something like a fossil record. She or he is imprinted in the piece. We know that energy is never lost, only that it changes its form, and it seems to me that the maker shape-shifts her/himself into the object. That is why it remains a living thing.
Of course it is possible to design an object that will be made by others – but that is an extension of the creative relationship, not its antithesis. It is the ceaseless reproduction of meaningless objects that kills creativity for all of us, as producers and consumers.
But are producers and consumers who we want to be?

To make is to do. It is an active verb. Creativity is present in every child ever born. Kids love making things. There are different doses and dilutions of creativity, and the force is much stronger in some than in others – but it is there for all of us, and should never have been separated off from life into art.
I would like to live in a creative continuum that runs from the child’s drawing on the fridge to Lucien Freud, from the coffee cups made by a young ceramicist to Grayson Perry’s pots.

We don’t need to agonise over the boundaries between ‘art’ and ‘craft’, any more than we should be separating art and life. The boundary is between the creative exuberance of being human, and the monotony of an existence dependent on mass production – objects, food, values, aspirations.


Making is personal. Making is shared. Making is a celebration of who we are.'

~ Jeanette Winterson

Sinking in

Standing on my balcony, souls wet, i find myself once again wishing i could give myself up. Wishing I could close my eyes, tilt my head back and breathe in what my eyes see. Breathe in that gentle touch softer than the fingertips of a child or lover tracing pathways across my face in the silent roar of sudden pleasure. Passion so fierce and pure it leaves invisible winding scars my reflection will lament forevermore. And in the release of that breath I take, I no longer want to be standing on that balcony watching, waiting for the falling rain to encompass me and hold me in her embrace. An embrace unlike anything ever felt. Cradled in her truth and timelessness. So close i am shielded by her, covered in her. So close I am inside her. And with that one breath to become a part of her.

Returning

unknowingly my eyes search
my head leans into the silence
searching for a stirring in the black
my hand itches to reach out
into the night that is not yet set
i have not known time till now
not felt the weight of this uncertainty
(knowing you are unaware of my presence)
i have not known what it means to wait

time... in words!

Sooooo.... for one of my classes i have to write about time.

yes, thats the only instruction we were given... so imagine the magnitude of possibility... but of course, yours truly cant think of one decent thing to say! Trust me to go into my writers block, frozen ink, drifty minded, useless phase... JUST when Iv been given the chance to write about something awesome!! Grrr... There are time i just wish i had a remote to work my brain so i could have slightly more control over whats going on in it... and more importantly, what its capable of, when!

I know i can write... relatively well at least... and at times... pretty damn well... but i just don't know how to access that... that... material? Skill? PLACE... inside me when i need to! And i really want to be able to... because there are ideas... there are beautiful words... there are so many things just waiting to be written... and they just wont step out of the darkness...

and im tired of this now... lets just keep our fingers crossed and hope that time inspires me...! Both literally and otherwise!

Soft reactions to hard situations...

This... like everything else i seem to begin writing, is incomplete... but then again... thats what life feels like right now... so it works... ever changing... ever challenging... but hopefully, not forever incomplete!

Sometimes the world talks to me
tells me not to give up, give in.
Sometimes the world talks to me
and her voice alone i want to hear.

Everything i have learnt is her teaching.
The person i am, an illustration of her genius.
Now I no longer fear not being understood,
For those who loved me taught me to love myself.

Life has been kind to me, i do not complain
But i know hardships come in many forms
The hardest of tests are given to the strong.
Strong who become stronger, as i have.

The walls of my life often close in,
The doors lock themselves, keyless.
The voices inside are unintentionally yours
and i am convinced to do only it's bidding.

The walls of my room may seem a prison,
But these are the walls protecting me.
Inside i am myself, someone very few see.
Inside, i wish to be alone, even with another.

write

i have nothing to write about
for i am not in pain
well, not enough to want to write about!

i have nothing to write about
im not feeling overjoyed
merely happy just doesnt work the same

i have nothing to write about
so im writing about writing
and damn, this is the lamest write on earth!

Writer...

She writes on loose sheets of paper
floating about the room
she picks up her pen every so often
at a loss of words drives it through, tearing it
she writes on everything she finds
her slowly wearing jeans
invisibly on beautifully curved backs
on equally beautiful minds
women's of course, for men have neither

(But the trees don't have wounds)