His second may well be to appear on some Yule cards - we shall see if I can pin him down before he makes off across the moors.
Tuesday, 21 October 2014
My first maquette, inspired by the work of the excellent Clive Hicks-Jenkins, has torn himself from the page and is ready for action. His first job is to promote an evening of masqued French and Breton music and dance, see more here.
Thursday, 18 September 2014
Today whilst pottering around Exeter I came across an amazing thing.
It was described to me as a contraption both theatre, puppet-show, peep show, new flash and fore-runner to cinema. Sadly technical difficulties meant there wasn't time for me to see it in action, but somehow that still managed to fire up my imagination.
Thank you to Tony Lidington for taking the time to explain some of the history of the raree men, who once toured the land bringing the news through puppetry...what an idea!
I need to go away and do more reading about this...
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
I read about mandrake years before I met one. It crops up in folklore as a plant possessed of great powers, warranting a desire to gather them despite also, apparently, possessing the ability to kill you with a piercing shriek. To avoid this fate, it was recommended that they be pulled, plant to root, from the earth by a dog. Sadly the dog would swiftly meet his maker but so long as the human properly blocked up their ears, death could be avoided.
Here we see a 12th century illustration of the dog-harvesting tactic from the Harley Manuscript. The mandrake root is depicted as having human-form. This was common and a look at the root of mandrake plants quickly reveals why - they often have several limb-like sections which have an uncanny humanoid character.
Unfortunately, lacking a dog (or even an unpopular acquaintance not well versed in folklore), my meeting with a mandrake did not become more intimate than a view of its leaves. I was lucky enough to be given a special introduction last year by a friend who works as a gardener in the Oxford Botanic gardens. I love the mandrake factoid on the name sign...
As I hope you can glimpse from my photos, the plant has extraordinary presence. It looks both lushly delicious and dripping with poison.
Plants of the Gods (Shultes, Hofmann and Ratsch, 1992) informs us that the scopolamine contained within the plant gives it active hallucinogenic properties. The authors link this, rightly or wrongly, to associations with witchcraft, especially so-called 'flying ointment' which was supposedly rubbed into the genitals. As fun as this sounds, I'm fairly confident it is not likely as historical fact (see Hutton and Letcher), but what the heck - I like the idea.
This connection with witchcraft is evident in the Boscastle Witchcraft museum, where they have a case displaying both roots and artwork dedicated to the plant.
It was here that my inspiration for a new painting formed, mainly out of a desire to have such an image in my own house.
So here is my mandrake, a female, looking rather gentle in her slumber within the earth, along with some mandrake folklore...
In the dark ages, it was believed that mandrake would grow under a gallows where the semen of a dying man fell, and it came to be known as 'gallows man' in German.
It was said that the plant would hide during the day, but shine, star-like at night.
The golden fruiting bodies are also called Apples of Love. In the bible (so Wikipedia tells me, my bible knowledge not being all that it could be), the plant is used to aid fertility.
I have heard this elsewhere in books on folklore. It made this beautiful plant all the more special to me as, the day after I first met one in the deep green leaf-flesh, I found out I was pregnant with my daughter Minka. The plant-meeting felt auspicious, and I hoped it was a good omen for my womb and it's little golden fruit. And so it was.
Saturday, 9 August 2014
The other morning I woke up to a cold bedroom for the first time in weeks. Our temperature-sensitive night light was glowing blue instead of red, and as my little girl reached out to delicately grab me by the nose, I noticed her hands were slightly chilly against my skin. All these signs are the first heralds of autumn, which surprised me into realising that soon the season will change again. I listed to myself what I have achieved this year, artistically; a small, well-received prototype puppet, a couple of small drawings made for friends, a scattering of tiny, hurried sketches of my baby, an a4 drawing which, radically, includes painted colour.
And that's it.
This momentarily stirred a rush of restless frustration in me - I have a long list (I'm a list person) of simple and complex projects, all of which seem to positively radiate surliness at me when I read them over.
Before I had a baby I respected, but couldn't really understand, why other mothers would describe how they had no time to do anything.
'How hard can it be?', I thought, everyday hubris making me overconfident, 'I'm sure I'LL find a way.'
I have quickly come to realise what nonsense that is, for two main reasons.
Firstly, the practical. For the first 2 months of my daughters life she slept for hours. Hours. Sometime four or five hours in a day would pass with her blissfully sleeping. However, I spent that time asleep myself, having discovered that newborns, for whatever mysterious reason, have day and night around the wrong way.
If I wasn't asleep I was staring slack-jawed in wonderment at the impossibility of this entirely new human being (where did you COME from?!).
Or I was breastfeeding. I felt like I breastfed all day, all the time, all night, every waking moment.
This all changed as she grew bigger of course. Her sleeping wonderfully improved, became nightmarishly awful, improved once more and now bounces between these two extremes.
Secondly, there is the factor of her personality. When I now remember the things I imagined about having a baby, I failed to actually account for HER. I couldn't include in the person she is because I had no idea who she would be. For example, she's not the type of person you can ignore. For even ten minutes. She is (very) vocal about not being included in whatever is going on.
Luckily for us both, I just love to play with her. I love adventuring with her over the moors or to the corner shop. We love spending ages looking at ourselves in the mirror and giggling. I love watching her sit and play contentedly (though she looks around at me periodically to check I am in attendance).
It was during an especially silly moment, her sat laughing at me as I did a dance for her, that I realised I WAS making art. Right then and there. For my baby, my stupid cavorting was the best thing in the world at that moment. Everything we had done together all day had involved my attention, really listening and really looking, and responding creatively to each challenge my daughter threw my way.
It's not a grand revelation, nor an original one, but mothering (parenting or being a guardian) IS art.
That being said, taking care if someone else is tough, really, really tough, and the odd hour here or there spent drawing or making have become even more precious to me. The fact that art no longer feels like the most important thing in my life is also a blessing -rather than trying hard and fretting, I now feel like I am 'just' playing. I think I have my daughter to thank for that.
Friday, 18 July 2014
A moment of snatched drawing whilst my daughter was soundly sleeping (a rare event...) !
This is a picture of my friend Jason Ofengland; rune engraver, jewellery maker, body builder and all-round lovely chap. Go and look at his work - it is truly stunning (he made me and my husbands wedding rings).
Posted by Nomi McLeod at 12:47
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
I have finally completed my puppet. She is a representation of the Handless Maiden, a story which resonates with me for various reasons.
My puppet belongs in the segment of the story just after things have started to go wrong - again - for the heroine. She has given birth to a beautiful baby whilst her husband, the king, is away fighting battles. But through a trick played by the villain of the story (sometimes the devil, sometimes an evil female relative), the Handless Maiden (though she is a maid no longer in this chapter of the story) has been thrown out of the palace and set to wondering the forests once more.
Her clothes become torn and caked with mud. Her child, tied around her by a kindly servant, grows hungry as she struggles to feed him with her handless arms...
Here is the baby -
I made him as a simple doll. He isn't really a puppet in that he cannot move. His head is fimo and his body is foam.
I added hair to the maiden - tangled fake fur.
And she is ready to come alive.
There are several design problems with this puppet. Firstly I failed to add a rod for her head, and so I must grip her neck to hold and move her. I think the proximity of my hand interrupts the imagery a little.
I also made her arm rods a little too short meaning that, again, my body is a little close and disruptive as I move her. I can easily lengthen them when I get some time.
Clive told me that female Banraku puppets have no legs. I was pleased that my intentional omission has presedence, although I have yet to figure out quite how the japanese puppeteers create the illusion of feet walking. This puppet does really require two people to move her properly.
I feel like I have learnt a great deal by taking part in the challenge - not only about puppets but about creative practise. I thought my making days were behind me for the time being, as my daughter takes up almost every waking (and attempted sleeping) moment I have. But I found ways to snatch ten minutes here, half and hour there, and have completed my first ever rod puppet.
I can't wait to make more and improve my designs...
Monday, 5 May 2014
May Day 2013 was a sorrowful day for me. I had expected to greet the day full of joy at what I thought would be little Lyra's immanent arrival. Instead, my womb was empty (or so I thought) and I felt lost.
I walked out into the early morning revels of the Oxford May celebrations feeling utterly encircled by a winter I could not escape.
I was wrong of course. On that day, an impossibly tiny life had secretly started her journey into being. I now know my little Minka Rose was already with me.
This year we spent May 1st in Padstow watching the dancing Obby Oss. It was strange to see my beloved smiling face in the crowd rather than on the Bod steps, leading the singing and dancing. It was dream-like to look down to Minka, wrapped close against my chest.
After the Oss, we got into a bit of a May froth and have been to three different folky, Wicker Man-esque events. Below are my pictures of Lustleigh and the crowning of the May Queen - sadly I forgot my camera during Helstons Flora Day.
Lustleigh May Day caused a bit of debate concerning the vintage of such traditions. Historical record has their origins in the fairly recent past, which is a disappointment to those longing for unbroken connection to an ancient past. However, May in England is such a flower-starred, warm(ish) blessed relief from winter, I like to think it is quite possible that it has long been a time for celebration.
We can never know exactly what it might have meant to ancient Britons, but hopefully there was a picnic in there somewhere. If any of my ancestors were involved I can almost guarantee that bit.
Along with the new life that May brings,
there were also reminders of death.
This beautiful buzzard, found dead and then preserved on site, was particularly moving. It looked almost as though it were still in flight, wings drawn back in preparation for a hunting dive towards the ground.
I am relieved and grateful to be in Spring this year - and long may she reign in my life! But I also know that Without endings there are no beginnings.