Tree Portraits II

The second plate, inked in the same way as the first.

Tree Portraits I

This is the first print from a series of plates based on my digital images of the beech trees in Beely Wood and Hope Plantation.

Red ink of a different viscosity has been blotted over a regular intaglio plate, inked with black.

Maps

The plates are based on the islands of the Sporades, off the coast of Greece

Chess Men

The chessmen are carved from soapstone and are from Africa. They were a present to John from his ex- flatmate Paul Farrelli, the Italian stallion. Paul is not Italian. His dad, Percy, was Australian and his mum, Ursula German. They lived in Neath and all seemed very Welsh and very close. When John and Paul shared a flat in north London Paul's parents would visit, sleeping in their caravan parked on the street outside. Ursula would arrive laden with Welsh cakes and proceed to clean the flat, scrubbing the teapot so thoroughly it hardly had chance to recover between sporadic visits.

John and I stayed with them in Neath and were always made to feel at home. Ursula fussed long and eloquently over trivia, such as a sour cream cake, but calmly got on with life's high dramas. It was a privilege to know her and I wish my girls could have done so.

Pot

I love this pot. We bought it from John Kershaw's studio based shop in Windermere over ten years ago. He introduced us to Potfest and we have made annual pilgrimages ever since. He encouraged the girls by selling them the small pieces they admired at pocket money prices. This year John is retiring. There is a sale on at the shop, but it is hard to buy stuff as the opening times have already embraced retirement mode. He will continue to sell work through galleries, but his own small, white, elegant space attached to the dusty studio will close and he will no longer emerge from said studio to wrap his work in tissue and impart quiet nuggets of information. Good luck to him. We will miss him.

Sunflowers

We grew giant sunflowers in a clutch against the wall. Their size and armored structure fascinated me. it seemed unreal that such a thing could form in a season. The birds sowed a few of their own, smaller and more delicate, but with the same interlocking sepals, which in the sketches become indecipherable from the yellow petals. Here is a composite of some of the sketches.

The Caravette - A Poem by Henry Gibson

Dad bought an aged VW caravette from a bloke at work. It was painted two tone green and looked dull and van like. It was the best car we ever had. Freedom from travel sickness and the ability to see over walls. Cups of tea made fresh wherever we pulled up in it. The world was our lobster!

We toured Scotland in it the first year. The first night we all slept in it, or to be accurate I slept. I had the prime berth over the engine at the back, with the dog at my feet. My Gran lay across the front on a partially inflated air bed and three pillows, she may as well have stayed sitting up. I have no idea where she stowed her teeth. Mum, Dad and Dave top and tailed it in the main bit. Dave sighed a lot. He was in the middle and couldn't breathe. Dad slept with his nose in the slot for the knife drawer. About half an hour in the three of them had to get up for Dave to use the bucket. I knew nothing of this in spite of Mum shining the torch on me to check I was alright. When the spotlight shone on Beaty she was looking straight at it with birdlike fixity startling to behold.

Early next morning Dad had to disengage from his dual with the carving knife to let the dog out. He sighed and announced "The Caravette - a poem by Henry Gibson" a quote from Rowen and Martins Laugh In , which was popular at the time. It made us all laugh and passed into family parlance.