A few words for Alber

For sometime I have wanted to write about the textiles we printed for our first offering of interior pieces and to explain something of their meaning.

The imagery first emerged whilst carrying my daughter, Alber. The feelings of change at that time were seismic and constant. Bewitching and laborious, both my body and mind were made hard and soft, yielding, giving, taking. I recorded my experience in words addressed to her and this testimony led to the formation of the shapes and compositions of Mollior’ and ‘Sprung.

Before this determined seed was sewn I noted that my body had done very little to surprise me. Bones had taken the brunt, the moon had brought blood but nothing had yet taken place as transformative as the arduous and graceful act of carrying and keeping a small spotless peach. I spent many nights wide eyed visualising my body as it compensated for the nameless but nonetheless well established dot at my centre.

These musings became repetitive scribbles, which became balanced studies, which in turn became paintings, which inevitably made their way to the print table. Mollior; the final work in three panels, is the mark of a moment in my time as a mother. Mollior being a latin conjugation of molliō- to make soft.

Like a nervous gardener I readied myself for the inevitable change in the season but a fear of the slow and unstoppable spring overwhelmed me. With the freedoms and easy energy of my days numbered I mourned for old paths and old ways. My ripe days were over, I was now bearing my own fruit. ‘Sprung’ became a repeat print in two colour ways.

I’ll end with a passage I discovered last week whilst reading Dylan Thomas' anthology of verse 'The colour of saying,' its taken from Laurence Binyon’s poem ‘The burning of the leaves.’ It does well I think to articulate this timely journey from grief to wonder.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare, Time for the burning of days ended and done, Idle solace of things that have gone before: Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there; Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind. The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more. They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour, And magical scents to a wondering memory bring; The same glory, to shine upon different eyes. Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours. Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.