‘There are some losses that change the trajectory of your life’ P.Diddy
Puff Daddy, P.Diddy, Diddy or even Sean Combs his real name, is talking about the death of a woman he loved and shared three children with.
Significant losses or negative events do change the direction that life takes.
As an optimist and someone who likes to reflect on my half-full glass I am guilty of skimming over negative outcomes and always trying to find the best in people and situations.
Reflecting on the negative is not somewhere I feel comfortable but just acknowledging that negatives and positives have equal power to change the direction of life is somehow a quite relaxing thought. Just as the planned and unplanned have a similar capacity.
A ponder is not what I expected when I read an article about a Billionaire Rapper. Just one thoughtful sentence. Of course I have lived the reality of loss altering life’s directions. As has every human. But until today I could not have expressed that sensation so eloquently.
Ponder #682 was a tragic historical blog about Slapton Sands but we had a fab time in the sun on the eponymously named Sunday. It was a vanlife day that started at 8am with breakfast.
There was also a Sunday newspaper to be read. Walks to be had and for Hugo some basking
Lola takes things a little further, or maybe less far, and lounges in a sunbeam.
For the humans days like this are about catching up and nattering. We have a friend who is going through a very raw grief currently. We have both been through that journey and seeing friends hitting such a life changing event is hard to witness with grim personal experiences to recall. But we are fine and imperfect examples of getting through both sudden, traumatic, grief and the slow destruction of terminal loss. It is good to talk of love and loss on a sunny day, on a beautiful beach with some dark history. Because we all need to know that the sun will come out again, even in dark places.
When the tourist season releases its grip on the towns and villages of the west country we take off in the van, park up somewhere as pretty as possible and enjoy exploring in the less busy months. Dartmouth was our destination of choice this past weekend.
We arrived by ferry when the sun was low in the sky.
And parked up next to the river.
A domestic admin failure had given us some free hours in the day which gave us the chance to get to Dartmouth with enough daylight to find a sleepy spot for the night and explore the town on foot. We managed more than 10,000 steps in a couple of hours in quiet streets. I have worked in Dartmouth a lot more than twenty years ago and know that that sort of foot work would be impossible when the town is buzzing with happy visitors.
We made it to Bayards Cove Fort. Vital in the defence of the town since Tudor times.
Above: No further than 200m away, wooden ships would have been easy targets. A simple wrought-iron gun, fired a solid round shot weighing about 1.5kg. It could hole a ship at the waterline and create havoc amongst its crew.
The fort wall has II arched openings, or embrasures, each for a heavy gun. Looking through these, you can see that they are angled carefully to cover a particular area of water. The guns would have been fired in turn as a ship moved into the field of view.
The only wooden boat on the water when we were there was little Sparky. We didn’t have the firepower or inclination to blow him out of the water.
Sparky with Kingswear in the background
There was some fabulous rust in the fort. It would have been uncharacteristic if I had not grabbed a photo of it. It is certainly not part of the original structure and was probably put up to keep tourists like me from plunging into the river while taking photos.
Our evening meanderings took us on lovely historic streets that meandered from the banks of the river up the hill towards the top of the valley. We enjoyed the architecture and the dogs enjoyed the smells. To add some authenticity to an ancient port we came across some career drinkers in a piss soaked alleyway. They optimistically offered us the sorts of historic pleasures that it was easy to decline.
The towns pubs buzzed as dusk and then darkness arrived. We were in the town, unintentionally,, during the 62nd Dartmouth Fishing Festival. Saturday was only day 1 with two more days to go, so no celebrating to speak of but tactics and with fisherfolk, the inevitable tales of the ones that got away. The towns bandstand , near our parked van, had been the hub of the day-one close of play meeting. Having only just arrived we couldn’t fathom what we were listening to. As we wandered the streets later we had a bit more understanding, but only a bit. The only fish we saw were in an art gallery.
5 Spratts- Giles Ward. The Rose Gallery, Dartmouth
My weekend blogs were a little sombre but blogging/pondering is only ever a snapshot of a moment. So while the sombre thoughts got a little blogspace the fun stuff was happening . It might take me all week to write about that.
Not a bad place to write a blog from. Slapton Sands, South Devon.
Good weather and a diary malfunction gave us some extra hours in the day yesterday. We took off to another town, Dartmouth for an afternoon and evening of exploring.
We overnighted by the side of the river. Our early morning wake up was very peaceful.
This blog was planned to be about Dartmouth but one tiny event at Slapton Sands pushed Dartmouth on to tomorrow.
A landing craft arrived and suddenly the history of Slapton Sands seemed the thing to ponder.
Frivolous pondering seems a little at odds with this moment. I will pencil that in for tomorrow.
The links are fascinating and sad, if you have the time to read them . I realise now that as soon as this Official Secret was lifted in 1974 my parents booked a holiday in this area in September 1974. There were so many veterans visiting the area. I suppose I thought that was normal, and it may have been. But there were lots of American tourists visiting this coast. Definitely not so many in recent years, but next year is the 80th Memorial.
Here I am casting a long shadow. I pondered on the subject of this ponder. My ponder is not particularly upbeat Saturday but sometimes some ponders just need to get out. I’m sure all women who have worked in hospital environments would have experienced unwanted sexual attention from male colleagues or patients. Yesterday with my group of bobbers I saw a man I had last worked with more than 20 years ago. He was in our bobbing zone. At work we all needed to get along with him to make the working day go efficiently. He had an exterior persona of being chatty and pleasant but would throw in inappropriate comments in such a way that I questioned if I had heard correctly. There was also an element of having to engage in his, sometimes, flirty behaviour to get a job done.
One of the other bobbers had worked at the same place at the same time. She quickly got as far from him as possible. Rather than get changed near him I pulled my swimming stuff over my underwear. Checking that all the other bobbers were getting ready to swim with minimal flesh on show.
We all jumped in for a bob and I kept an eye on him. He was staying a long time in the changing zone, chatting and being charming I am sure. I decided that when the time came to get out I would tell all the bobbers to move their stuff to a different place to get changed.
I am certain he would have done nothing beyond watching and chatting but that is not really the point. For twenty years in the eighties and nineties many women at that place of work knew to be cautious around him. Did anyone ever share their experiences with their line managers. I think it is extremely unlikely. Could he get away with such behaviour in the twenty-twenties. Probably. How many women could tell a similar story, even now.
This is not headline grabbing stuff but it is low level intimidation and it casts a long shadow.
Facebook Timehop keeps coming up with old friends. Not the human sort but artwork that I have entered into exhibitions and then sold. October is traditionally the beginning of my artistic hibernation. Last exhibitions have been entered and the unsold works return to the studio. My work is not particularly gift-worthy so unlike many artists my exhibiting season does not extend towards Christmas.
I have got into the habit of having an experimental phase for a few months from November until February and then I knuckle down to create some new pieces to replace those that have sold the previous year. This year has been a little different in that some large works that had been leased/ loaned to a company that had huge white walls, were returned to me when the company moved locations. The last one of these pieces was sold last week.
Deadheading
I miss paintings when they are gone. Just as dog breeders probably miss puppies.
The one below was given a high gloss resin coating so the farewell picture also features a self portrait of the artist. (Me)
Dive
As paintings are sold and others return the studio gets a bit of a reshuffle. I’m not entirely sure how a reshuffle differs from a tidy up but this year there is a distinct difference. The tidy up meant I completely lost two monoprints that have an interested buyer. The reshuffle of this week has found those monoprints and an original watercolour which I need to make some cards.
Nearly there trees.
One more original to find. Pumpkins also needs to be turned into cards but somewhere between the tidy up and the reshuffle he has gone missing. So missing that there is not even a photograph!
In contrast to these pictures my experiments are quite different and may never see an exhibition. Yesterday I painted Storm Agnes in Tranquility Bay. A slightly strange mix of reality and imagination, but that is the point of experimentation.
Storm Agnes in Tranquility Bay.
It does me good to reconnect with sold pieces of art. I had almost decided to stop painting bigger pieces as they are so difficult to store, but seeing these has galvanised me into future action on bigger canvases. They, at least, never go missing.
Bright October sun gave me this image yesterday. It was a day for walking and enjoying good weather. The rust coloured scratches on the paving slab caught my eye as the orange leaf briefly landed at my feet. I had no idea until later that the shadow had formed such a perfect leaf shape. Nature and sun accompanied me on my coastal meanderings.
The sea was in a very calm mood, so much so that I was tempted to go for a solo swim despite having a 6pm one booked with the bobbers. Waiting was the right idea. We were not alone in the bay, a small choir of women had gathered on the beach. As we swam they sang. Strange unknown sounds filled the cove. The incoming tide pushed them closer and closer to the small cliffs that surround our swimming area. If this had been a summer or winter solstice we might have anticipated such an unusual experience. Even the pragmatic bobbers crack out a candle or two for special swims. No merfolk were summoned while we were swimming. A fat seal snacked on a big fish. We probably stayed in the water a little too long, but unexplained singing to the sea is not our usual experience of the Wednesday evening bob. The moment was quite cinematic . The singing was not exactly joyful, New-age , part chant, part song; soaring notes with harmony and discordance woven together. There was a lot of hugging. We clambered out as their last notes filled the air. Hot drinks were needed by both groups of women. The magic , or moment, broken by the need to warm up, and for the bobbers to chatter about their mid-week lives. Chocolate may have been involved.
The evening dog walk fueled by a left over bobbing chocolate.
P.s This blog was deliberately written before I have had the chance to email one of the singers to ask what they were doing.
After the bob we learned that one of our Bobbers’ mothers had died the previous day, I wish she could have been with us last night, as a singer she would have appreciated what ever it was we experienced.
My daytime yesterday was a series of jobs. Intrinsically with not a jot of anything worth blogging about. Apart from the evening which was fab. But sometimes the prompts that my blogging platform puts out each morning hit a nerve. This morning was such a moment. Yesterday I ran out of sticky tape to wrap a parcel. I had also run out of a specialist tape used for framing pictures. It made logistical sense to buy both from a specialist art shop. But as you can see there are four items in the above picture. Nowhere on my mental shopping list did a rose gold highlighter or an off-white marker feature. My exact thought as I walked out of the shop was .Why can I never just buy the two really dull items? Why does every trip to an art shop tempt me to buy more materials?
So with the two additional items in hand I then ponder where the fault lies. The culprit I decide is the specialist framing tape. I could have popped in anywhere and picked up parcel tape and just picked up parcel tape. But Loxley Gumstick Handy Artist Gummed Tape is a very dull looking product. I had to search it down . Past every known and unknown art product.
Then my pondering attention turned to the parcel tape. Had I not needed it to wrap a birthday gift, I would not have needed to be anywhere near the art shop because the framing tape was not a super urgent need.
Is not buying unplanned items a skill?
Is it even possible in an art shop ?
Two questions worthy of a ponder…
Maybe the blame lies with the birthday girl whose parcel needed wrapping.
Maybe I should just accept that for a trip to an art shop, only two unplanned items was not such a bad result and that the fault is all mine.
My little corner of the southwest of England has emerged from a few days of low cloud. Not exactly our familiar greige but just very low cloud, making life a bit damp. Another unwelcome side effect is that all the brightly coloured autumn leaves become a rather dull shade of brown as soon as they spend any time on the ground.
Autumn is a tricksy time for dog owners, hunting a poo, even one done at the end of a lead can be so difficult even in brightly coloured leaves.
This beautiful leaf was in Dulwich Picture Gallery Park. Somewhere I have hunted autumnal poos often. There is a wonderful sculpture by Peter Randall-Page that celebrates doggy defecation in the same park.
Walking the Dog I, II, III by Peter Randall-Page
No chance of missing those doggy dollops. But real life is not like that,so my autumn will be spent peering into piles of leaves. I don’t always find my target, so by way of reparation I pick up a less diligent dog owner’s abandoned poo. There is something slightly uncomfortable about picking up a cold anonymous poo. Community spirit is not always comfy.
Rather a lovely but not interesting answer. My Grand daughters first Birthday. However if we roll back a year my response would be different. The tomorrow of exactly one year ago was my daughters first day of her maternity leave. She was in London and I was as far west as it is possible to be in Devon. My priority for that day was to pack my Nana bag. A bag that would be grabbed some time in the next month or so when I would be needed as number 2 birthing partner.
There was a mental list , thank goodness, because at 2a.m my granddaughter decided to start her arrival. Some of the mental list made it into an actual bag and I made it into London in time for her grand entrance. Despite the A303 doing the overnight closure thing and the London rush hour doing its daytime thing.
So if I am ever asked on the second of October what my priority for tomorrow will be. The answer is likely to always be the same.
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