theoldmortuary has been a blog for about five years. It has evolved into an almost daily event. Pondering on the things that are inspired by my daily life. Often mundane, sometimes repetitive I swerve from hyperlocal activity to big and small thoughts without blinking an eye. I am an artist and writer. My hometown is Plymouth in South West England, part of me will always be connected to London and another part loves to travel.
Unexpected twinkle. Yesterday I took the car for a thorough wash and brush up. I realise that sometimes celebrating serendipity is perhaps a little improbable but this little diamond heart was laying on the floor of the garage where the hand-wash men work their magic.
Blogging requires me to use a tracking system for my photos so I have a level of proof of my serendipitous finds.
Car cleaning was predicted to take an hour so the dogs and I went for a wander in the backstreets nearby. Somewhat unkindly I looked at this building and thought that there was not much chance of this particular Phoenix rising any time soon.
Only to discover that this Phoenix had led quite a fabulous life in the past.
Not only fabulous but curiously thought provoking . It’s one thing to be a good skater capable of winning competitions but getting the prize home, a live chicken or pig, would seriously impede celebration.
Until yesterday I was unaware Plymouth was an International Mecca for roller skating. My local district, Stonehouse had 3 rinks. 9 in total for the city of Plymouth. Books have been written about it.
And so the December days get shorter and darker but the white cows have gotten a whole lot brighter. These cows are a nod to the original function of the area of the Royal William Yard where they can be found. Historically cows were delivered here to be slaughtered and then packed onto Royal Navy Ships. The dogs are thrilled that the cows are unbelievable colours, so much less scary. Before the curious cows cropped up, this blog was going to be about the comforting colours that can be found in an open fire. I could not have predicted cows in shades of pink and orange. I am ignoring the green one. I searched for old photos that made me feel warm, just by looking at them. I hope they make you feel snug. Apart from the green cow of course.
This pink and orange was at a festival in Hong Kong.
This shot was a pocket image when I was wearing orange linen.
These are feathers I found at Borough Market and the one below is an abstract painting of Plymouth Barbican in the festive season.
And the red monks below were walking in a park in Seoul.
The vivid wall below was at Tate Modern a few years ago.
Busy waters @theoldmortuary HQ. The first of our Christmas family have arrived. Who knows when I will snatch blogging moments for the next couple of weeks. Contact will be maintained but when I can slip into the blogspace is going to be more serendipitous than usual.
I love this image of an iconic British phone box. Familiar as a symbol but represented in a neglected and dilapidated space. The half hour or so when I research and write the blog are a daily piece of quietude. Inside the blogspace is a meditative and peaceful zone. The inside of these old phone boxes were a similar sanctuary where we would communicate with unseen people just as I am now. Even in busy waters.
Quinces have been an unusual favourite fruit for some time, probably since I was about 5 and aware that my grandparents were often to be found,in the autumn, cooking the very fragrant fruit in a load of different ways. The tree of a neighbour always provided a glut of the lumpy apple shaped fruit. How thrilled was I when my beady eyes alighted on the word Quince on a trip to the local coffee shop.
Then, as if by magic, a newspaper recipe also included Quince.
I’ve tried growing a Quince tree in both London and Cornwall. An epic failure on both counts. But recent success at making my own Quince Jelly makes me think I should try again in my backyard in Devon. Maybe it will be the third time lucky.
I love a mirror selfie. The one above was entirely accidental. I was photographing a card design on my workbench and accidentally flipped to the actual selfie mode and photographed myself in the mirror ball that hangs in the window of my studio. I am the pixelated orange blob in the centre of the mirrorball.
In Venice recently, my feet put in an appearance on an Arnaldo Pomodoro , Sphere Within a Sphere, sculpture. The rest of me is lost in a dark crevice.
And in Dublin I embellished the same sculptors work a year ago
Back in Venice I doubled myself onto an unnamed sculpture by Anish Kapoor.
Yesterday I had to remove myself from my own painting to include it in the blog. Here is the original, a highly glossy resin piece.
I dressed the part to visit a Yayoi Kusama installation in Hong Kong
But most times the reflection is unavoidable. Here I am hanging with Mick, as you do.
Helmut Newton
The serendipity of this blog is that it is two years since the last blog course I attended. The final piece of advice given by my chosen mentor was to put more of myself in the blogs. He absolutely did not mean visually. He wanted to hear my voice in my writing. Any sort of self exposure feels a bit awkward, written or visual but I have tried to take his advice and after two years I am finding the whole thing a bit easier. She says, pulling a quizzical face.
How can I share the joy of a plunge in cold, clean, seawater or indeed the joy of plunging generally.
In life I am a plunger. I love the word. It begins with an upbeat feeling and then ends with a soft J-like sound that feels like a cuddle.
I don’t plunge without regard to safety or without a good bit of research. Plunging is an immersive experience.
If plunge was a Danish word I could see it being trendy in the way hygge has.
To plunge is to do something whole heartedly.
This morning I plunged into the sea. It was breathtaking and wonderful.
A long time ago I painted a plunge. The moment a hand cleaves into water.
In the header photograph I took an image of the inside of a plastic water bottle. The small amount of warm colours merging into crisp blues is another way of trying to depict the act or experience of the moment of peak plunge.
At this point serendipity hits. Last night we quickly left a Christmas music event to head to the Barbican in Plymouth for a different event. The Christmas lights were a fabulous likeness to my water bottle image.
As you can see from these two images the Barbican was full of people intent on ‘ making a night of it’ in the run up to Christmas.
No big deal you might think but here is a plunge into history. Southside Street and the even older New Street which runs parallel and slightly higher; both lead to Sutton Harbour and existed in some form from about 700AD. When Anglo-Saxon mariners settled here trading goods and fish. Greatly developed in the Medieval periods, the pubs, alehouses and brothels would have seen festive drinkers and pleasure seekers making merry at this time of year. For pagan festivals initially, and then for the conveniently timed Christian Festival of Christmas from about the 10th century. Any excuse to banish the glumness of extra long dank and dark nights in a Northern Hemisphere winter.
This contemporary image of groups of people moving from pub/bar/alehouse seeking pleasure in late December is so timeless it slightly unnerves me . Oh to be a time traveller in this area, with appropriate vaccinations. Plunging through history…
Only a week until the Winter Solstice and the shortest day in the Northern Hemisphere. I am not a fan of the shorter days of winter. Dark by 6pm is just about tolerable with daybreak at about 8am and is about as long a night as I need in winter.The extra shortness of days in December and January are, to me, unacceptable.The hours not in darkness should be cold, crisp and bright with sunshine. Is that too much to ask for?
Despite disliking the short day aspect of December and January I have never actively sought out winter sun to break the mood. I am drawn to the folklore around a Northern Hemisphere Winter Solstice. I find it fabulously creative and intriguing, but the further north you go the shorter the days are. Not for me. My perfect trip at this time of year would need to be further South but hold something of the darker aspects of the Winter Solstice. Greece turns out to be perfect for my needs. At this time of year. They have the Kallikantzaros, mythical bad lads, not dissimilar to trolls or gnomes. Slightly longer days and sea water at a temperature that I would happily swim in certainly sweetens the deal.
Which takes me to the answer for today’s prompt.
What cities do you want to visit?
Nafplion is already a favourite city for three seasons of visits, now I have discovered that winter can provide me with angry, hairy creatures at Winter Solstice, there really is no reason not to visit in December.
No reason not to park overlooking the sea.
No reason not to enjoy a coffee in a back street.
And no reason not to enjoy a Greek sunset in December.
With the possibility of meeting some mythical angry, hairy creatures. Winter solstice goals all in the one small, Greek city.
When I decided to mark Advent by celebrating serendipity I had no idea that Serendipity would appear at my feet on a morning dog walk. Just where a dog shadow is projected on the pavement you can see a metal insert. This is one of many Sherlock Holmes quotes that run along this street. For a few years Conan Doyle lived on this street and ran his G.P practice here. These quotations are a gentle homage to the author and his most famous character.
I have walked this way hundreds of times and never before have I seen this particular quotation.
It is serendipitously apt because this blog is almost entirely created upon the observation of trifles. And yet I have failed to observe this quote until today. Doubly serendipitously I used to catch my bus home from University College in London opposite 221 b Baker Street the literary address of Sherlock Holmes.
Yesterday, as usual, the plates in my internal dialogue were spinning.
Is there chatter inside your head? Or is it relatively quiet there? There has recently been a conversation in the media, that I have been aware of, about how busy human heads are. Some people have a chatty internal monologue that narrates their life, while others have a quiet, serene inner landscape. The folks with the internal monologue simply cannot imagine not having one — and vice versa.
My head is a busy, busy space. Now I no longer work for an organisation, it is randomly busy constantly.
I have synesthesia. My thinking and doing processes are not quite the same as other people.
Learning new and difficult skills gently eases the vivid fairground that my internal monologue resembles. Conforming to standard thinking for the benefit of learning, set by others quiets my mind. It was hard as a small person to adhere to the thinking processes of external forces but by the age of ten I had pretty much learned that life was a lot easier that way.
Life as a semi-retired person whose only work is Life, Art and using my transferable skills,does not involve some of the things I struggle with most. Struggling was actually good for me.
I have never quite managed to quit the Fairground for the things on the list below. I pretended to with limited success. I may have fooled others but I knew I was just pretending.
1. Advanced Maths.
2. The Harvard referencing system
3. Foreign languages
4. Colour by numbers paintings.
5. Following instructions.
There are many other things that I struggle with but deferring to my synesthesia, inexplicably, helps me seem competent.
This means that these days my head is much more Fairground than Zen Garden. Because it can be. Leaving my fully creative head at the age of tenish was an entirely pragmatic and practical way to proceed into adulthood. Easing my way back, more fully into my creative head at 60 has been an absolute pleasure. I know that I can function outside the Fairground but the Fairground is a more fertile place for me. Life has given me the tools I need to slip into the Zen Garden. I am grateful to have the choice.
P.S Going into an actual Fairground scares the pants off me. Way, way too stimulating. Entering a Zen space however is absolute pleasure. My internal monologue and real life sit happily at odds with one another.
This blog was inspired by a conversation I had in a choir last night and a conversation when I was mature student studying art.
“Isn’t it great to be yourself again when you work less” ✓
” Synesthesia ? You must love Kandinsy” X
White Zig Zags. Kandinsky. Peggy Guggenheim Collection. Venice.
Below is a link that gives some insight into how synesthesia affected Kandinsy.
I realise that it really is great to be able to think more like myself now I work less. But because I understand my own Fairground better with age it doesn’t necessarily help me to decode Kandinsky and his Fairground. He may not have had a fairground!
Will someone ever write a learned article about me mentally singing Gaudette and painting a Christmas bauble that looks like a blackberry.
I think not! Link below to the definitive Gaudette
Although this image uses a black and white filter the one below is untouched.
I thought my morning photos would be more pleasing. In addition to all the grey there were red buoys in the water and a red-hulled tanker. It took an awful lot of digital tweaking to reveal the red photographically.
Fortunately my day was not monchrome but the colour did come from an unexpected source.
This was the November book for the bookclub I belong to. It was not my cup of tea.
My bookclub meetings are a monthly highlight. The chance to talk about a particular book, as chosen, and all the other books the group have read is wonderful. November’s book was devisive. I think it would be fair to say no-one enjoyed it in a pleasure sense. But that sometimes reading a book that is a hard and at times uncomfortable read is an experience to be treasured for different reasons. I have included a review of the book if anyone is interested.
A book that the book club struggles with creates the most fascinating conversations. A roomful of women with vivid and different life experiences makes for the most wide ranging and thought provoking discussions. We trust one another and share intimate and personal reminiscences that inform and influence how we feel about the books we read. Despite the book being a bit of a hard graft and not particularly my thing the benefits of reading it with a group were huge and our two hour meeting bought colour and texture to my day that the weather was clearly not going to do. I was a little over-caffeinated but I think I kept a lid on my gabbling. Others may disagree.
The caffeine continued to rule my day, and half of the night. I arrived 24 hours and four minutes early for a performance with a choir I have joined. So in answer to todays prompt for bloggers…
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
Yes , of course, but not last night. In other news the target object of yesterdays blog is up in the bathroom.
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