Sometimes I come across an artist who’s ploughing very similar ground to me and occasionally I find someone who’s working with the same materials as me. However, I think that Bird Ross and I may actually be sharing a single brain!

I was looking through old copies of Fiberarts Magazine to see if there was anything I needed to photocopy for my sketchbook, when I spotted a small photograph of a ball of knotted string by Ross.

Bird Ross: 6000 Knots

Anxious that I might have accidentally copied her string work when I came up with the idea for 3 Score & 10, I checked the front of the magazine, but it dated from 2005 and a quick search through my sketchbooks revealed that I was already making 3 Score in Jan 2003.

Kirsty Hall: 3 Score & 10

Rather oddly, Ross’ 6000 Project using knotted string was about 9/11, which of course, I’ve also done a series about. Here’s what Ross wrote about her project:

From the four airplanes (266), the confirmed dead (201), the 5422 people still missing and those that died at the Pentagon (188). It equals a little over 6000. As of today 6077. I wanted to know what 6000 looked like. How can anyone possibly imagine what 6000 of anything looks like, let alone people. What would 6000 names struck from the pages of a phonebook look like? What would it look like in terms of their handprints, their footprints, in terms of the number of people that miss them? It’s like nothing we can imagine. This was my attempt to imagine.
18 September 2001

And here’s what I wrote about my 3,533 (Requiem) piece:

I sat in the space and burnt 3,533 matches over the space of four days. This number is the current estimated number of victims of the terrorist attacks. The matches were then laid out so that both the scale of the numbers and the individuality of each match could be seen. The thing that I really couldn’t grasp about the attacks was the sheer scale. I needed to make work that encompassed those numbers and I thought if I could see objects laid out then I might begin to understand the loss involved.

Of course, I’ve never imagined that I was the only artist who took this approach, I’ve seen other 9/11 counting projects; it’s a pretty natural response for visual people trying to get their heads around the scale of something like this. Still, when I went onto Ross’ website and found that as part of her ‘counting the dead’ project she’d also used burnt matches, I was slightly spooked.

Bird Ross: 6000 Matches

Kirsty Hall: 3,533 (Requiem) in progress

Then I spotted her time clock piece and just started laughing because several days ago I wrote in my notebook, “I should get one of those old fashioned work clocks so that I can punch in and out when I’m pinning”.

Oh, and I’ve also had ideas about using layers of sellotape - guess what, so has Ross!

Bird Ross: Wounded

How crazy is this! Bird Ross and I have never met, I wasn’t aware of her work before this and I don’t imagine for one minute that she was aware of mine but we’re clearly tuned into the same art wavelength! I’m sitting here just giggling because it’s so weird.

My favourite piece of hers is this beautiful little folded paper piece called It All Adds Up. It’s clearly a till receipt and since it’s part of the 6000 series, I’m guessing that it’s folded 6000 times.

Bird Ross: It All Adds Up

Isn’t that lovely. I like the way it’s encased in the narrow glass or perspex vitrine, it sets off the piece so well.

Right, I’m just off to check one more time that there are no pins on Ross’ website!

This would have been posted yesterday but I stupidly spilt tea on my keyboard last night and promptly killed it. Oops. One trip to PC World later and I now have a gorgeous flat aluminium keyboard that’s quieter and easier on my hands and most importantly, not full of tea!

…………….

I’ve started drawing again. Since the start of the year it’s been an on/off kind of thing but I’ve drawn so much in the last three days that I ran out of my preferred heavy duty cartridge paper and had to switch to a lighter weight pad. I went to the art shop but they’d run out too, so I had to order it online. I didn’t come away empty-handed though; I was delighted to discover that Derwent has expanded its range of my beloved Inktense pencils so I bought five new ones to try out and two pads of other paper because being low on paper makes me feel antsy. Of course, I have a drawer full of paper but that was all the wrong size or type. Ha, never underestimate the ability of artists to justify spending money on materials…

I’m still in a bad place with my health so I haven’t managed to work in my studio but I have been lying in bed drawing and sitting at the computer listening to podcasts while I work on the embroidery piece. Like many artists, I have an almost mystical attachment to the idea of ‘the studio’ and I have to keep reminding myself that it doesn’t matter where I make art as long as I get it done.

This is why I don’t have a studio outside my home. I feel bad that I don’t spend enough time in my studio when it’s just up the stairs, imagine how guilty I’d feel if I was paying for the privilege of never getting to the studio. Some artists need the routine of getting out of the house and going to a special place to make art. I understand and respect that but for me, art needs to be rooted in my domestic surroundings or it’s just never going to happen.

Hey, if making art in bed was good enough for Frida Kahlo, it’s good enough for me!

And on days when I can’t make art at all, I can still take photos.

Kirsty Hall: Forget-Me-Nots, June 2008

Kirsty Hall: Clematis Seedhead, June 2008

Kirsty Hall: Garden Visitor, June 2008

Tina Mammoser over at The Cycling Artist has been doing a fascinating series of podcasts about her artistic process. Last night, I listened to the latest one and I was very struck by something she said about how artists are either good finishers or good starters.

I’m definitely much better at starting things than finishing. Truth be told, I often dither over starting things too - I like to get everything sorted out in my head first and then I’ll suddenly dive in and get going. So when I say that I’m better at starting than finishing, it’s all relative: it’s just that I truly suck at finishing.

I’m currently at the stage with the red embroidery (yes, the one I said I was going to finish weeks ago) where it’s very hard to work on it because it’s getting towards an end point. I know it isn’t finished yet but I’m having a lot of trouble deciding where the next lines go. It’s stopped being filled with infinite beautiful potential every time I drop the thread onto the canvas and the narrowing options are making me increasingly uncomfortable.

My instinct is to rush off and start a new one. A better one. One that will somehow miraculously instantly work without all this tedious humming and hawing.

But I’m plugging away trying to finish this one because I know how I am: new work tends to push old work aside and then the old work doesn’t get finished. You wouldn’t believe how much unfinished work I have in my studio. One of the things I loved about The Diary Project was that I had a daily deadline so I had to finish; there just wasn’t the option to sit around being indecisive for weeks on end.

I wonder how I can incorporate that lesson, that discipline, into my regular practice? I’ve noticed that I often do better when the rules or limits of a project are clearly laid out at the beginning. Do I need to make all my work that way though? Surely there needs to be a place in my practice for freeform creativity too?

Sigh, you see how I am - these are the sort of knots I endlessly tie myself in. How odd that sometimes the work flows out of me almost effortlessly and at other times, it’s this tortured, labyrinthine process. My mother says that I always have to make things difficult for myself; sometimes I think she has a point!

If you feel that you need a creative boost this summer, the lovely Camilla is running an online summer school. I’m still swithering about whether to sign up or not; it looks like fun but I don’t know how much energy and time I’m going to have. But I’m certainly going to be dropping in regularly to see how they’re getting on.

I am in a place of struggle with my art right now (as indeed, I often am).

I am second-guessing myself all the time. Is this embroidery good? Is there any point to it? Does it mean anything? Is it derivative and boring?

Bah, and indeed, humbug.

The chief enemy of creativity is “good” sense.
Pablo Picasso

I often have to trick my analytical side into letting me make art because my art is essentially nonsensical. It’s a daft thing to do. Putting thousands of pins in a piece of fabric or tying thousands of knots in bits of string is loopy, I’ve always understood that, whilst at the same time (mostly) believing that it still has value. Yet holding those two opposing beliefs (this is daft/ this is worthwhile) in balance is not always an easy thing to do.

It’s hard to make art when your mind is tied up in knots like this. Often it seems that we artists spend most of our time clearing out the junk in our heads that stops us making, instead of actually making. Hmmm, perhaps it’s time to read one of my favourite books, Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland, which is all about how not to quit. I reread it at least once a year, it helps get me through times of doubt like this.

All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.
Pablo Picasso

I want to get back to uncomplicated creating, making without thinking, joyful making. I miss it. Perhaps I will drag out my pens this afternoon, lie in bed and just draw and draw and draw. I know when I feel like this - dissatisfied, antsy and annoyed with myself and my art - that work is the only cure. I might not make anything good but even lousy art usually moves things along.

One final note: I’m not looking for sympathy here. I am not in crisis, despair or needing reassurance that my art is good: I’ve been through this many, many times before and I know that I will pull out of it and start making again, usually with renewed vigour and enthusiasm. I am well aware that this is a natural part of the artistic process that most artists periodically go through. I’m putting this out there in the hope that other people will learn that this is just part of making art and so that they don’t despair when it happens to them.

And now I’m going to go and take a walk with my camera to get some fresh air, buy something yummy for dinner and hopefully clear my head.

Hmm, apparently I did something weird this morning and this post vanished into the ether even though I’m sure I published it. Even more annoying, it didn’t save most of it, so I’ve had to rewrite it. Fortunately most of it is based on an old piece of writing from way back in 2001, so it wasn’t too much work. I’ve even managed to put in a couple of pictures - if I’m very patient, I can link to photos that are already on Flickr, I just can’t upload any new ones. Using dial-up is like wading through treacle and I can’t wait to get back to the 21st century and a fast broadband connection although I am enjoying hearing the old modem sound again, it’s quite the nostalgia trip.

Anyway, it’s time to raid the vaults… this has been edited slightly to tighten up the language and grammar but is more or less unchanged from the original.

Still Life
1/7/01

I have come to realise that much of what I make is actually Still Life. My photographs, in particular, have a Still Life sensibility. I am looking at small things - like hot raspberries on the beach or the reflection in a bowl of water - and saying that they are small yet important. It seems to me that that is what most Still Lives do: they take everyday things and set them apart so we can truly see them.

Kirsty Hall: Blue Bowl Reflection, circa 1999

Still Life demands that we really look at the flagon of wine and the apple; the bowl of cherries; the lifeless carcasses. It ponders the flowers, the glass and the tablecloth. It shows us the texture of everyday life and forces the realisation that actually these things are amazing: the bread we eat, the soft cheese, the pile of fruit, the luscious cakes, the humble or grand spread. This is what keeps us alive after all. This is what nourishes us. Of course we also need vast epic pictures of the imagination and portraits that force us to look at our frail human bodies. We need art to consider many things but it seems odd that Still Life should so often have been considered the least important subject matter in art, when it deals so intimately with life and death.

Kirsty Hall: Grape Stem, May 2003

Mortality is a vital component of many Still Lives. Those flowers will soon be dead: they are just caught for a moment in time. Caught at the point of perfection? Or perhaps already weeping their petals onto the rough-hewn table or perfect lace. That food will spoil or be devoured by a hoard of hungry mouths. Even that fine glass goblet will eventually be broken or lost. The table itself will be consumed by history. Who knows what happened to the musical instruments, the sheet music or the pile of books? They are lost to us except for this captured image.

It is that quality of stillness that I love most about Still Lives. More and more my work has been edging towards stillness and quiet, not actual silence but definitely quietness. I think I am looking for contemplation and the mysterious void. Stillness is a quality that I associate strongly with the colour white, which is why I think my work has contained so much white in the last two years. I am searching for that perfect moment perhaps, that moment of clarity and stillness?

Sigh, I’m not sure where this week went. Do you have weeks like that? One minute it’s Monday, the next it’s Sunday and you’re not sure what happened to the in-between bit. I seem to be having more and more of them - maybe it’s true that time speeds up as you get older.

I have been working fairly consistently on my embroidery piece this week and I hope to get it finished later today or tomorrow. I’ve decided to set myself an informal target of finishing a piece of art a week because I need a bit of a push.

Kirsty Hall: Red Thread Drawing In Progress, June 2008

It’s been very interesting watching this evolve because I’ve been doing it freehand, so it’s been at least a hundred different temporary drawings so far. It’s impossible to keep things in place, the loose thread spills across the surface and moves with every stitch I make. I find it a very meditative way to work; accepting that perfect arrangements of thread will come and go each time I pick up the canvas.

I once read a quote from a writer who said that as soon as you’d written the first line, your novel was committed to a certain path but before that first sentence, anything was possible. That’s not the case with this work. Certainly as I sew the loose thread into place, the number of ways the remaining thread can fall on the canvas become less and less. Yet until the last few stitches are in place, the possibility of change is still there.

I enjoy knowing that I could do a million of these and they would never be the same. I wish I’d photographed every single variation as I went along - hmm, that might make an intriguing little artists’ book.

Kirsty Hall: Red Thread Drawing In Progress, June 2008

We had tons of rain this week, so I didn’t get as much done in the garden as I’d hoped.

Kirsty Hall: Rain on dill, May 2008

But I managed to get more of the left hand bed planted up and it’s nearing completion, although I need to go back to the gardening centre for yet more plants and some sand to dig into the annoying patch of clay.

Kirsty Hall: Rain on dill, May 2008

I’m learning to accept that gardening - like art - is a process and there will probably never be a time when my garden is ‘finished’. I certainly won’t get everything done this year but that’s OK; any improvement is better than none. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Kirsty Hall: Rain on coriander, May 2008

I guess that’s where my week went - lost in creativity, both indoors and out. Ah well, there are far worse ways to spend your time. I hope you all managed to carve out some creative time this week.

I have a problem with categories. Basically, I’m just not very good at them. I find it difficult to choose tags for blog posts. I have too many sets on my Flickr account. I have too many email folders. I struggle with organising my filing cabinet. I desperately need to go through and rationalise all these things but it doesn’t come easily to me.

In terms of organisation, this is obviously A Very Bad Thing. I constantly lose things and I sometimes avoid tidying up because I simply can’t decide where stuff should go. And then I end up with this sort of thing!

Kirsty Hall: Messy Study, May 2008

[I've tidied my desk since this was taken because the photo appalled me so much. If you have problems keeping your desk clear, check out Inspired Home Office for resources that may give you the push you need. Since tidying up this disaster zone, I've been noticeably more motivated and I'm feeling more on top of things.]

I do have systems but things still stump me. I’ve got a box that’s been sitting in my study unsorted and neglected for 6 months because it’s full of the sort of random objects that I find almost impossible to categorise. The pile of papers to be sorted into my filing cabinet is so large that it’s developed geographical layers and may actually have started to fossilise down at the bottom.

Since I’m so visual, I sometimes wonder if I should simply file things by colour - but I know that I’d just end up spending ages trying to decide if objects were blue or green instead because having trouble with categories is a global failure in my brain.

TIME TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE…

However, while it’s a problem in terms of organisation, being bad at categories can be a distinct advantage for an artist because you can see across boundaries to make associative leaps than non-artists often don’t. Leaps of logic that make perfect sense in KirstyLand often seem innovative and original to others.

For example, this piece called Lost was made for an exhibition in a church. To make the piece, I carefully broke an unglazed bowl, then mended it with glue, leaving deliberate holes. For the exhibition, the bowl was placed on linen and filled with salt water, which gradually evaporated through the porous clay.

Kirsty Hall: Lost, 2003

Lot’s Wife was the inspiration for the piece and I combined her familiar story with the Japanese tradition of mending broken bowl with gold to make them more valuable than when they were whole. I’d read about this several years before and had been utterly captivated by the idea of regarding a mended object as beautiful and powerful instead of flawed and damaged. Somehow in my head, this linked with my sympathy for Lot’s Wife, who was forced to leave not only her home but two of her adult children. In that situation, what mother wouldn’t turn back to see what had happened? Isn’t it interesting that she’s usually held up as an example of female disobedience but if you turn it around, her story can just as easily be interpreted as being about the power of maternal love.

Kirsty Hall: Lost, 2003

As artists, we need to turn things around. We have to learn to look at our problems and disadvantages to see if they also contain power and wisdom for us. It’s time to recognise that the things that make us bad at fitting into the ‘real world’ are sometimes the exact same things that keep us making our art.

I sometimes think I was dreadfully scarred by growing up in the 70’s. I look at the things I make and I can see the legacy of string pictures and macramé.

3 Score & 10 vs crazy 70’s macramé birdcage.

Kirsty Hall: 3 Score & 10, Jan 2006

Random Macrame found on internet but unfortunately I’ve lost the link

I rest my case!

Well, what can I say? Apart from reproduction prints of paintings or images in books, string pictures and macramé were the primary examples of art that I saw as a child. My parents aren’t big art people plus I had three noisy younger brothers so although I’m sure I must have seen paintings in museums, I don’t remember visiting an actual art gallery until I was in my teens. By the time I was 15, I had started taking myself off to galleries at every opportunity and had broadened my art horizons a little but before then, pins and string had featured highly in my formative visual experiences.

Ha, you should think yourselves lucky that I don’t feel an overwhelming urge to make all my art in shades of orange and brown!

I started a new piece on Wednesday and to my eyes it’s got a distinctly 70’s look, probably because it’s on brown linen. It’s another thread drawing but from a brand new series. I’ve been contemplating this particular series for a while now; it’s all to do with pithy phrases, emotional tension, domesticity and lots and lots of red thread. For ages I’ve been collecting strange trite sayings that people use - things like “well, I suppose it could be worse” or “but apart from that, how are you”. I’m fascinated by the emotional gaps in language, the way we use clichés and meaningless phrases, especially in Britain, to cover a vastness of things unsaid. For some reason, this is connected in my mind with endless images of red thread.

Kirsty Hall: Red Drawing, May 2008

I had an image in my head of a red thread drawing on raw linen that I wanted to test out. I found a natural framed linen canvas that may work although I’m not entirely sure about it because it’s sized with clear primer and I think it might be too glossy and stiff. For some reason, I’m a lot more comfortable sewing on framed canvases meant for painting than on loose fabric and when I was in the craft shop, I got scared by the proper linen embroidery fabric and coped out and bought a sized canvas instead. This one is my test piece to see if I can live with the sized surface or if I need to make that intellectual leap and do ‘proper embroidery’ on ‘real fabric’.

It’s odd: intellectually I know that what I’m doing is probably embroidery but I don’t think of it as sewing. Instead, I always think of it as a very slow and laborious way of drawing.

With little bits of thread.

On fabric.

I mean, obviously I know it is sewing. Except that in my head, it isn’t. I cannot explain this.

Kirsty Hall: Red Drawing, May 2008

I don’t know why I feel this way about using cloth. A couple of years ago, I started doing sewn drawings on felt and that didn’t bother me so it’s clearly something to do with the fabric. When I was about 7 or 8, I had a scary primary school teacher who endlessly criticising the sloppiness of my stitches and I suspect this has a lot to do with my fear of using ‘real fabric’ and doing ‘real sewing’. I did like threading shoelaces through pictures with holes in them though (did anyone else do that, what was it supposed to teach us?) and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I now pierce holes in my canvases before threading my needle through. Actually, you have to when using sized canvas because if you make a mistake, the hole doesn’t close up again but I also think it takes me to a safer, happier place than the word ‘embroidery’ does.

I’ve been working my way through Alyson B. Stanfield’s fantastic new book, I’d Rather Be In The Studio.

Instead of reading the book from cover to cover, Stanfield encourages her readers to dive in and read and then act on the chapters that relate to where they are right now. The one that immediately leaped out at me was the chapter on writing an artist’s statement.

I wrote my current statement in the final year of my degree - six years ago this summer! Sure, I’ve tweaked it a bit since then but when I put up my website last year, I realised that it read like something an art student would write to impress a tutor. Obviously that was appropriate at the time but it isn’t so helpful now. However, I needed to get the website up and I knew that I would noodle around until the end of time if given half an excuse, so I decided to let it stand and change it at a later date. That later date has finally arrived. Alyson’s system for writing a statement, based around a series of helpful writing prompts, has inspired me to start writing a statement that’s a bit friendlier and more accessible with much less ‘art wank’ (what, it’s a technical term!).

I thought I’d share some of the process with you, so here’s my answer to the question,
“How do you begin an artwork?”

I usually begin with an idea, often a single sentence written in the notebook that I keep by my bed. My ideas can take a long time to come to the surface and even longer for me to act on them. I’m not a quick artist - I often think about pieces for several years before I make them! A lot of working out happens in my head first and then I usually wait until I’m absolutely compelled to make a piece before I start. It often feels like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces have to be slowly swirled around in my mind before I can start the actual making.

Next the idea enters the test piece stage, at which point it might stall because it just doesn’t work. I’ll noodle around with the test piece for a while, rethinking things, trying other approaches and fitting more pieces of the puzzle together until I eventually find a solution or discard the idea altogether on the basis that it was shallow, pointless or just a bit crappy.

I absolutely love the problem solving aspect of making art. My art needs to work on three different but related levels: the practical level (will it fall down?), the aesthetic level (does it look right?) and finally, the intellectual level (does it convey the right meaning?). All three things must be in balance for me to consider it a successful piece and I constantly look for elegant solutions to all three problems. I like simplicity in my art, it’s good when something is ‘just so’. It’s important that I don’t say too much or too little and I know a piece is right when the solution works precisely and completely.

…..

I don’t know how much, if any, of this piece of writing will make it into the final statement but just being nudged to think about my process again has already proved inspiring and useful. I’m feeling less stuck and more connected to my art than I have for a couple of months.

José Leonilson was a Brazilian artist who died tragically young in 1993. He was only 36 when he died from AIDS, part of that generation of male artists that we lost far too soon.

His work has the sort of quiet melancholy that I always admire.

José Leonilson: 34 with Scars, 1991

I love this piece, especially the indelicate, puckered, slightly haphazard embroidery and the way the fabric is not stretched taut but instead is just hanging loosely on the wall. It’s pretty obvious why I like his work, since it relates quite strongly to my own, particularly my thread drawings:

Kirsty Hall: Parse, 2007

There are correspondences between our respective drawings too - although this small watercolour and ink drawing is more figurative than my style, I could easily imagine it on a Diary Project envelope.

José Leonilson: Desire is a Blue Lake, 1989

I like the emptiness in this drawing, it takes a certain amount of artistic nerve to leave a lot of white space on the page.

I’m delighted to announce that several of my drawings are now available for sale at The Shiny Squirrel.

The drawings were inspired by The Diary Project drawings but they’re done on nice paper instead of envelopes! They come mounted but not framed to keep postage costs down and so that you can choose your own frame. The drawing with the blue ovals is particularly beautiful in real life - it’s my personal favourite from this set. You can’t see it clearly from the photograph but the blue background of the ovals are covered in tiny circles of white ink.

OK, enough sales talk, I need to put some clothes on, dry my hair and then get on the Manley ferry to go and visit the Art Gallery Of New South Wales and the botanical gardens, which are conveniently located next door to each other.

Kirsty Hall: Drawings in progress, Feb 2008

Starting a drawing can be scary. Drawing on crappy paper (that’s a technical term!) can be one way to overcome the fear of the blank page.

When I was first learning to draw, my dad would bring home piles of A3 computer paper from his office for me. It was the large thin folded stuff with perforations down the side. Apparently it sometimes used to spool through the printers and couldn’t be re-used - at least that’s what he told me!

It was great paper to draw on because there was never any fear of wasting expensive cartridge paper: it was already waste, so it didn’t matter if I ruined it. I used to sit in front of the TV drawing actors, newsreaders and the like. Documentaries and interviews were the best because they featured a lot of fairly stationary head shots. For a teenager living out in the country with no access to life classes, it was a surprisingly effective way to practice portraiture and speed drawing.

Drawing the envelopes for The Diary Project was similar - if I messed up an envelope it didn’t matter and I felt no guilt about tossing it in the recycling. In fact, I sometimes used to draw on the front and back of a couple of envelopes just to loosen up or to test out new techniques or materials. Now my envelopes are all finished and I want to take what I’ve learnt into making drawings on ‘real’ paper with the idea of making a series of drawings that could be sold. Yet even after a year of daily drawing, it’s still surprisingly intimidating to sit down in my studio and look at those empty sheets of good paper. Maybe I just need to take a stack of envelopes upstairs to comfort myself with…

Welcome to the Cheat’s Guide To Blogging - find an old piece of writing, edit slightly, add pictures and serve!

I was just looking up some writing from my degree course for an unrelated reason and found this piece from 1999 that I thought was worth posting

…..

Abstract art has always had a very different role than representational art. Representational art is very much tied to how well the representation works. Is it “a likeness”: by its faithful representation of nature does it somehow capture the soul of the person, animal or place depicted? We usually judge representational art on how well it convinces us of the reality of the image.

Our response to representational art is also determined by sentimental factors. Is it a portrait of someone we love or a place that is special to us? Can we sense a little piece of the person’s soul as we gaze into their unseeing eyes? Do we even like cats or eagles or horses? These things affect how a piece of representational art is perceived by the person who looks at it. Something that may seem kitsch, unappealing or simply bad to one person will be cherished by another because of whom or what it represents.

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project Envelope from 5th February 2007

Abstract art is somewhat different. There is less to hold onto. It is a Rorschach blot, a screen onto which the viewer can project their own desires and hidden thoughts. Abstract art opens up the unconscious mind, it forces people to think about what they are seeing.

Many people resist this. After all, it is hard to know what to say when faced with something that doesn’t fall into simple categories like “dog” or “cat” or “child”. We are so deeply used to seeing in symbols and categories that images which do not fall into pre-conceived patterns can be hard to look at. Literally not knowing what we are looking at can make it hard to see at all. Yet it can also challenge our brain to new leaps into the unknown. It can open up places in our mind where poetry might begin. It can inspire us, scare us or anger us.

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project Envelope from 12th December 2007

Historically, abstract art and representational art are often pitted against each other. Personally I don’t see them as being in conflict. I think that people make art and look at art for many different reasons and I think that art needs to be broad enough to encompass many different viewpoints and many different ideas.

Many of the problems that people have with contemporary art stem from the fact that they are afraid of it. I think that people are often afraid of looking stupid if they don’t understand art.

But art shouldn’t be a test.

Hey, half the time I don’t understand art and I’ve looked at a lot of it! I’ve also read extensively on the subject and it’s my opinion that most people who write about art don’t understand how artists think and work. So don’t look at those words first, just look at the piece and think about how it makes you feel. You might not know as much about art as an art historian or critic but how a piece of art makes you feel is every bit as relevant, worthy and important.

Unsurprisingly, there’s plenty to read about goals and resolutions in the blogosphere right now.

iHanna has a good post with lots of inspiring (and occasionally daunting!) links.

Sister Diane from the Craftypod makes the very smart suggestion that you only pick one thing that you really want to do. I don’t think I can quite manage that but it’s something that I’m bearing in mind as I continue to very s-l-o-w-l-y refine my list of goals.

After being in a funk the other day, I did a whole load of journalling on the subject of goals and discovered that part of my problem is that I often confuse my goals and desires with the things that I feel I ought to be doing.

For example, I know I should be getting on with making Pelt…

Now this hasn’t been a problem in previous years, I’ve just stuck those ’shoulds’ right on my goal list and felt damn virtuous about it too. However, in the last couple of months I’ve been following a conscious ‘no guilt’ policy. So if something makes me feel guilty then I do something to get rid of that guilt; this can include finishing things, getting rid of them or paying someone else to deal with it. The ‘no guilt’ policy is working well for me, except that it’s apparently scuppered my usual goal setting, which was firmly based around the concept of guilt.

So often our goals and resolutions are negative - lose weight; quit smoking; get fit in the next five minutes, you lazy person; become a better friend; live life more fully; read more intellectual books; do this ‘good’ thing; don’t do that other ‘bad’ thing. We often seem to start with the idea that who we are right now just isn’t enough and we’re flawed somehow, so the focus always seems to be on making ourselves into a ‘better’ person. Sometimes this can be a good thing - making positive changes in our lives can be very empowering. However, there’s a big difference between making a change because we genuinely want to and punishing ourselves for not being perfect yet.

Guess what, you’re never going to be perfect and neither am I!

What would it feel like if everything on your goal list was completely and unambiguously POSITIVE?

I don’t know either but this year I want to give it a try.

Since I was still struggling with my very insistent ’shoulds’, I did a mind map in my art journal about what I want from the year. Writing out a list of 18 things - some small, some large - that I genuinely want felt very powerful. When was the last time you let yourself think about the things that you desire? And not the things you think you ’should’ want either but the things you honestly want.

Of course, I’m also very task orientated and I love to set myself very defined projects and tick things off lists. So writing things like ’spend more time in the library with the lights off and the candles on’ seemed a little silly at first. How do I quantify that? How can I make that into a proper achievable goal with a definite target? Hmmm, should I start a database to count the days when I manage to sit down and properly relax? Ha, you probably think I’m joking… but many a true word was spoken in jest, says the girl who keeps a database of all the books she reads each year!

My mind map of desires isn’t a goal list yet - the other thing I discovered whilst journalling was that the goals I did best in reaching last year were the ones that were very specific and had quantifiable targets (yay, there is a need for those databases!) - but it is a start in a new, and slightly scary, direction for me.

I’ve been dying to tell you about this since last month and I’m glad that now I can…

I’m delighted to announce that the last Craftypod of 2007 is an interview with me. It’s pretty interesting, if I say so myself, and Sister Diane did a fantastic job in editing our long conversation so that I sound reasonably coherent!

Many thanks to Sister Diane for her great editing, her insightful questions and for being kind enough to ask me in the first place; I very much enjoyed being interviewed by her and what a great way to round off my year of drawing.

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project Envelope from 10th December 2007

In the early hours of yesterday morning I finished a mammoth update of The Diary Project blog because I thought it would look really shoddy to Craftypod listeners if the blog was still stuck in November - it’s helpful to have a bit of a kick every now and then. Apparently I’d had a long enough break from writing about drawing and I was able to do it again without banging my head on my desk. I’m nearly up to date now, I just have a week’s worth of envelopes to write up and then I’ll be all caught up. It’s so nice to be ending the year without that hanging over me.

Wow, I can’t believe that I only have 3 days of the project left to go, it’s a very strange feeling and I’m still processing it: it feels quite unreal.

I’m all out of words today, so here are a few photos that I took this morning.

Sitting on a park bench looking straight up into a grey sky drawn with inky branches:

The pavement is a book we can read:

Soaking my eyes in green:

Sometimes correspondences in your work surprise you. me-jade recently added these two photos of mine as ‘favourites’ on Flickr.

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project envelope from the 26th July 2007

Kirsty Hall: Parse, January 2007

Although I wasn’t conscious of it when I was drawing the envelope, when I saw the two images next to each other, I was struck by how very similar the shapes are.

I’ve been concentrating on updating The Diary Project blog this week: I’m woefully behind on it and it’s getting embarrassing. I’ve been updating the blog in small chunks because that’s all I can manage right now - writing the little musings is getting to be almost impossible. I’ve pretty much run out of things to say about my work: I didn’t know this was possible but apparently it is!

I did an update on Sunday and another one this morning plus I’m about halfway through scanning more than a month’s worth of envelopes. I scanned to the end of October yesterday and felt very pleased with myself before realising that hey, we’re already half way through November.

Here’s my favourite drawing from the latest update:

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project envelope from the 21st October 2007

Hopefully I’ll get another chunk done tomorrow - although frankly, if I never have to write another word about my damn drawings, it’ll be way too soon! In the meantime, I’m off to scan envelopes, which is time consuming but thankfully a lot less mentally taxing and I can catch up on podcasts while I’m doing it.

Having seen the Paying It Forward idea on Artist, Emerging, I immediately wanted to join in, so I headed over to the people Deanna was making things for and was delighted to discover that Kaija from Paperiaarre still had one space. So I’m her third person and I consider myself very lucky because wow, just look at the gorgeous books she makes!

I’ve done a little bit of very simple book binding and it’s a lot of fun but I’ve certainly not made any as luscious as this. She also makes very beautiful handmade brooches.

Anyway, it’s now my turn to pass it on.

Pay It Forward (via Kaija, via Deanna, via Mrs Eliot and so on)*

Here are the rules:

I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days, that is my promise! The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.

Pretty straightforward huh, I agree to make and send something to the first three people to comment, who then make things for their first three commenters and so on. OK, have at it, people…

EDIT: Even though it looks like I’ve got three responders, one of them is my partner and he doesn’t actually want to take part - he was just responding to the question of who came up with the term ‘paying it forward’ - so, there’s still one spot available.

* I’ve tried to find out who originally started this idea but haven’t been able to follow the thread of connections back far enough. Does anyone know who should get the credit?

I’ve been in a creative slump lately because I’ve been unwell. I just haven’t had the energy to do much of anything, let alone making art - although of course, I’m still doing my daily envelopes for The Diary Project. But overall, I’ve just been feeling totally blah about my work - it happens and I know it’ll pass but it’s still not a fun place to be in.

One of the few things that has been creatively exciting me lately is Camilla Engman’s Organized Collection group on Flickr.

So my art practice for the last few weeks has mostly involved collecting little object on the days when I’ve been able to get out and about and just taking simple photos of them on walls or paving stones. It’s small and it’s simple but at least it makes me feel as if I’m still doing something.

Kirsty Hall, found rubber bands, October 2007

Kirsty Hall, found rubber bands, October 2007

One of the things I noticed when I first started joining Flickr groups was how it made me see the world in different ways and how I stretched my photography a little bit because of it. I’d take different photos than usual because I’d think “hey, that would be a good shot for such-and-such a group”. If you’re feeling the need for a bit of a creative stretch, particularly in relation to your photography, then I’d recommend it.

And having said all that, I’m now going to take myself and my camera outside to the garden to see what I can find, before I need to go for yet another rest.

The Diary Project suffered its first real casualty recently when this envelope came back so mauled that the Royal Mail put it in a special ‘oh dear, we’re incredibly sorry’ plastic bag. Amazingly, the contents are still inside.

Kirsty Hall: Diary Project envelope from the 10th September 2007

Kirsty Hall: plastic bag from the Royal Mail

I was totally thrilled, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened so far!

The project blog is currently up to date until the 16th September and should be updated again over the weekend, although we have house guests this weekend so it might not happen until Monday. I’ve been a bit behind with it lately but I’m attempting to get back onto a regular schedule with updates. If I leave it too long it gets completely overwhelming.

I got an interesting email from someone a couple of weeks ago asking me why I post the letters to myself and not to another person. I won’t post their original letter because they haven’t responded to my request to do so but here’s an extract from my reply:

Why do I post the letters? Well, I like the sense of risk involved - the envelopes might get lost in the post or damaged. I’m a bit of a control freak so posting the letters is an interesting way for me to let go a bit. My work has always involved a certain amount of ‘letting nature take its course’ - in the past I’ve often made sculptures that rot, decay or slowly change. I like to open myself up to chaos a little because it challenges me and the posting does that. Plus, I’ve always been interested in the idea of journeys and I love the fact that the envelopes take these little journeys without me.

I wanted to send the envelopes to myself rather than someone else because I wanted to have them all to exhibit at the end of the year. Also, there’s just something very absurd about sending letters to yourself for a year and that aspect of the project makes me laugh. And on a completely mundane level, I absolutely love getting post and because of this project, I get a year’s worth of letters, which just delights me. I get a little bit excited every time a letter comes home safely.

Oh, and I think that posting the letters also stops me cheating. It’s a firm deadline - I absolutely have to get the letter in the postbox by midnight or I’ve failed for that day. It’s good to have that sense of ‘I must get this done’. I know that no one but me would know if I did the letter after midnight but somehow having to go out and post them keeps me honest about the project. I don’t know why, but somehow it works as an external control.

Since I seem to have been on an ‘art made from books’ theme this week, I thought I’d share one of the few pieces that I’ve made using books.

Burn was a small sculpture I did for an exhibition in a church in Gloucester in May 2004.

Kirsty Hall: Burn, May 2004

It’s a glass bottle engraved with the word ‘burn’ and it contains handmade ink that I made from the burnt and ground up ashes of a Bible. Although it sounds rather blasphemous the piece was actually about William Tyndale, who translated the Bible from Latin to English and was strangled and then burnt by the Catholic Church for his efforts.

Kirsty Hall: Burn, May 2004

I was trying to convey the idea that although you can burn both books and people, once an idea has been expressed you can rarely eradicate it completely - even if you burn the books the words will be rewritten and if you burn the people who wrote the words, others will pick up the pen. So to me, it’s a very hopeful and positive piece and I liked it a lot. However, it was tiny and was completely dwarfed by the space. One day I’ll do something with it and the lovely series of photos that I took of the burning Bible and the ashes. Ironically enough, I quite fancy making a book…

Kirsty Hall: Burnt Bible, May 2004

As a dedicated bookworm, I had a bit of moral trouble with the book burning part but it was so integral to the piece that I couldn’t not do it and I have to confess that once I got going, I took a wicked glee in the process. I was also worried that Christians might be offended that I’d burnt their holy book, but I’ve yet to get any complaints.

The following is the text I wrote for the exhibition brochure:

Burn
Glass, ink made from the ashes of a bible

“Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.”
Heinrich Heine

“The paper burns, but the words fly away.”
Ben Joseph Akiba

The Catholic Church burnt not only Tyndale’s Bible, but also more than 1,000 people found with the forbidden text. This work is a memorial to everyone who has been killed for reading the wrong books.

My partner sent me this story about an attempt to make a record breaking amount of porridge. It made me laugh because a couple of years ago, I made some art using porridge and did an accompanying ‘Porridge Performance’ where I made big pans of porridge for people at the private view.

The piece in question was called My Glorious Cultural Heritage. It was a chest of drawers, filled with various items that related to my Scottishness.

Kirsty Hall - My Glorious Cultural Heritage, Feb 2004

Here’s the text from the exhibition it was in:

When I was a child my dad told me that Scottish shepherds used to make porridge and pour it into a ‘porridge drawer’. The porridge would set hard and during the week slices would be gradually be cut off and eaten cold. I remembered this late one night and became obsessed with finding out what a drawer full of porridge would actually look like. Now we all know!

Without understanding the culture we come from, we have no anchor for our imaginations. Recently I have become increasingly fascinated with my own conflicted relationship with my homeland. William McGonagall, Calvinism, a strong work ethic, a dour practical morality, Robert Burns, Celtic romanticism, tartan, shortbread and a harsh Border wind: these are some of the stories that have shaped me.

Kirsty Hall - My Glorious Cultural Heritage, detail

The drawers were collaged with Scottish literature and contained shortbread, a book of Robert Burns poetry, a Bible, a bottle of whisky and of course, the infamous porridge.

Kirsty Hall - My Glorious Cultural Heritage, detail

The ‘Jacobite’ text was made from shortbread and was probably my favourite drawer.

This remains one of the odder pieces I’ve made - I’m still not too sure how it relates to the rest of my work, although collaging the drawers was certainly obsessive. I find it a bit literal now and feel my work has moved on quite a bit from this. I think if I was ever to show it again, I’d take all the drawers out of the chest and just show them and I’d probably alter it quite a lot (I have absolutely no compunction about revisiting and remaking work).

And here’s the porridge making, which I enjoyed immensely and would happily do again.

I had masses of little bowls filled with various nuts, dried fruits, chocolate chips and spices, plus honey, maple syrup, sugar, rice milk and cream so people got their bowl of porridge and then added the things they wanted. It was wildly popular because it was a freezing cold night and many people came back for seconds and thirds so they could try out different combinations. It was a lot of fun and definitely helped the private view go with a bang. Actually, that night remains one of the best private views I’ve ever done because we had me doing porridge plus a fantastic performance piece by my friend Elly and then a live band later one. People ended up staying for hours and it was a real event. I always think it’s worth having things like this at private views, it makes them more memorable and exciting for people.

There are more images of this piece over on Flickr, click on any of the images in this post to get over there.

I did a massive update over on The Diary Project at the weekend. It’s been getting harder and harder to find something to say about every individual drawing, so it sometimes it takes me a while to get the scans up there. I’ve got another six that I uploaded onto Flickr over the weekend that I need to write bits of blurb for.

It’s definitely getting harder to come up with new drawings too, I keep worrying that I’m repeating myself too much but fortunately I hit on a couple of new drawing techniques last night, so that should keep me inspired this week.

I’m going to try to get round to that second Diary Project update later today but right now, I’m heading over to Spike Island to sit in the Associate Space and do some research. I’ve been meaning to get over there and do some reading for ages, they’ve got a small but interesting-looking selection of art books. The thing I miss most about college is the lack of access to decent art books and magazines. I don’t have much of a budget for them (they’re so expensive) so I miss the college library like crazy. The local council library doesn’t have a particularly great art selection and although I can and do order stuff in, I miss the serendipity of random browsing. The little local college where I do my silversmithing course has an art library but it’s so small and after several years of studying there, I’ve read most of the interesting stuff. I’m looking forward to starting back there on Wednesday though because there’s bound to be a few new books and magazines that came in over the summer.

My book consumption slumped drastically over the summer. For some reason I just wasn’t feeling like reading (it happens occasionally, even to this confirmed bookworm!), so I could use a bit of a boost in that area.

Kirsty Hall - art, photograph of Stained Cup

About five years ago I went through my mother’s cupboards and took a series of documentary photos of the objects I remembered from my childhood. This photo is my favourite from the series.

The cup in question is a plastic cup from my granny and grandad’s old caravan. The caravan - and my grandparents - are long gone but the stains of their endless cups of holiday tea remain.

DP 211, originally uploaded by kmhlamia.

I’ve just finished a mammoth Diary Project update and it’s all up to date again. This is my favourite envelope out of the 9 I’ve just scanned.

For those of you who haven’t checked out the rest of my site and seen the ‘work in progress’ section, The Diary Project is a year long art project where I’m drawing on the back of an envelope every single day for 2007. The envelope is then filled with something secret and posted back to myself before my daily midnight deadline. Hopefully next year, I’ll get an exhibition where all the envelopes can be shown altogether and people will be able to open them and investigate the contents. It’s like a very, very slow form of blogging! If you happen to know a gallery who might be interested in showing the work, please let me know: I need to start organising that part soon and any useful suggestions or contacts would be very welcome.

I first came across Solveigh Gott’s excellent textile work when I showed one of her knitted pieces in the Knit1, Build 1 exhibition at the Here Gallery two years ago.

I’m a big fan of her project, The Textile Files. It’s a simple but very evocative project: she collects bits of fabric, attaches them to a file card and then blogs the picture with a piece of related text. I was just checking her blog and saw this picture of pins, which immediately got me excited.

Solveigh Gott: Pins from The Textile Files

I started reading the text and thought “hey great, someone else is working with pins!” - and then promptly realised that the reason the text sounded so familiar was because it was written by me! Yep, she was quoting text from this very website - thanks, for the mention, Solveigh, I’m very flattered to have been included in The Textile Files.

But really, fancy not recognising my own writing - I am such a doofus sometimes! Still, it’s not quite as bad as the time I started reading a list of livejournal interests and thought “wow, this sounds like someone I would get on with, I should friend them” before realising that I’d accidentally backpaged and was reading my own interest list. Still, I suppose it’s positive that I instantly liked myself…

I like to listen to podcasts while I work. I can’t read, write or do anything too complicated whilst I listen but I do often scan and edit photos, knit or work on pieces of art that require fingers and time but not too much thinking. Quite a lot of Pelt - the latest pin piece - has been done to the accompaniment of podcasts.

Kirsty Hall: Pelt, April 2007

Pelt in progress - photographed in April, back when the weather was nice enough that I could make art out in the garden, sigh.

One of my favourite creativity podcasts is Craftcast by Alison Lee. I just listened to the episode with arts business coach, Bruce Baker. I laughed out loud in several places when he touched on issues that have been repeatedly coming up for me recently. I love when the Universe gives you really obvious messages like this. OK Universe, I get it, I’m meant to be thinking about money, selling and learning to give up control of the bits that I’m not so good at!

As I say, I’d already been thinking about these things and I feel that I’m making some pretty big internal leaps in relation to how I feel about my art practice. For example, getting the website up has been a big thing: after years of failed attempts and dithering, I finally recognised that I needed to employ someone to design it or it just wasn’t going to happen.

In a similar vein, I recently joined the Spike Island Associates Programme as a way of networking with other artists and overcoming the invariable isolation that comes with having a studio at home. I went to a private view there on Friday and then to an interesting talk yesterday by Lucy Skaer & Rosalind Nashashibi, who’d collaborated on a film together. The bit where they were talking about getting permission to film in the Metropolitan Museum in New York particularly resonated with me and it forcibly struck me last night that I’m now in the position where I should also be applying for funding and working with institutions who can give me more support than I’ve had previously. I suddenly feel that I’m ready for that and I know that my work is too. Inevitably perhaps, my own perception of my success as an artist is as much about these sudden internal jumps in confidence, as it is about external markers of success.