jane brocket

life through a new lens

It has been a thoroughly dislocated summer, one in which Phoebe has learned the meaning of 'discombobulation' and used it correctly many times. But after all the vicissitudes of the last four months we are able to focus a little more clearly now, and see that we have gained some good perspectives even though a few things remain blurry. If I sound like a photography manual, it's because I've been reading one. I have a new camera to go with my new vision and, for once, I read the instructions before playing with it. It's a Leica D-Lux 4 and I love it.*

I'm not sure which settings I'll use on a regular basis, but so far the camera has done a good job in making the tunnel of runner beans at Helmingham Hall look green and very pleasant (but just what will they do with all those beans?).

It's made the peaches in the same garden look incredibly peachy (they also smelt deliciously peachy).

It has picked up texture on an old terracotta rhubarb forcer as well as the crinkles and shine on ruby chard leaves.

 

It makes the scene of allotments below Orford Castle look grandly British.

And it sees red (and rot) very clearly.

It does clever things on aperture prioritywith fennel on blue skies,

and brings out the sweetness of sweet peas bought from a table outside a local house where payment is via an honesty box.

So far my little Leica has helped me to see the good things that are going on. I hope it lasts a long time.

*all photos seen here since 14 August have been taken with the new camera.

ripe plums

 

I don't think there's a single summer picnic in the Famous Five books (and many others) by Enid Blyton that doesn't feature ripe plums. They are stuffed in pockets, knapsacks, bicycle baskets and paper bags, they are enjoyed by rivers, streams, lakes, pools and campfires, at the tops of hills and at the edges of cliffs, on grass, sand and heather. I think of all these warm, juicy plums eaten by Anne and George, Dick and Julian every time I see plums in markets and greengrocers' shops and most especially when they are weighing down the branches of trees, begging to be picked. I didn't have a bag or a basket with me when my friend said I could have as many as I liked, so I picked a pinnyful of plums to eat immediately.

 

And the leftovers went in the fridge so that I could eat them while thinking of my other favourite plummy writer, William Carlos Williams: in this poem here that I have loved since I first read it as an imperssionable teenager and in this poem here that tells me I might still be finding solace in plums when I am old (and preferably wearing purple and a red hat).

mystery

I had hoped that by reading Raymond Chandler once more, I might begin to understand the plots of his books. But this time round I realise that it doesn't matter if I don't have a clue about the doubloon plot in The High Window as long as I enjoy the ride. The writing is so good, the style is so pared, the settings are so cinematic that I can see it all in my imagination but just can't quite work out who killed whom and why and in what order. A true mystery.

signs

I discovered the beauty of signs and signage and lettering when I was at university. I became aware of the variety of letters and signs on shops in particular, and the fact that they were disappearing all too quickly and giving to give way to the bland, plastic, homogenized hight streets that we now have. I had a friend who was very keen on photography and he suggested I started taking photos of the signs over which I was waxing lyrical as we travelled around Britain together and make a book out of them. I didn't, but now I wish I had. So many of the signs created in all kinds of materials and in all kinds of styles have gone forever, and I regret not capturing them on film.

On holiday in Suffolk I found myself photographing signs without thinking, and was reminded of my friend's prescience. It's never too late to do anything, I know, but I have seen quite a few books of old signs and realise I may I missed the boat with this one (my favourite is Designage and there are great books featuring the old signs of Lisbon and Porto).  

But there's still enough to keep me amused and intrigued. Like the fantastic punched-out letters on Maggi Hambling's Scallop on Aldeburgh beach.

Or the weathered, hand-painted signs outside the fishermen's huts.

And the wrought-iron sign for the boating lakes at Southwold (where there is a very good cafe serving tea and excellent cake).

 

I liked the stencilled sign on the lifeguard's hut, and the painted 'keep clear' sign in front of the deckchairs.

and loved the inventive Southwold Pier sign that bobs up and down like the sea. (We thought the pier was fantastic and recommend it to anyone visiting Southwold - especially the totally unique and entertaining Under the Pier Show.)

I like the fact that signs can appear anywhere, such as the side of an old delivery bike (leaning against a very beautiful wall),

or on the side of a hut.

And the fact that so many sign-writers have a well developed sense of humour.

resin revisited

 

When I was little we had a very heavy, round glass paperweight which contained an orange flower and a couple of leaves (somewhat like a water-lily crossed with a nasturtium). But if you looked very carefully, you could just see a tiny frog sitting on the edge of one of the leaves. I spent ages holding the smooth dome in the palm of my hand, terrified in case I dropped it but at the same time trying to work out how the maker had managed to suspend the flower, leaves and frog so beautifully in the glass.

It is this freezing, capturing, imprisoning quality that fascinates me about resin, makes me want to touch the smooth, warm surface and to turn the piece over and over looking at whatever is held within from all different angles and wondering at the cleverness of a material that, like glass, can hold something in suspended animation and make it special by doing so.

It is this same quality that led me to do a resin jewellery course at West Dean in March and to discover my sculptural limits. That personal disaster also made me wonder if I'd made a mistake in booking a second resin weekend this summer, the one from which I have just returned. It turns out that I hadn't, and I am very pleased that I decided to revisit resin.

This time I knew what I wanted to achieve; I had moulds to do the hard work, an idea of a couple of colours to create, plans to imprison some model farm animals, and a determination to enjoy the process. Working outside on the beach reduced the toxic shock, and with complete freedom to experiment and to be as simplistic or as ambitious as I liked, I managed to find my own level. It just turns out that this is not particularly sophisticated and is still very much inspired by the paperweight.

 

So I made farmyard bangles with model animals. I put a layer of green for grass in one and then spent ages pressing down the sheep so that they would graze on it, but all to no avail. It amuses me that it was the one pig in the bangle that stayed down, which contradicts the saying that 'pigs may fly' when in fact it's sheep that really do. I also wanted to make a creamy yellow colour and used this as the bottom layer of a 'pigs in custard bracelet' with the odd gambolling/flying sheep.

 

I played with model train passenger in little lozenges of clear resin and started to think how they represented the isolation of the modern-day commuter, stuck in his or her own self-created hellish miasma etc etc etc, and then decided they might just be railways figures in resin that needs polishing (but I could quite see myself doing mini Damien Hirst-style pieces...).

 

Still, it makes, you think, all this resin stuff. Worth a revisit, any time.

the gentle rattle of tea cups on the beach

 

I extended my holiday by whizzing home from Aldeburgh on Friday and whizzing back out to Whitstable for the weekend. I cannot resist the promise of tea and cake on the beach, a swim in the sea, lovely company, and a creative challenge (more about that next time).

All of which materialised in this very magical place.

(chocolate cake with the most wonderful ballet dancer candle-holders I've ever seen)

(the view at low tide)

(kitchen table with home-grown dahlias)

(playing with fallen crab apples)

Just lovely.

flutterby

 

(Tortoiseshell butterfly outside our holiday house photographed by Phoebe)

A week's holiday in Aldeburgh has fluttered by as gently and as softly as a butterfly. We were surrounded by Tortoiseshells and Peacocks and Lesser and Greater Whites, blue skies, warm winds, shooting stars (the beach was the perfect place to see the Perseides on Wednesday night) and girls. We read, we walked, we ate, we drank wine. We had a lovely, lovely time.

hit and miss

 

(hydrangeas at Petersham Nurseries)

It's definitely been a week or two of hits and misses, good and bad, swings and roundabouts, ups and downs. They are minor in comparison to the other real life stuff that has been going on, but they all add up to a rather mixed time of late.

Hit: The World that was Ours is brilliant. It's shocking and moving and puts most of life's lesser issues into perspective.

Miss: on the other hand, much as I love the cover of The Good Plain Cook, I struggled to read it. I realise that, in stark contrast to the people in Hilda Bernstein's book, I simply didn't care what happened to the characters.  

Hit: Cia Blum at Cia's Palette has extended the concept of customer service to include sorting out a package of fabric that has crossed the Atlantic twice without reaching me, and she sells lovely fabrics.

Miss: the yarn website (attached to a shop here in the UK) that sent me 14 skeins of a yarn, two of which are missing their tags, leaving me not totally convinced they are from the same dye-lot as the rest. Shame on any yarn supplier who does not let the customer see this vital information; no-one should take advantage of the customer not being present at the transaction (as the receipt says) because you can bet it would not have happened if I had been.

Mis-hit: my camera took a direct hit when I dropped it while taking the simplest of shots. I am v. cross and have stamped my foot and wailed a great deal, but still it is broken. Damn.

Miss: it's been one of those knitting weeks: I spent ages knitting what I thought was DK yarn on 4mm needles wondering whether its thinness was some sort of yarn company cost-cutting exercise before finally reading the label and finding I'd bought 4 ply by mistake. Damn, damn.

Miss: my pathetically stunted morning glories - inglorious at all times of the day. Damn, damn, damn.

Hit: but I have brilliant orange, crimson and gold nasturtiums creeping all over the ground and around the sunflowers in my patch of annuals. They have not given up with this weird summer, thank goodness.

Hit: reading do you mind if I knit. Vanessa's colour, friendliness and vivacity cheer me up every time.

Hit: The Persephone Post is like a  daily spoonful of something that is not only good for you, but also tastes nice. It gives me an image or a thought to walk around with for a while, but without any fuss or excess baggage.

Hit: Prosecco - great fizz for times when the bubble has burst. 

Miss(ing): my computer almost gave up the ghost at weekend but has been resucitated by a clever PC doctor. However, he wasn't able to save my email and all my email addresses so I am back to a blank page and empty address book. If you were waiting for a reply to an email, I'm very sorry but I can't send one.

pom pom pom

Ever since I was little, and long before it became an ironic-kitsch-cool thing to like them, I have loved all sorts of dahlias. Big ones, little ones, single colour, multi-colour, tastefully pale or flamboyantly bright, they are all fantastically decorative and cheering. It's always a treat to find a garden with carefully cultivated dahlias (one of the best is Sarah Raven's) because, much as I adore them, dahlias require a great deal of care and attention. We don't lavish ours with much of either, and they have to take their chances with us leaving them in the ground long after we should and planting them much later than we should. Nevertheless, we seem to produce a few dahlias every year and they are always greeted with delight.

Simon usually remembers to put a few in; this year we have a clutch lovely, simple scarlet and yellow dahlias in our stone trough which have all the hallmarks of pre-meditated planting. But a few days ago I found a couple of these fabulous, perfectly formed orange pom pom dahlias rising up above the potatoes I'd bunged in a space at the last minute - it seems Simon had found a few tubers and planted them next to my tubers.

The first thing I want to do when I see a pom pom dahlia is to cup it in my hands to feel its tight roundness and firm petal structure. Then I have to scrutinise it closely to work out how nature manages to produce something so beautifully neat and tidy. And then I cut them and bring them indoors to put on the table so I can look at them while I eat my potatoes (when we finally get our kitchen back).

I like the name, too, with its gentle resonance and suggestion of brass bands playing tiddly-om-pom-pom in old-fashioned bandstands in municipal parks with formal bedding full of carefully staked dahlias the size of dinner plates. And not a hint of irony.