Today I spoke to one person.  At about half three a man came in a vintage car.  I was actually really busy but the prospect of contact with another human being drew me out into the wind. He was leaving back a grass strimmer, he told me so and then just got on with it and so did I.

I’m preparing for the papermaking workshop tomorrow.  I have no idea if anyone is booked on it but I’m ready even if nobody turns up;  I’ve made a mould and deckle out of a frame I found using a rusty saw, a red biro, a staple gun and some material for making hats.  I’ve brushed off 100 couching cloths, rinsed the boiled reeds, and collected all the containers I could find, moved the tables and cut down some long grass to boil tomorrow.

Did I mention I also applied for an opportunity in Geneva, made a loaf of soda bread, stewed apples and did a load of washing.  I’ve just finished sweeping and mopping and it’s just turning 6pm.  Might take a wee run out on the bike cos there’s a few hours before it gets dark. 

Yesterday I did absolutely nothing because I was contorted with anxiety.

I left the serenity of the mountains for the city this weekend and it’s been emotional.  I experienced sunshine and seagulls alongside serious economic and social debate at This Situation by Tino Sehgal and then crashed back to the true reality of poverty through Seamus Nolans 10th President.

On Wednesday as I sat slurping tea with Heidi, discussing our plans for upcoming residencies; she will go to Paris on 1st May for one month, I will go to Leeds for a week at the end of May.  As a plein air painter mainly working in rural locations – the city will be a challenge for her.  I must produce and exhibition in one week at Leeds.  The finer details are all to be worked out on arrival.  It is exciting but also I think we both feel apprehension around what it is possible to produce in these circumstances. So why do it, and how does it affect the work you produce? 

For now I have relocated to the Gaeltacht, not far from my home, but far enough away for me to dedicate my time to making art without feeling guilty about choosing this activity over housework or spending time with my family.  I’ve been productive; I get up go to the studio, make work, talk about making work, think about work, write about making work.  In the evening I can call my friends and family and at the weekend I go back and work in the little shop and have family Sunday dinner.  It’s like having a normal full time job (and then working part-time at the weekend).  

If I were at home I would not have a studio or a space of any kind to go to.  I think this is the key to making art – having the space to do so, and this is what residencies offer: a place where you are supposed to make art. Of course you still have to do housework, cook and clean up after yourself but the rest of the time is working and living as an artist. If you are lucky there are other artists around to discuss art and if not you can talk to yourself in the form of a blog, although I believe there are a few who actually read what I blurt out.

I had a fairly good reason to leave my safe studio and head for the city; I had been invited for an interview at one of Dublin’s most established artist led galleries. Due to various factors a friend has worked out I have about 5% chance of getting this job, but it was still worth the trip.  It’s always good to meet people in your field. The art world is so small but getting in the door is not easy.  If a door opens only slightly artists must wedge their foot in there and hope that they are wearing the appropriate footwear.  As it turns out I was wearing shoes that “mean business and look good whilst doin’ it”[1].  Hopefully this is the kind of candidate they are looking for and they saw my shoes.

Those shoes took me to the National Concert Theatre where IMMA have temporarily relocated.  I was quite overwhelmed by the exhibition downstairs ‘I Know You’ and my feet were in bits as I finally made it up the stairs to Tino Sehgals work.  I’d never experienced his work and so it was very daunting.  I don’t really want to say much about it because you have to be there yourself but I spent about half an hour in the room with the six performers and began to drift off when they turned their conversation over to me.  I was daydreaming, it had started when I was contemplating something there were discussing about being involved in your community and I started to wonder about this dynamic between me as the viewer/audience and they as performers.  The sun was shining in the skylights warming my aching feet which were now stretched out before me when they pointed to me and asked: what did I think?  As usual I was too honest and admitted that the sound of their voices had carried me off into the fluffy clouds and I was not even aware of their current dialogue.  They did not seem offended and I stayed for a while as they pondered on the world outside above them, then I made my way down to Temple Bar where I visited Sean Nolan’s 10th President.

Outside on the streets of Temple Bar some young men were singing, maybe imitating Justin Beiber and they were being cooed at by a large group of young girls with backpacks.  Men in and out of white vans carried tools and drilled into the road.  The last of the deliveries for the bars and restaurants were being dropped off by people navigating the cobbled streets laden with boxes.  Inside the bars the cover bands played and tourists sang along clutching their pints of Guinness.  A group of charity collectors stopped for an al fresco coffee in the all too infrequent Irish sunshine. 

Amidst all this drama, I entered a glass door on the corner and was confronted with the background story for the 10th President. The show was minimal; a poster, a framed letter from Michael D Higgans and a small table with booklets. As I read the vinyl on the wall I began to well up with emotion.  I tried to walk as calmly as I could around the corner when a film was playing.  In the dark I wept as the text in the film told of this young boy who died aged just 10 years old from abuse whilst in the care of the state.  Because he was poor his life was not valued and he became the victim of the frustrations of those whose job it was to care for him.

The artist has requested that this young boy become the 10th President, the highest honour that can be given to a citizen.  Nothing can undo what harm has been done, but this act which I feel could not have been requested by any other representative only an artist shows what art can do to be part of the community and give a voice to those who are invisible. Surely it is our responsibility as artists, with the freedom this allows us, to do what we can; exercise this freedom for the betterment of the community, city, country or world we live in?

And what am I doing? Well firstly I am ‘being’ an artist in Ireland and this is a start.


[1] Comment from performer at This Situation

I jiggled to Kíla with my right eye on the peaks of Errigal as I pootled up and down the lanes on my adventure out to the post office this afternoon.  I’m still a terrible driver but I have been very lucky and for this I am grateful.  Despite all the drama and expense it is very enjoyable to just leave at will and go as far as your tank will take you.

I haphazardly came across Ian and Sarah’s home on the way back.  He’d drawn a kind of map but I’d forgotten to bring it with me.  I’d not left with the intention visiting them, just kind of chanced a road I thought might be the one.  Unfortunately at the time I decided to use that road/laneway it also occupied by a bus, maybe the local school bus, but I negotiated my way past without incident.  I had travelled up the road quite a bit and had given up and was looking for a somewhere I could turn around when I found the ideal spot.  As it turned out it was actually Ian and Sara’s home but they were leaving.  Now that I know where they are I will collect Sara for life drawing class in Gweedore tomorrow.

This will be the second lift I will give tomorrow as I will be dropping the Joyce family to Gortahork to catch the bus to Dublin in the morning.  We aim to leave before 7am so I am planning to go for a walk on the beach after I have dropped them off.  I haven’t been, but I am told Maheraroarty beach is the place to go. I haven’t seen the Atlantic since February so I am looking forward to spending some time together.

In art news: It wasn’t forecast but we got a little sun today so I made some progress with the cyanotype prints. Slow and steady wins the race!

I’ve left the bright lights of Milford for Mín na Lea again.  Errigal has been covered in a sheet of mist all day today.  I miss it. 

At the weekend I did my few hours at the shop as usual.  I’m looking forward to showing the images I’ve made to the people there.  I’m disappointed that none of the photographs of the staff came out so maybe next weekend I will concentrate on getting good images of them.  The only problem is Marie and Patrick don’t work at the weekend but I could take them on Monday morning before I come back.

The ‘receiving mouths’ I made last week have nearly dried and because they are made from receipt paper – which is also thermal paper the noses and lips have darkened in the warmth of the sun.  They are sinister and at the same time comical.

Last Friday was cyanotype day, because it was the only day when there was enough sun to develop the photographs.  I had to guess the chemical mixtures because I had no weighing scale so it was very ‘hit and miss’.  Mainly miss, actually. 

It’s really hard to tell what the images are without some prompting.  I showed them to Heidi this morning and when I pointed out details she began to see an image but this is a big problem.  The point isn’t to confuse people when they see these images and I don’t really want to have to install those audio explanation devices they have in museums but it is really hard to tell what is happening.

I had a few prints of the same image so I laid them out together.  It seems when you see both beside each other the marks become less abstract and you start to recognise a pattern and then you can make out what is in the image.  So I will try making a number of prints and displaying two or three next to each other so that the viewer has some clues as to what they are looking at. Also the titles may be important but for now I have called them by the name of the subject.

The other thing I was thinking about with regards to presentation was in a shop setting could I make paper objects that would be for sale. Little ornamental blob type things like ‘poop man’. I could make little paper customers.  I have an image in my head of Gormley’s Field for the British Isles except in paper with huge mouths.  Maybe people would be offended if they thought that I was saying they have big mouths? or instead of a head just a big orifice or receptacle? Again I can see this causing unintended offence. Hmmm…

I will mull it over and tomorrow I will make paper from the rushed I boiled up on Friday also.  Doing something different may help me resolve this other problem.  Would be good to hear your thoughts…

The Oxford dictionary defines ‘receipt’ as:

Noun

1 [mass noun] the action of receiving something or the fact of its being received

It is 1st Holy Communion time again for school children of the right age and because of this I began to think about the inaugural receipt of the body of Christ into my seven year old mouth.  We practiced with ice-cream wafers at school to get used to the sweet dryness of the communion wafer.  I was told how this wafer when blessed by the priest was in fact the body of Christ that I would take into my own body.  It is a hugely abstract concept for a young mind to take in and we spent much of the year preparing for the occasion.  Firstly learning the Act of Contrition, and then going to confess my sins so that I would be clean in the sight of God and rightly wear my white dress.  Boys did not wear white. I didn’t question this at the time.

Becoming aware that you have a choice to be good or bad, that you have done bad things, that you are being watched by a higher being and that if you admit these things openly to this higher being you will be forgiven is a yet another complex idea that my parents, grandparents and teacher instilled in my developing mind. This act of admitting you are at fault and wish to be forgiven in order to be entitled to be in receipt of the actual body of Christ himself perplexed me as a child.  The forgiveness thing seemed logical enough but I questioned how all of these wafers, all over the world, every Sunday could have a little piece of a body in them.  I wondered the body would be divided up, and who cut it up – was it God up there in heaven slicing away at his son?  How did he make sure there was enough for everyone every week and not run out?  I didn’t doubt that it was the body and I respected it as such but I did wonder about the logistics. I never got an answer but as a seven year old I had an understanding that what you put into your body affects your spirit.

I have been feeling quite unwell these past few days.  I’m anxious I’ve not slept very well as my mind has been turning over ideas, images, processes, questions and visualising scenarios and trying to work out the correct options. A few days ago I had a conversation with an artist friend about paper and the body, the possibilities of casting, and generally putting both together.  Last year doing my MA I did a lot of research on paper and the body, specifically the mouth, the chewing and digestion process and its links to the metaphors we use for understanding.

I consider there to be a connection between the mouth and higher understanding of complex ideas and abstract concepts; which is why the way we consume today worries me. Decisions about what we take into our bodies are so complicated.  I feel bombarded with information about what I should be consuming and it is very important to me as this early concept of taking in and its effect on you is still prominent for me. It seems that most people I know, including myself, are concerned that they are eating too much of the wrong thing, but they still do it.  I try to eat healthily but I think I am addicted to processed sugar. I have cut down since I have been here and I feel faint and ill and confused.  I feel some empathy for the thieves who stole 5.5 tonnes of Nutella this week. It’s so cheap and so trilling for that moment, then guilt.  I also read in the newspaper that per kcal a bar of chocolate is three times less expensive than an apple.  We still have this survival instinct for consuming as if we will never see food again, but the shop shelves are stacked with choice, it’s just a pity that it’s so hard to pick up and apple rather than a chocolate bar.  All these thoughts are going through my head and so today I made a series of receiving mouths.

It’s been all about the PM today and I don’t mean the late Baroness Thatcher. 

I got out of bed on the wrong side today so got back in until I felt I could face the day.  I made pancakes, put on some make up and eventually got dressed.  I didn’t venture very far just outside and upstairs to the ‘Living Archive’ here at Cló.  I wandered round opening latched doors and came upon a room where the stone juts out of the ground. On the windowsill are little red tractors maybe made out of clay, and there are ferns growing out of the floor.

Last night I started to wonder about these ideas of receipt and document so started to research the meanings and origins of the words.  I discovered that receipt paper is thermal paper and the information is burned on not printed.  This may be very interesting when it comes to printing with cyanotype process which uses the sun.  The forecast says the wind and rain will subside by the end of the week so I am hoping to have things ready for then.

I met a very enthusiastic lady called Sonia today who came from Switzerland for three days in November 2012 and has been in Donegal since.  She has encouraged me to revisit a project I began some time ago in an abandoned building in Milford.  Alone I don’t think it would happen but her naïve enthusiasm may make it work.

At 5.30pm we left to go to the opening of Samkura show at An Gailearaí in Gweedore.  I got a lift there with Oona and met Ian Gordan and his wife Sara as well as Úna the curator of the gallery who I’d met briefly at Cló, Marjorie from Cló who is currently on maternity leave and Heidi who continues to make me laugh until I cry.  The exhibition was a curious collection of responses to environments mostly foreign for the artist as a result of a series of exchange residencies between Ireland, Portugal, Greece, Armenia and Georgia. 

Ian and Oona invited Cathal I for food after to the local Chinese restaurant, where I ate a little despite not being that hungry.  We spoke about families, ancestors, the Gaelige language, travel, art, funding, madness and Woofers.  I have just arrived back and I’m jaded but pleasantly surprised to have a little internet reception.  I haven’t much to say but I hope I feel a bit livelier tomorrow.

Yesterday evening I was given the use of a gadget called a ‘Cool Scan’(it’s all in the name). Actually when I think about it; it’s a Nikon Cool Scan the same Nikon who make Cool Pix cameras. So they’re cool? Or so they say (is it cool to say you are cool?) Anyway…

I have spent a good proportion of my day scanning the negatives from a camera I made out of a matchbox from the shop; Shop Girls shop.  Surprisingly enough, a few images actually appeared.  In fact I can make out four or five individuals who I cajoled into posing for a picture.  I assured them it was hit or miss as to whether any image would be captured by me – after all I am Shop Girl and not Photography Girl.

When I asked people to pose this usually meant I had to reveal my ‘secret’ identity as Shop Girl – undercover artist (oh Sophie – why can’t I be like you?).  Ok, so they laughed, rolled their eyes, but sometimes they seemed genuinely interested in the process, how it worked, and what I was doing and going to do. I really want to develop these pictures and show them in the shop. I would like for them to be appreciated – not because they are good photographs (which conventionally they are not), but because it is something special which has come from this wee shop in this wee village, and that in my eyes is a job well done.

I have been watching this program on Sky Arts called Work of Art: Next Great Artist.  It’s a reality show of sorts where the contestants are artists who have to make artworks in a very short timeframe – mostly one day until midnight and present them to the public, to art critics, curators and established artists.  The winner gets a solo show at the Brooklyn Museum.  Every week they loose one artist contestant and the presenter China Chow always says there’s only one rule in art and that is: does it work… and this week your piece did not work for us.

So does my art piece work? And what does that mean? In this context what does the word ‘work’ mean? Also she does add ‘for us’ at the end so the decision is not finite.   It is the rules that they have to loose one artist contestant every week.  Maybe sometimes the art does ‘work’ but not as well as the other artists pieces or maybe more than one artist’s art does not work but they just have to pick the least effective. I am just speculating, and we are talking about a TV show here, but basically the ‘not working’ thing really happens in context with other art works.

So let’s take this Shop Girl project; images of the village shop created using a matchbox pinhole camera are developed onto paper made out of the receipts from the shop.  Is there a set of artworks where it could be judged in context? At this point let’s call this project a documentary.  In context with other documentary projects like say a film or a series of photographs or a collection of writing how does it compare?  Does it tell us something about village shops or girls who work in village shops?  I just remembered when I was in 1st year at university I was really struggling financially and I went to see the international student advisor about what I could do, he told me to go back home and get a job in a shop. This was enough to inspire me to endure my hardship as the last thing I wanted to do was follow his advice – funny how things pan out?

As it happens I sent an image of the exterior of the shop to a photographer friend today.  He said that apart from identifying it as a street scene there wasn’t enough detail in the image to identify the building, the location, or at what period in time the image had been captured.  It is a very vague image, but on the other hand its vagueness means that it is open to interpretation.  Here we might come back to trusting the makers’ word I mentioned yesterday.  Does this fit with the idea of documentary? Trusting the word of the person presenting? Well when I think of Louis Theroux documentaries I find myself trusting what he presents.  Does a document mean fact? It is a fact that the image is of the shop.  It may not be very clear but it is a factual document of the light that passed through the pinhole and burned an image onto the celluloid for as long as I held open the cardboard shutter.

So the images alone, seen without me telling the viewer the fact, tell us very little, what about what it is printed onto.  The paper is square, it has an uneven texture, it is different to paper you can buy but maybe reminds you of some exotic paper you may have come across, but you cannot tell from what it is made from.  But it is a fact that they are made out of the receipts from the shop. 

The viewer is given no clues as to where these objects came from.  At this point there is a choice to be made; accept that these are ‘kind of nice’, ‘interesting’ or dismiss them entirely they do ‘not work’ for you, investigate the objects further; ask someone else, read this blog to find out the facts or the other option; imagine what they are and make up your own narrative like when you see an untitled abstract painting. The viewer is presented with bare facts without words and it is up to them to deduce what indeed this document is. Hmm, it’s like CSI!

This evening a poet who lives near here dropped by the workshop to see Ian and Oona, he was quite charming and asked about my project.  He said the paper I had made was beautiful and suggested it would be perfect for writing little Haiku’s.  I was flattered by the connection to Japan (the paper is square I think this influences its potential use). As he is a poet I showed him the words I’d torn out yesterday. I spilled them out of their paper pocket.  We had a giggle putting unlikely words together.  The more we discovered the funnier it became and the funnier it was the more we laughed, until the breath we expelled from laughing prevented us from assembling the words and made them disperse all over the table and onto the floor. The poets name was Cathal and his visit spread a little joy to the perplexing feeling I had around words yesterday.

What is a receipt?

It could be said that it is a document that proves that you purchased something at a specific time, date and at a specific place. 

What is paper that has been hand made using that receipt?

 It is another document; but the information which proves that it is indeed a receipt has been lost in the process and the recipient of this sheet of paper has no proof. And so by erasing this information; which proves beyond doubt that an economic transaction took place, there is now only the maker’s word.

Should you trust the maker’s word that this is what it is, when you have no evidence? 

A number of things come to mind on this blustery night in the mountains. 

In Marx’s Das Kapital he talks about value in terms of objects that have been processed so that they have a ‘use value’.  He gives an example of the value of a length of linen compared the value of a shirt. The shirt is something that has been designed, cut, sewn and finished so that it is a usable object – and there is a ‘use value’ in this as you can buy the shirt and wear it immediately.  On the other hand the length of linen, although very useful is an object that requires the buyer to then ‘do’ something with it, such as make a shirt and so therefore it has a different value.  It is up to the maker and the purchaser to negotiate a value for the shirt. This then leads to the question of what method was used to make and how much time it took, whether it was done by machine or by hand – so now we are looking at value in terms of time. 

The receipt took a few seconds to print.  The sheet of paper took several hours. Am I adding something or taking it away? 

I recently learned that in Chinese fashion history a machine made shirt was much more coveted and therefore of higher monetary as well as social value than a hand sewn shirt, even though the machine shirt took a lot less time to make and was the same as every other shirt that came out of the factory.  I would seem that the value of a hand-made or machine made object also has to do with culture. Unique objects or one-offs are not always prized.  Sometimes we want to be the same as others – so we fit in.

The other thing I was thinking about was the earlier works of the artist William Pope L; who uses, amongst other things, food in his work.  Of specific interest to me; he made Eating the New York Times, a performance where he ‘ate’ paper.  He is interested, as I am, in the notion of consuming; eating, taking in information and purchasing.  The receipt has is a result of a purchase, something needed or wanted.  It also contains some information.  When I reflect on Pope’s works I find myself questioning they way in which we consume.  Most of the time I have no idea of the origins of what I consume whether it is food ;a current example being the horsemeat scandal, or information; I listen to and spread idle gossip, share information online and have private phone conversations in public.  The media and press mirror this activity and print and broadcast information based on what’s on Twitter or Facebook.  To some extent it is a great liberator and allows stories of public to come to light much quicker but I suppose what I am saying is that we may consider what we consume but it is difficult not to get sucked in and expose my mind and body to things that given an informed choice I may not consume.

Anyway, getting back to the receipt and the paper; I’m also thinking about Walter Benjamin’s Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction and the value of the essence within this paper juxtaposed with its repetitive yet hand-made process. Is the essence evident? Is it of value? Is it important to retain something human, perhaps imperfection in the things we make and use and see?

And another thought floating around my head is words; mainly because I started to tear out words from the receipts today.  Will this retain some of the proof I spoke of, or some of the essence, will a sheet of paper with a word on it have more or less value, do the words tell us about consuming, how can words be used or do they need to be used – is the whole purpose not to erase the words and cultivate trust in a persons’ own word?

It is only day three and look how complicated it is getting.  Ian (who runs Cló along with Oona and Marjorie) asked me today; what is the simplest way I can do this.  I think the only way I will find this out is by getting deeper into it.  Which may make it more complicated but it’s kind of like a ball of knots, I will continue patiently; at times, hopeful, frustrated but ultimately seeking resolve and eventually (some day before I die) it will become clear.

It’s so strikingly and personally disturbingly quiet here: it’s just not like me not to be babbling away all day, in person or on the phone, listening to music or TV and interacting with people online in some way, but here all of that activity has floated away like a cloud of mist over the mountains. 

 Last night in the residency house, after I had made some food and lit a decent fire (with briquettes this time) I looked around and found that there was no TV no radio and no internet connection.  I was alone and in silence.  I watched the fire burn for a while and felt a bit lonely.  I know it was like this in the old days but maybe this is why everyone would go visiting each other or go to the pub.   For me the pub is a good 8-10km away down a dangerously windy (both bendy and inclement weather wise) road.

So I’d say from about 7.30pm I did not speak a word and from 9pm I had no contact with the outside world in any way.  This morning I got up early, had breakfast; alone and in silence and went to the workshop where I worked steadily for three hours alone and in silence.  Around 11.30am I spoke my first words to Oona Hyland who runs the workshop and also lives on site with her husband and three of her five children (two are at boarding school).  Our interaction was pleasant but brief and so I continued with my work.

I forgot to mention what it is that I am working on here.  Maybe now is a good time? So, when I arrived back from twelve years exile in the UK I returned to my family home in Milford, County Donegal.  I found myself cleaning, baking bread, getting sticks for the fire, making dinners and generally housebound apart from my little excursions on my bike to get more flour for the bread making.  On one such occasion I was spotted in the village shop and approached through a series of personal connections to cover a few hours in the shop whilst one employee was on maternity leave.

With not much else to occupy my time I accepted the position and began life as a shop girl on 8th January 2013.  It wasn’t long before I began daydreaming and imagining that my work in the shop was in fact and undercover artist residency. I was not ‘a shop girl’ I was Shop Girl and so began my secret project. 

I wasn’t very good at keeping the secret because part of my plan was to use the uncollected receipts during my shift to make paper.  I’m no Sophie Calle so I asked my bosses permission to take and use this material and possibly make images of the shop and the people working/shopping/loitering there.  I spoke quite quickly, overloading him with information so that his response was something along the line of ‘I don’t understand – but do whatever you like. . .’ I began collecting the receipts and one night I forgot to take my secret stash with me.  The next day I was questioned by the other staff, who instead of falling around the place in hysterics just smiled, rolled their eyes and then began collecting receipts during their own shifts.

Before long I had bags and bags of waste paper to work with.  Then along came this opportunity at Cló for a month long artist residency at their very well equipped workshop.  I applied and told them about my Shop Girl project, making paper, and making images of the shop with a pinhole camera made from things on the shop and developing these images onto the paper – and they liked it and awarded me a paid residency.  And so here I am.

Tomorrow I have to go back to the shop and work on Saturday and Sunday, but by then my paper will be dry and I will be able to move on to phase two which will be trial and error, quite possibly more error than anything else but I will have nobody to answer to but myself as I plod along alone and in silence . . .

It’s my first day down here at Cló near Gortahork in Donegal.  On Tuesday I took a spin up the road to find out where it was and to practice my very rusty driving skills.  I stalled the car about twenty times and nearly went off the road once but I made it there and back in one piece.  The site is miles from anywhere, deserted in the wilds of the hills and mountains.  There are plenty of sheep a few buildings dotted here and there but for the most part it is isolated and quiet apart from the howling wind.

When I arrived I met Ian Gordon.  He is working on a set of prints which he is making for his solo show coming up in May at the Glebe gallery.  As he was busy working I decided to busy myself with some work and began to locate a suitable workstation for making paper.  It took some time to organise and I had a siesta mid-day to build a small fire in the residency house.  With no obvious burning material I searched outside for twigs and built a fire that lasted about half an hour.  After some crackers and cheese I came back to the workshop and made a stack of paper.

Ian and I chatted while we worked and over tea breaks.  He started off in conceptual land art and moved to plein air painting in the 90’s.  He was making prints of embroidered fabrics which he had buried in the landscape.  Although he had never documented this work by chance someone had asked to photograph a series he had done in the 70’s in London and this was the content of the prints he was making.  We talked about the differences between artistic cultures in the UK compared to rural Donegal, the pros and cons of exhibiting , making a living from your art practice, having a goal however ‘childish’, foolish, far-fetched or far-flung it is and the importance of the artist to remind society that we are a collection of individuals.

After Ian left I pressed and laid out the paper for drying.  I began to ponder again; why am I making paper? Is it because I feel the need to and it is my duty as an artist to fulfil the need to express and carry out activities that have no obvious practical function? Even though paper itself is a very practical material and has numerous functions the act of making it by hand with everyday resources is not at all practical and certainly not economical.  Ian had asked me a lot about my work.  He was perplexed as to why I did not write or make some mark on the paper. It is interesting for me to experience peoples’ responses to my act of making paper.  It seems that this act inspired people to want to do something with it. Maybe some of this has rubbed off on me as I attempt to use this paper to develop images onto.

For now, although it is not yet dark I am very tired from all my new experiences today.  I have just taken a phone call about another project making paper for a band’s new album.  It is possible of course and it could be quite fun but for now I think I will get back to making a fire and turn in for the night.