Wild Goddesses and Gods

IT'S AN AEON AND A MINUTE since I stood on that shore looking out over the then unknown seas of motherhood which were to wash over me just a few days after this photo was taken. And now my baby boy, deepest joy of my heart, is nearly 7 months old! Words feel strange on my tongue and under my fingers, it will take me a while yet to find good ones to weave around this new story of motherhood in all its depths, and the Rima that writes this now is a different one from the young woman looking out to sea there. But I am starting to feel a creative spring as the autumn falls on us in Dartmoor, and I am wondering how I might continue working as an artist whilst mothering. I feel all of you out there wondering at our news too, though spending time near a computer has proved almost impossible for me so far, so different are the ways of being required to be with my child and with a laptop! 

Much has been happening in our life and work since I was last here. Since the momentous Becoming-Three which happened at the end of February when snows were still falling, we've moved through spring and summer and we've left house life behind, selling many of our belongings in a rainy but enjoyable yard sale, and we've moved into a 16 foot yurt near to where the truck build is happening. I have work in three exhibitions, Hannah Willow & Friends at Obsidian Art in Buckinghamshire, a wondrous new gallery in Portland, Oregon: The Fernie Brae, and a winter show yet to come in our local Green Hill Arts Gallery in Moretonhampstead, Devon. All of this feels quite amazing given that I've hardly made any art all year! We have been out with my red handcart - a lovely creation made by our friend Eric from old doors and bicycle wheels from a drawing I gave him - selling my work on the streets of Totnes.

 

The truck build continues in its wonderful slow and majestic way, we hope to have an update on its progress soon over at Hedgespoken. During all the welding and decision-making and wood-planing and painting and hammering, a filmmaker from Germany, Marie Elisa Scheidt, has been accompanying our journey for a final piece for her studies. We are one of three protagonists in her documentary, which has a working title of Our Wildest Dreams, and which you can see glimpses of here. These two pictures below, taken earlier in the year, when both babe and truck-home were not quite so grown, are by her.

These days we are living in a circular space amid a copse of trees. We wake to hazel nuts being thrown down on our roof by squirrels and nuthatches, and fall asleep to owls, hooing close by our canvas walls.

Once more we're living a life where water and wood must be carried, and washing up must be done by lamplight. It is wonderful beyond words to be living with the leaves again, though different and harder with a baby, it feels so much lighter and righter than the house did. The view from our door looks like this:

But there is one thing I have managed to create with my hands since having a baby, and of this I am immensely proud. When Tom and I first met, we planned to make a book together; and five years later, having first created an even more incredible being together, we've finally made our first book - a small and beautiful chapbook, litho-printed on recycled paper by a workers' coop - this is Sometimes A Wild God, Tom's widely-loved poem, illustrated with six little ink drawings by me, which I did at night when little one was finally sleeping, though I wanted so much to be sleeping too... it was hard, and I felt very out of practice, but the constraints have forced a new kind of work out of me, and I think this is an interesting beginning. I hope you'll all go and have a look, you can order one for £7.50 from anywhere in the world at the Hedgespoken Shop. We are really proud of this, and excited that it heralds for us a new chapter of book making. But we need you all to support this endeavour by buying copies, spreading the word for us, and asking for it in your local bookshop or library.

Over the last couple of years, some of you have asked about buying the original Weed Wife painting, which I created in oils on burr oak in 2013. Up till now, it hasn't been for sale, I have felt it a deeply special painting and have been unsure how to put a price on it. However, we're now at a crucial point with our truck build, and struggling to make ends meet now that my income has all but disappeared. So, I am considering for the first time selling this painting if the right person comes along and offers me a sum I feel I could exchange it for. If you feel that might be you, please get in touch and let me know how much you might be willing to pay for it, and we can take it from there. I'd love for it to end up in some Herbal library or Wilderness school or somesuch, but perhaps you know of a place and a person who should have it... 

There is so very much to tell you, I don't know where to begin, and finding the right thread of story and secret is hard. I don't want to put pictures of my boy all over the internet, nor write his name, so these are just glimpses of back of head and little feet. But I do want to share some of my experiences as I go along, and hear from those of you amazing women who have gone before me, mothering and making art, mothering and living on the edges of things. I have a new-found awe for all women who do this most sacred of tasks. From the deep love and profound tiredness I salute you!

The Scrimstone Circus Gospel

The Scrimstone Circus Gospel illustration 1 - by Rima Staines

LISTEN TO ME.

I wasn't born for birthday parties and scented candles in the twilight bath or string quartets on the lawn. I wasn't made for clean handkerchiefs and your mother's approval at the dinner table. Oh no. I was born for rock’n’roll, sea shanties and the smell of diesel on the harbour walls at dawn. I was made for bear claws on bark, for fires in the wasteland where desperate men in greasy overcoats swig vodka in the sparse snow and cold so tight and empty you can barely see a flame in it or the shape of hope in the dark. I was born for broken glass and imperfect love and riding the rusty trains home when the last-ditch grail-quest has failed and all the knights have spent their blood and wine on wrong questions asked of nobody in the three-penny hours of darkness. I was born to live wild under the hill, in the belly of the alembic, in the sperm of the whale and the heart of the gold... 

Tom Hirons - The Scrimstone Circus Gospel

____________________________________________

And so begins a strange and wonderful story written by Tom, and illustrated by me for a newly released collaborative book project published and curated by the Lazy Gramophone Press.

The book is called Time; it is a vast undertaking: three years in the making, and comprising the work of 55 different artists and writers.

The original idea, dreamed by Sam Rawlings, was to create an anthology of stories in which the passing of time was explored by intertwining narratives in an unusual and unique way. Tom was asked to write the central story which would span the life of a single protagonist - through childhood, adulthood and old age.

 

In each of the three life stages there was to be a crossing point, an event in the narrative which would become a common point in the anthology's "history". So, for example, if he'd written in a storm, this "crossing point" would get passed to all the other writers creating stories for that section of the book's timeline, and a storm would occur somehow at some stage in their tales too. The result was to be a weave of narratives which all gained a sense of truth and a "historical" pinpointing due to the shared event in all the stories. The same thing was done with each of the three life stages, with Tom's story serving as the central anchor to which all these other stories were tied. 

The devilish-vagabond-world Tom has created in his wonderful tale - The Scrimstone Circus Gospel - is dark and funny and profound and colourful and lyrical and strange, and it was delicious to illustrate. These are my drawings for the story here - I'll not explain them further, but leave you to go and read the book. Suffice to say, that drawings of things like dice games with devils, opium-fueled reveries, drunken shootings, bearded ladies playing accordions, pickpocket-ballerinas, hideous corrupt priests, shipwrecks in the rain and celestial eagles and bulls should give you a certain aroma of the spice that awaits you in the tale! In fact I suspect the whole thing has a lilting gravelly sea shanty as a soundtrack.

The Scrimstone Circus Gospel illustration 2 - by Rima Staines
(NB ~ the title on the creature's cage - a word-hybrid
between the Russian words for circus - цирк, and church - церковь )

The Scrimstone Circus Gospel illustration 3 - by Rima Staines

I'm particularly excited by this publication, because it is the first time Tom and I have had work published in a book together - my art illustrating his words. We share such a wonderful and surreal imaginary landscape in our daily conversations and foolings, that it is an honour to be asked to put pencil to paper and make visual representation of Tom's story-world for others to see. This one is certainly replete with the dark oddness we like.

The book is full to brimming with other fantastic works, poems, art and stories by many other people, there's even a fold-out timeline-map. This little video gives you a further taste of the whole collection, which you can buy here, should you be tempted... 

Вся время губит и вся покрывает

Вся тлит время и в конец превращает

Едину истину аки свое племя

Хранит блюдет и открывает время.

Time destroys and covers up all;

All is decomposed and brought to end by time.

Only truth and its offspring

Are conserved, protected and revealed by time.

[from Иѳіка ієрополітіка (1712)]

All photos of Time anthology © Lazy Gramophone Press

A new story

THERE HAS BEEN A STORY in my head for a long long time ... it has changed and grown and found new paths down which to wander, and sometimes bits of it have escaped onto the first few pages of a notebook or sketchbook where they hide for a long time until they lose their oomph. But always it has been there. I see life through the window of a storybook. When something troubles me I think to myself.. How might the people in stories resolve this? Would this thing that seems horrendous to me not add wonderful colour to the journey of a tale-character? Whether or not this is a practical way of viewing things, I am not sure, but it seems to be the escape route my mind chooses for itself.

As a child I would create worlds in my head under beds and behind doors. A mat on the floorboards would become a raft on the high seas of an almost-ending apocalyptic world, and all my belongings had to fit on the mat with me in order to survive the unknowns ahead. These make-believe adventures are a normal and delightful part of childhood, and I remember the feelings that certain book illustrations would evoke in me when I looked at them. The feelings were quite unlike those I get now on looking at the same pictures. Then they nibbled right into me, they changed the way I experienced life, they wrenched emotions from me strong enough to bring a sharpness akin to tears. Now I look at the illustrations and remember these feelings, and simultaneously I view the images through my adult eyes and admire the cleverness of line or the exquisite execution of watercolour backgrounds...

I wonder what it is that changes when we lose our childhoods? There is a sadness in me that I can never go back there, and I enjoy so very much to listen to the thoughts of children.
Lost youth or no, the stories have never left me. Indeed they have grown. I have always been fascinated with languages and the interesting intertwining links between the words from different countries. And recently I have decided to remove the stubborn cork from my bottle of stories. I am a world class procrastinator and a perfectionist too.. and this is a disasterous combination, because I put it off and put it off until such time as I might be able to achieve the best creation that I can.. which of course is always tomorrow.

Blogging has been a great encouragement.. for which I have all you lovely people to thank. My mouse's voice has felt a little more hearty since it has received so many kind words about my writing. I think the deciciveness necessary in capturing a moment or a small collection of thoughts in a blog post makes me write what comes into my head and publish it before I can agonise ad infinitum over the arrangement of the words. And this has softened that fear that always stopped me writing a diary when I was younger. I have to accept what I wrote and not cringe embarrassedly at a small outpouring of myself.
It seems that this coupled with our new life on wheels has kickstarted something in me and I am beginning my book!

I have been sitting at my newly marvellously windowed desk with Thesauruses and candles all about me, and I have put pen to notebook and made the first few tentative pages of my book (which have been sitting for yonks twiddling their thumbs in my head already written almost word for word), with sketches of ideas for the illustrations too. We also have a nice new sound system in our truck with speakers expertly wooded by Tui that can play us songs to inspire while the high winds of these last nights buffet us from side to side. I have begun to think lately that perhaps the reason for my never having had a proper illustration job for a publisher is that my visual world has quite a strong flavour that perhaps can only be matched with words of that same flavour.

It is a tendency of mine to gather all the things I love under one little roof of ideas, and so creating a book filled with my words and paintings and thoughts is a thrilling plan for me. It is what I have always wanted to do. This may take me years, but I want to keep it going, and not leave this notebook empty but for the first few pages. I have been spending the evenings buried in Anglo Saxon dictionaries and books illustrated by other artists I greatly admire, and writing and drawing in little frenzied spurts as ideas and images burst inside my head like smoke bubbles, and that nameless organ between my heart and my belly has felt itself settle into the thing that I love to do most of all and it has thrilled.

The Storyteller's Clock

AND there for you is the story of Once Upon O'Clock number four, just completed and inspired by the beautiful words and pictures of the recipient ~ illustrator and writer Jackie Morris. She told me the things she loved: ice bears, ginger cats, hares, moons and many other things, and she sent me her wonderful stories to read.


If you are not already familiar with Jackie's work, do wander over to her website where she keeps a fantastic studio journal and her cat blog where her three ginger cats tell just lovely tales. This clock has already ballooned its way over to the Welsh coast to hang on Jackie's wall.. I must say, it was a task both daunting and delightful to make a commissioned clock for a fellow artist, and such a talented one at that. I think she likes it ;) And now I am about to start number five, a clock for another artist who uses words and images, but in quite a different way.
In the meantime .. in its entirety .. "We Three & The Moon Balloon" ...

The Game

I THOUGHT I'd show you an interesting little something which I made a few years ago as the final piece on my Book Arts & Crafts degree...

This piece is an ancient opening casket board game with an accompanying book which tells a story. The story, which I have written in rhyme, is set in a ‘Dark Age’ land not unlike England, and describes a man’s journey around his land in search of its people’s lost happiness and to overturn the evil king. Meanwhile two children dig up an old game and begin to play it. The journey takes a year and a day and as the main character travels, he passes through the four quarters (seasons, directions, elements, and times of day) which echo the four corners of the game and meets important characters on the way. Each move in the children’s game is mirrored in real life and a desperate battle between the rich few and the downtrodden masses builds momentum. The characters’ names are all Anglo-Saxon words which all have particular significance to the story. A glossary is included at the end of the book.

The story encompasses many themes –

~ The struggles of ordinary people under the rule of the dishonest rich and powerful, and a dream for equality, justice and a voice for us all;

~ My love for the earth and anger at its destruction;

~ A search to find value once again in life’s simple truths;

~ An exploration of ancient Pagan beliefs and Dark Age ideas about the world;

~ Ideas about balance and the wheel of life – accepting both life and death, day and night in all things;

~ A longing for a time before cars, concrete and all things industrial and corporate;

~ A desire to reawaken a love for stories and recognition of their importance in society.

The Game

The rules of this board game are based on an Anglo-Saxon game, ‘Hnefatafl’ popular in this country between about AD 400 and AD 1000 when chess arrived. It was carried here from Scandinavia by the Norsemen who were continuing an ancient tradition amongst the northern European tribes. A more detailed history is contained within the accompanying book. This game is appropriate to the time in which the story is set, and the opposing forces are of unequal size and have different objectives. This ties in with the political theme to the book.

Board games in ancient societies played a significant role over and above that of mere entertainment. The grid or chequerboard pattern has been described as a form of cosmological divination, representing the land, the universe, or the human body. The central square, as in Hnefatafl, signifies the city or the navel (indeed the word ‘hnefi’ - the king-piece - is also thought to be cognate with the word navel). Often this central point in a country was marked out by a sacred tree as in Glastonbury or Carmarthen, or a stone as at Tara. This place is one of central convergence, often the setting for fairs and obviously in the case of cities it is the seat of the ruler. The rules of Hnefatafl require that for the king’s side to win, the king must reach the edge of the board, signifying his complete dominion over the land. The opposing larger force must capture the king.

The Illustrations

The illustrations are based loosely on a gospel page illumination from the Book of Durrow (St Matthew's Gospel Folio 21v). This manuscript was produced around the 7th century at the monastery of Durrow, County Offaly which was founded by St Columba. Saint Matthew is depicted with a chequerboard body, echoing the idea of the board game/body, and the decorations are examples of Celtic and Pictish design.

The Font

The font design is based on alphabets in Anglo-Saxon manuscripts and other illuminated gospel books like the Books of Durrow and Kells.

The Board

The board is made from spruce wood, stained and antiqued, making it look as if it has just been dug up. It is decorated to echo the illustrations from the book and each side corresponds with the four directions, seasons, elements and times of day. Each gift given to the main character by those he meets on the way is illustrated on the four sides. The board also displays symbols from the Ogham – an ancient magical script – the Celtic equivalent to the Runes. Each Ogham letter relates to a particular tree and time of year and is correspondingly displayed around the board.



And here is an extract from the story:

...In warmer days the greenness came
As summer fullness smiled;
In contented, heady, pregnant air
Our Faran’s time was whiled.

Then around a corner one midday
Beside a meadow sweet
Came fiddle music, frisking-fast and
The sound of tapping feet.

Faran neared, intrigued to find
A flabbergasting sight ~
A motley stranger, red and yellow,
His costume chequered bright.

A wood contraption round his shoulders,
And hooked onto one end
A wobbling little whimsy-man,
A dancing puppet friend.

As the jester played the devil’s tune
And jigged all up and down,
It caused those puppet feet to tap
Of the wee lopsided clown.

By his side, a patchwork knapsack,
All bulging, tied with twine;
Some strange light from out the bag
Mysteriously did shine.

Faran tiptoed, quite bewildered
Closer to the gleeman;
‘How-di-do?’ The stranger asked him,
‘I s’pose you must be Faran?’

His face was funny, his eyes were fiery,
He’d a lilting, joking voice;
The puppet danced whene’er he moved
Because he had no choice.

‘My name’s Fyr’ grinned the jester,
‘I’ve come to join the dance;
Come sit awhile beside me here
And play my game of chance.’

The harlequin, ungainly-tall,
Sat his bright body down;
The wood contraption clacked and rattled;
The puppet seemed to frown.

So Faran sat and watched in awe
As the motley-magic-man
Reached inside his coloured sack;
And wild his blood it ran.

Out came dice and playing cards
And curiosities
And jumping beans and dominoes
And candles, tricks and keys.

And tiny phials all filled with fire
And stones and beads and sticks
And rare glass balls and wooden spoons,
A mad embroidered mix!

Chancy games and fateful tricks
The harlequin did play;
And all the while the puppet watched,
Not one word did he say.



Copyright © Rima Staines 2008