green & purple

I find, reading about Millicent Fawcett [see stitch in time] that there is a difference, jealously guarded at one time I expect, between a suffragette and a suffragist. I have not heard of the latter - it seems they were the non-violent wing of the revolution.
Just goes to show that if you want to get noticed, you have to make a splash, preferably of blood, sweat or tears.
At one time I marched - abortion, peace, ban the bomb, housing-before-townhall-car-parks.........topics large and small.
One thing i noticed even then was the preponderance of young men keen to sweep all before them. In time I began to wonder if the testosterone was the main stimulant, rather than the principle.
It wasn't until I had kids in the 70s, that I began to make sense of it all.
Until then, an only child, then a teacher in my own little empire I didn't really suspect that my frustrations may have political connotations. I just thought I was inadequate; terrified of not having a boyfriend, my main aim to be married and thus worthy.
Having children finally made me realise the dependency of my position.
I was reliant on my man, the system, the culture to support me, as I was suddenly in full time support of my kids, they had to come first.
I have always been self centred, willful but once a woman has kids, I felt I was vulnerable ......... No longer a free agent, had I ever been a free agent?
We moved to Carlisle and in a bid to meet people [women?] I joined a new group, the Carlisle Women's' Action Group, we read Against Our Will by Susan Brownmiller and suddenly it all made sense.
Now, I find when talking to other women my age, they couldn't remember what the symbol for Women's' Liberation was.
The green and purple of the suffragettes also had to be dredged up from the recesses.
This week it is coincidentally 80 years since all adult women got the vote.
What would Millicent say if she knew older ones don't remember and younger ones feel it is irrelevant.

uncle's birthday

Out and about with elderly relatives again today, this time mother's younger sister [84] and her husband who is "one year older" today.
They emigrated 50+ years ago to Canada where he taught in "special" education so that in their spare time they could swirl round the provinces, bemusing all with their ballroom dancing lessons and exhortations to cook proper stews, not beefburgers.
Now they are two small tortoises, peering out of their shells, one with disapproval the other with a genial smile.
We had birthday lunch at the local pub, which was fairly vile but they worked at it solidly until they had cleared their plates, just as they commanded we should do when we were kids - "think of the starving children in Africa"
Now we taunt them with advice to "just eat what you want, leave the rest", knowing that they are congenitally incapable of doing it.
As a child, I used to hate marrow, parsnips and spinach, mother would make me sit there till it was finished, or serve it up for the next meal. Now I love them.
Meal times were often fraught, we had a small metal table in the kitchen goodness knows why it was metal.
The dog , as a bored puppy, left alone most of the day, would snatch out the cutlery drawer in his teeth and shake it all about, so I would return from school to mayhem. It must have made a satisfying racket.
My father was often short tempered, but mother insisted we three sat up together and had a proper dinner every evening, once the cutlery had been replaced, even though she was returning from full time work and I had already eaten school dinners.
Arguments often erupted, especially as I became a teenager, father would throw his dinner at the wall, mother would cry, the dog would cower in the broom cupboard. Such fun.
As they say - every family should have two parents; it makes such a good slanging match. Father blacked my eye, broke my ear drum, generally set about him. No doubt I was intensely annoying with all that arrogance that only a 14 year old can produce.
Benign Uncle would have been a different father, and I would have now been a different person.
My canadian cousin however rants about his termagant mother, of whom he is still scared.
I'm not frightened of any of them now, maybe it is easier for girls to separate as they move alliances; boys are always sons maybe, ashamed of abandoning their mother and trying to be better than their father; girls can't wait to ditch fathers for their partner and become sympathetic friends with their mother - or not.

stitch in time

Last week involved lots of stitching groupings and me with a nasty old cold, thus tolerance levels on all sides were tested.
The Regional Embroiderers Guild arranged for volunteers to go to the Steam Engine Museum at Leiston and do some research, in the hopes that we would cough up a textile response for exhibition next Spring.
I took a short cut by taking lots of pics and coughing up my own claggy immediate feed back, and then chugging off. Hopefully no-one got the lergy as a result.
The cogs and wheels with a side order of spanners were nirvana to the patch workers, but I am not so sprauncy at bodging a perfect circle.
However fortunately the Garretts who started the family business also spawned Millicent Fawcett and Elizabeth Garrett Anderson so hopefully a piece of purple and green and strong jawlines will evolve.
Then we had a work shop on printing on textiles [not computers, pretty colours]. The tutor was muscular in her approach, much like her work. No shrinking violet here, not when raging scarlet can explode forth.
She is of an age now when she would really rather we all pissed off, so she could get on with her own work.
Her spine is bending, a physical expression of her frustrations? There is a time to teach, and there is a time when it gets old. However, presumably she needs the money, which she did give value for, if in a rather disgruntled way.
She makes printing blocks from unlikely materials, and also runs a roller over them which transfers the pattern onto the roller whence it can be rolled off, until the colour runs out, on to the fabric.
This all looks a bit garish, but the trick is then to brush dyes over the lot, which unifies everything and gives some startling colour effects.
Finally I went to my stitching group where we are constructing Big Women, one each, larger than life.
By now I was thoroughly disgruntled myself, or maybe I had been all along, so I left early, lugging "Gertrude" with me.
She sits in the passenger seat quite comfortably [I don't let her drive - she has no head] no-one seems to notice.

aunty is ninety

My auntie is 90, [my mother, her younger sister by three years - middle one, explains a lot] organised a birthday party for her.
The youngest sister [by another three years] came over from Canada, aunty's son managed to dredge up in time, neighbours gathered, friends and family descended on the parish hall and a quiet time was had by all.
The three sisters circulated gravely, two husbands in tow. Elderly dinghies comes to mind, they are used to bobbing in the wake,though they would probably prefer to be thought of as tugs, bravely battling through - bringing the willful liner safely into port.
My father was more of a corvette [he was a torpedo man in the war, and that is not sexual innuendo, however appropriate in his case] smashing through the rough seas and dying off early.
My grand parents despaired for a son, and instead won three male grand children and me. Our parents each had one child [youngest sister married twice], which again says something about being bought up as one of three - sisters.
We four cousins gravitated to one table and circled the wagons against the wrinkles of time lapping at our beach.
Each of us has been divorced at least once, our parents not at all. I was the first of this generation, very embarrassing, but now with the Royal family adopting the technique it feels more acceptable, perhaps, to the aunties and uncles.
My uncle is 90 in nine months, I doubt he will get a party thrown for him. He did play Happy Birthday tho, on the piano, we all sang - auntie beamed.
It was as it should be.

ghost writer

Obviously bread pudding is essential to recuperation, as I still feel wobbly, not quite in focus.
I must wobble up to the shop in a mo and see if they have some.
In the meantime I shall blog, which will reassure me that I do exist.
Maybe blogging is an alternative to appearing on the television - the ultimate endorsement that one is really here?
If so - what has television, blogging etc. replaced ?
Perhaps, once, people were more secure in their own place in society, - you knew where you belonged. Maybe - these days - [probably not a phrase we used when we were younger] a good proportion of youngsters just feel even more alienated from that feeling of belonging
Now we are led to believe young persons just want to "be famous", which no doubt makes some of us feel very smug and virtuous. Especially when the rider is added - "or infamous, tho i doubt they know the difference"
Cultures do move on, I always thought i would be in touch with the zeitgeist, I think am curious, empathic, fairly adaptable and most of all creative, which always supplies the itch to move on, explore further, never be satisfied.
But here I am sidelined and in the main, preferring it. I don't want to take on windmills any more, just photograph them, and then niggle away at the frustration of making something individual of the image in my mind.
Dunno why, should stick to gardening really, but looking at the jungle that has shot up this week while I have been out of it, I understand why gardening is not enough. I want to make things that stay where I put them.
Ceramics is even annoying as the bloody things get knocked over and break.
I want to stay where I am, my utmost creation, never broken.
Silly girl.
So, to stagger after a thought, long since cruising over the horizon, as society gets faster, more diverse, fragmented, all those things which make me feel I never catch up with myself - do ambitions get more ephemeral?
Maybe younger persons feel being famous [in the media] makes one part of the rush, integrated into the glitter.
Whereas old sods like me, just see the negatives. But for the bulk of the ill educated poorly paid, career-less young - there is no chance of making it in the present society we flourish smugly in their faces.
Or do I just need bread pudding?

bread pudding

I have a horrible, horrible cold and I feel foul.
I couldn't go to pottery yesterday nor could I go to the Threads and Fabrics Sale today.
Will I get up to Leiston Museum tomorrow to partake in the Embroiderers Guild response work day, I wonder.
You can bet that on Sunday I will be able to go to Auntie Cinders 90th birthday party.
The only good thing is that I have a yen for bread pudding, which is sold by the village shop, and being as I am ill, I can justify indulging it.
However it transpires that they have none.

in my shed

Very sunny today, so sitting in my shed [with benefit of extension lead].
I have been trying to Do something with the honesty, in a half arsed way. TAGS exhibition theme next month is Imprint so I thought I could print the honesty ?leaves on some see thru material, with white paint, as a starter. hmmmmmmmm needs more work/thought.
I am not good with "fragile", the effect I am after.
Have started reading the Reluctant Fundamentalist, which is either very good or very annoying, not sure which yet. It comes after a medieval who dunnit so a good contrast anyway.
I walked doggy in my crocs this morning [as opposed to the wellies of yore] and then got trapped by a huge lane filling puddle or three. Clambered round the edges OK, but crocs have these magic holes which admit water, sand, stones, anything I would rather not get between my toes. Had to clean same with leaves once on the dry side, and felt very medieval.
Amazon finally tipped up with some hard backs today. I do the free postage if you order more than £15 or there abouts, but the orders seem to take ages lately, so I guess they are trying to dissuade me from this method.
I think friend P has paid for a years free postage, and she gets her books toute suite, but it does seem to be a contradiction. I must stop being stubborn and ask details.

Spring into Summer

Saw the Summer Exhibition at the RA, a bit pedestrian except for young Tracy's room.
She at least did have some contemporary stuff, and most had attitude - so as a viewer I had a reaction beyond the irritated puzzlement most modern art engenders in moi.
The pile of pink willies which shadowed a 2 faced man on the wall was clever, the black balustrades were a poor copy of Louise Bourgeois' "people" [however her own saggy lump was not exciting]. The rampant zebra was trying too hard, in all senses, as was the triangle of pubic hair. Tracy's own painting was bold and delicate at the same time, and unsettling.
One huge painting in the other rooms that I did like was a painted mass of white ovals, which reminded me to try and do something with the honesty which is raining seeds all about me, even now, as it dries. It's clear whiteness reminded me of being in Anthony Gormley's Cloud Room, but the painting was more peaceful {I got the frightened giggles in the Cloud Room]
Lots of RAs had put in lots of big works, much like last years, presumably they sell, there can be no other excuse for boring sexy collages and spiky cactus's repeated ad nauseam. Lucian Freud had a nice low key portrait, pointing up the pomposity of many of the RAs even more.
Most of the other stuff was crowded in at the end, squashed in irregular tiers reaching the ceiling. You couldn't concentrate on one piece, without all the jostling crowd teeming round it, capturing your attention too.
The Anthony Caro in the courtyard is now boring - it might have had more oomph possibly in the 70s, however it made excellent seating for the weary.
We didn't buy anything, the white ovals were on a canvas bigger than my room I should think, and I have enough pubic hair to deal with already.
Having lunch on the South Bank was perfect in the hot sun, and made me envy all those MPs who can have a second house in London courtesy of the tax payer.
The rest of the week has been teeming rain and grey skies.
Unusually I was out stitching in various locations almost every day last week. June and July are frenetic in Sewing Circles, workshops, exhibitions, Open Studios.
I suppose it is all part of the spring ritual, sap rising, birds nesting, England beating New Zealand at cricket, [beating anyone at cricket is a surprise].
Just half listened to Nadal beating Federer, seems all wrong. I tend to favour the oldie in these situations these days.
I took myself to see Sex in the City on Tuesday, it was quite good/naughty fun, but I came away a bit depressed.
In the series the women seemed livelier, more open to choices, in the film it all centred on getting your man, even tho 3 of them are supposed to have careers no import was attached to them except making Miranda too tired to have sex with her man.
Samantha had her 50th birthday at the end and freed herself to go hunting, but I was left with the feeling that from J Austen till today the story seems to stop when the woman marries.
At my age I need more encouragement than that.
Am I am forgetting that men still control Hollywood, or do women still buy that storyline - as Carrie might ask .

broken pots

I hung my big red bath towel out to dry this morning and it hasn't stopped raining since, this is not the way to start a new day/week/month/rest of my life.
The garden has had loads of rain already. The grindel [stream that runs under the hillside and pops up in the water meadow down by the river] is very full of itself, all the bird baths are smugly reflecting the grey clouds, the footpaths across the farm need wellies to make them passable, enough is enough.
We had a dry and sunny day for our local arts and crafts exhibition on Saturday, 14 of us demonstrated our creativity to the gawping public.
Much gawping, little buying.
We covered our costs, bonded affectionately as we sat and worked all day, and bathed in the glow of praise but the result one desires is the committment of passing over money and proudly taking the prize home [seller and buyer].
I sold some textile postcards, and some picture cards of my stitchings, and bought a pair of earrings from Silver Mongoose, on the table opposite.
No change there then.
Lee brought a kick wheel and lots of kids and parents had a go at throwing a pot to general hilarity.
The patchworkers bought their machines but people weren't as interested in having a go as we thought they would be. Nearly sold a beautiful quilt, that would have swelled the coffers.
Everyone was fascinated by the two lacemakers tho.
Jo had made a selection of baskets; of course our woodturner sold most, people really like the gorgeous grains and silky smooth textures. Perfect unbreakable gifts, unlike one of my bowls. I managed to knock the head off one of the ladies cavorting down the sides of one as I packed them in the car boot to bring home. Bloody ceramics, not reliable. Spend hours trying to perfect them, risk consigning them to the vagaries of the kiln, and then break the bloody thing.
Pottery did improve my behavious in one way tho; I used to throw my creations against the wall when I lost my temper, to show my partner how anguished were my feelings I suppose. In the end I realised the only result was a lot of broken pottery.
Gus sat next to me and carved wooden spoons, so nice to have a personally carved spoon to stir ones soup. He claims the skill is just called Spooning, but initially he uses a Bodgers workhorse to saw the rough shape.
Bodging - an activity I practise every day.