Voices

I have taken a while to get round to writing up and reflecting on my exhibition in Martinborough.

I needed to digest and reflect on the comments made by the audience and also to process where I go from here.

It was a truly shocking night weather wise when the exhibition opened which undoubtedly kept quite a few people away. Having said that, a lot of people did turn up and they certainly weren't a passive audience. In fact I was put quite under the microscope. Firstly I was asked about the meaning of hireth. Few people realised it was a Cornish word and it's meaning and were intrigued by the concept. Hireth is a Cornish or Kernow word which means a homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which maybe never was. The nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost place of your past. So how did this concept touch others? It raised two particular discussions, what is lost and how do you hold onto or reclaim it, them; what is home?

I suspect that loss was prevalent to a lot of the audience simply because of the demographic age group present. The dialogue was particularly relevant around the loss of my Dad and how this has impacted on my journey from the UK to NZ. What I have treasured and kept has in fact, kept his memory alive for me and continues to live. I can't let go, because if I did, I feel all the stories, all the memories would disappear. I feel that I am the torch bearer so that these stories and memories are not lost but continue and are cherished by my children. I am who I am because of where I come from and where I am now. The voices and questions echoed the same sense of loss and the need to remember and to pass on. Many recounted stories about their childhood, memories of lost parents and family and the need to feel comforted. This comfort took various forms; photographs, films, diaries, pictures and most strikingly, garments. Many confessed to holding on to an item because it belonged to and represented that person who had gone. A scarf, a jacket, a boot. It was very poignant. For some it was the feel of the item, "I remember being hugged as a child and the feel of the jacket against my cheek brings back all those memories of being loved, cherished and protected. Others recalled the sense of smell. Either the item itself held a unique perfume associated with the lost or the material held the same sense of smell that conjured up that person for them. A few were drawn to tears as they recanted those precious stories and narratives. The discussions lasted hours and continued by email and in conversations afterwards.

The main foci of the exhibition was the giant jumper, entitled, "Papa's Jumper". Two and a half metres long and suspended from the ceiling, the jumper was representative of my narrative and also my Dad's. In 1945, at the age of 18, my Dad was called up at the end of the second World War. He was by his own admittance, terrified. Not in fact of dying but of losing the life that he hadn't yet lived. He told me he cried for three days. My Grandmother organised with my Great Aunt to knit a jumper for him. It's purpose was to give comfort and warmth and a sense of home being close metaphorically and physically. He wore it whilst on active service. In time the jumper came home and was passed down from Dad to my siblings and to me, then on to my children. It was until recently, still being worn. One person asked me to describe why the giant size of the jumper was so important. It was important because when I remember Dad he was a giant of a man. Tall and well built but also the type of person who exudes mana and makes a room take notice the minute they walk in. Nothing less than colossal would have told the story of my Dad. The jumper was big and imposing - deliberately so. The colour was also really important in that it related back to images of my childhood. Family walks, holidays and high days in Cornwall surrounding by the bleak but beautiful slate of the surrounding area. I don't think my Grandmother chose the colour of Dad's jumper. It was all she could get in an era of rationing and needing to keep within the strict uniform guidelines of the RN. But it was a perfect match. The discussion also touched on the subject of home. What is it? Where is it? What makes home home? I wasn't born in Cornwall but my story is intwined with a strong sense that this is in fact my home. It was always somewhere I needed to get back to, a place of safety. I'm not the only one in my family. My brother relocated to Cornwall and his children now consider themselves Cornish. I traced my family roots back through the generations and indeed my family is Cornish so that sense of longing is deeply ingrained in my family psyche. And also knitting. The objects created are not for me that important. It is the process of knitting that creates a sense of balance in my life. It is calming but it is also the way I create a narrative around my family through continuing a tradition that has been learnt through the generations. Some of the audience were knitters and could identify with the same sense of rhythm, repetitive motion and recalled stories of family lost who had taught them to knit. Others discussed how reading, sewing, etc brought back tha same sense of wanting to recover and reclaim that which was lost.

There were a few surprises. I put in a painting at the last minute because something was missing from the narrative. It became the most admired and discussed piece. Sure Dad's jumper could not be missed, but a painted collage drew the most conversation. It was a piece painted again in slate colour and slate dust and collaged with found objects that I had assembled on walks with my dogs. A habit I inherited from Dad. I was told it spoke most movingly and evoked powerful emotions. More powerfully than anything else.

More to come...